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That’s Logan’s fault, not that he knows it…his fault for making it impossible for me to think about anybody or anything else.
My only thoughts lately are of just him, us, a future that’s already the past because it’s going to die in my imagination anyway, run through my head constantly.
Leaving the office, I fix a smile on my face, not caring if it feels forced or fake, just hoping itlooksreal enough to fool him.
Annoyingly, those photos return to me, especially the one where Maxine had her hand on his arm and the headline asking ifshe’sgoing to be the one to tame the playboy.
I almost think,no, it can only be me.
But that’s not true either.
What I want simply doesn’t exist.
I want a Logan who doesn’t flit from woman to woman, who isn’t a playboy at all.
I want a Logan who only exists in my obsessed mind.
CHAPTEREIGHT
Logan
I sit in the Starving Stallion, a British-themed restaurant with Union Jacks on the walls and patrons laughing in delight every time one of the waiters speaks with a British accent as if they’ve never heard it before.
I wonder how big of a mistake this is as I sit in a corner, in a booth right at the back.
Nobody’s recognized me yet. Luckily, I’m not as well-known as I was back in my football days, but people still spot me from time to time. It can become a problem, especially in crowded places like this. I’ve got no issue with signing an autograph for a football fan, but it never ends there.
People overhear that there’s a celebrity in the building, and – even if they have no clue who I am – they all start lining up, wanting their selfies and signatures and two seconds of proximity to fame.
It makes me a little sick, to be honest, because I never did this for the fame. I don’tdothis for the fame.
Tell that to the rest of the world, playboy.
I cringe at the thought of last night.
Maxine must’ve sensed I was doing my best to walk the line – get photographed with her while resisting all contact. She followed me around, constantly trying to place her hand on my arm and wincing whenever I casually moved away.
But finally, she got her shot. I saw the photos earlier.
“It’s good,” Bryce said on the phone this morning. “It’s exactly what you want. And you’re nailing the haunted look, by the way.”
“Yeah,” I grunted.
“Think of the good we’re doing.”
“I know.”
That’s why I want to tear this restaurant to pieces, not the good regular people who get swept up in the excitement of celebrity.
That’s understandable. It’s not their fault.
It’s mine. For living a lie, for not grabbing and kissing Lucy the moment I saw her…
Do it now. Grab her and kiss her now.
It feels like weeks since I last saw her, my body responding immediately, my whole world seems to beat in time with my heart.
She’s wearing a dark top, with straps going over her shoulders, little purple jewel-like things inlaid on it and catching the light. Her jeans are hip huggers, like before. All I can think about is sprinting across the restaurant and taking her in my arms.
