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“Leave? You running again?”
“No. I’m going to London tomorrow. I have an internship there,” I admit, watching his face for a reaction.
“Tomorrow?” I swear I see a hint of disappointment before it’s gone.
I nod.
“An internship? For photography?”
“No, for law.”
The shock on his face is priceless. “You are not going to be a lawyer.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t look like the lawyer type. Don’t suit you.” Mouth slightly agape, he keeps going before I can respond. “How does someone like you end up wanting to spend her life in a courtroom?”
Choosing honesty, I tell him, “My father was a lawyer. I promised him before he died.”
Logan’s face softens, the playful glint in his eyes replaced with a deep understanding. “And is that what you want?”
The silence that follows is heavy, filled with the unspoken thoughts and feelings that I’ve been avoiding for so long, but my answer is resolute. “I made a promise.” The tension in the room dissipates slightly. “I like law. There’s a sense of order to it. There’s black and white, it’s about finding right and wrong.”
“Ah,” he hums, finishing the last of his taco. He leans back on his chair, studying me like he did earlier. I shift in my seat. “You’re a good girl.”
Another flutter low in my tummy battles with the defensive roll of my shoulders. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What I mean is that you live by the rules. You follow the plan. You do the right thing. Even when it might not be what you really want.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“For most people, nothing.” He shakes his head, pressing his elbows on the table and leaning in. I find myself doing the same. “For you, it’s a fucking shame. Life doesn’t happen in the black and white. Life happens in the color.”
I roll my eyes, ignoring how intense his stare is and how it’s pulling truths out of me I haven’t faced yet, or how easily he can read me when we hardly know each other.
And who the hell does he think he is telling me what I want?
Catching me off guard, a slight blush creeps to my cheeks. I’m slightly offended, a retort on the tip of my tongue, but before I can voice my thoughts, he interrupts. “Will you stop doing that?”
I put my taco down. “Doing what?”
“Biting your tongue,” he answers smoothly. “Say what’s on your mind.”
His statement throws me off balance, and for a moment, I’m at a loss for words. I’m used to holding back, used to choosing my battles. I’m not confrontational. Ever. But Logan’s open challenge is as intoxicating as it is frightening.
The flame of frustration flickers inside me, stoked with every word. “I think you’re arrogant, presumptuous, and…” I pause, searching for the right term, and when I find it, I spit it out with an acrid bitterness, “And insufferably self-righteous!”
I expect anger. I expect another scowl. Anything but how he throws his head back and laughs.
Bastard.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
But he’s back to studying me and pinning me to my seat. There’s a different intensity in his gaze now. One that sends a thrilling chill down my spine.
“Fine.” I cross my arms over my chest. “As we’re choosing honesty. I want to know what you think about me.”
His lips curl into a half-smile. “Ah, the tables have turned.” He seems to ponder over his words for a moment before continuing. “I think you’re scared. Scared of living outside the lines, of following your passion instead of your obligations.”
