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You don’t know her. This is your second time meeting her. Think of all the good we do, all the money we raise for Never Alone…all the pain we help heal.
Think of it, Logan. Think of Anna.
Bryce would never use Anna’s death to persuade me of anything, but I do, with myself, all the time.
I have to; otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to do everything I need to do, morph myself into the shape that’s proved effective time and time again.
“I get it,” she says, looking at the menu again.
I can hear the note in her voice. She’s basically saying….
I understand. We’re here to talk about the counseling, not all the crazy sex you have with other women.
I’m getting better at reading her now. I can hear the annoyance, the…the jealousy?
Or maybe that’s just hope playing games with me again.
CHAPTERNINE
Lucy
Logan’s body goes tight as the waiter approaches. I can tell he’s thinking about them recognizing him.
Part of me wants to snap at him. If he doesn’t want people to know who he is, he shouldn’t make such an effort to be seen in the tabloids.
With women like Maxine.
It’s complicated.
That’s all he’s going to say about that, leaving me to wonder how it’s complicated exactly. Maybe he’s told two supermodels he wants to marry them both, and now he doesn’t know how to choose?
But he won’t want to go into that here, with me, since I’m just a young woman he’s doing a favor for.
Maybe that’s part of it too.
I’m ayoung woman, half his age. He probably sees me as dorky and immature, not up to his usual playboy standards.
Which is fine. I don’t want to be.
Why does he have to be a playboy?
The waiter is friendly, laying our food down and asking us if we’d like anything else. Logan’s friendly in return, with that easy smile on his face.
He turns to me once the waiter leaves, and the smile falters.
His lifestyle makes it impossible despite knowing he can never be just mine. I can’t help but feel something trigger inside of me as he consumes me with his gaze, staring intently.
His body looks bigger than it did even during his football days, his T-shirt hugging onto his massive biceps, his chest pressing in a well-defined outline that has my heart skipping way too fast.
“So,” he says as he begins to cut into his battered cod. “Why do you want to be a therapist?”
I smile, thinking he’s asking a personal question just for the heck of it. But then I remind myself of why we’re here, and the smile tries to drag down my face into a frown.
It’s silly, existing in this strange in-between state, constantly wondering if he wants me when I know he doesn’t.
“I still hadn’t decided if I wanted to be a counselor or a therapist before Dad. I was taking a course that could lead to either.”
“What’s the difference?”
