Page 52 of It Should Have Been You

He must know.

He knows what my husband did—the man I met not even twenty-four hours after spending a night with him. A night of laughter and stolen glances. The last night I felt truly safe.

My safety.

Now the idea of safety and the place I went to in my mind when the rest of me was vulnerable and on the verge of breaking is staring back at me as if I’ve come back from the dead.

When he repeats my name, it resonates, driving into me with so much force the air is knocked from my lungs.

I’m dreaming. This can’t be real. I’ve slipped back into my own head, so desperate to escape reality, I’ve summoned him in my mind.

I close my eyes, pinch the skin on my wrist, and count backwards from ten. But when I open them again, he's still there, looking at me as though I've lost my damn mind.

It takes an eternity before I finally fill my lungs to say his name. “Logan.”

Eleven

Ten years ago

Logan

“You know if you stare at her anymore, she’s going to stick to where she’s standing.” Skip slaps my shoulder before pulling off his T-shirt and sitting with his back to me.

“Fuck off, Skip.”

“Our little Logan is smitten,” he singsongs, then almost chokes because he smokes two packs a day and the man can’t string a sentence together without needing to breathe after every word.

“Little? I’ve been taller than you since I was thirteen. Now shut the fuck up so I can ink you.”

He chuckles and the sound makes my blood boil.

Thankfully, the shop is too loud with other people for anyone to hear what he said.

I prepare the patch of skin, dip the tattoo gun in the ink, and get to work, willing my eyes to stay focused.

I don’t get distracted.

Ever.

But the ultimate distraction is currently laughing at something Jaxson said with her hand on the counter and the other holding her stomach, tears spilling from her big brown eyes.

She should be laughing with Jaxson. He’s younger. I remind myself of that when I feel the bubble of jealousy curdling in my veins.

Her laugh is throaty and full of mischief.

Bethany Rose.

That name doesn’t suit her. It’s too prim, too polished, too childish.

The only thing polished about Bethany Rose is the blonde locks curled around her shoulders. Everything else is a contradiction. Like she’s not sure who she is. Her blue dress, hugging her waist, falls to mid-thigh and has fucking daisies on it, but there’s nothing colorful about the black leather Doc Martens on her feet. Her wrist is full of bracelets that make too much noise, and her smile is far from innocent. I should know, I’ve been staring at it all day.

She sways on her feet, making her dress whoosh back and forth around her tanned thighs.

Eyes on her face, Logan.

Fuck. Her face is no better.

It’s not until her eyes find mine from the other side of the shop that I realize the gun isn’t buzzing.

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