Page 88 of Exposed
“You didn’t answer my question,” I prompt.
“You really want to know the answer?” He waits until I’ve tugged my dress on and tied my hair back.
“Yes, I do.”
He leans back against the edge of the bed. “First, there’s been no one else since I met you. I hope that’s obvious. If not, there it is. I’ve not so much as spoken to a woman who isn’t an employee since the day we met at that auction. And—” He sighs, glances at me, and then away. “Every day, sometimes more than once a day, thinking of you, yeah, I jerk off. After we first met, it was just...you. That kiss in the bathroom. I’ve never gotten so hard from just an innocent kiss before. And you were so fucking sexy, it tormented me. I pictured you in this very room, slidingthat dress off... shit, this is kind of embarrassing. I feel like a teenager all over again, talking about this.”
“Don’t be embarrassed, Logan. Tell me more.”
He swallows hard, rubs the bridge of his nose. “And then, after that scene in the hallway there, and we almost—yeah, I thought of that a lot. I thought of just... sinking into you. I’d imagine how fucking tight you’d be. How soft you’d be. I felt guilty about it, too. Dirty. Like I was... defiling you somehow, whacking off thinking about you. But I couldn’t help it. I’d try to think of something else, but nothing... turned me on. Not like you. I even tried porn a couple times, which I’m not generally a big fan of, but it just seemed... stupid. Empty. Nowhere near as fucking erotic as you, in my hallway. The way you dropped that towel, practically begging to be shown how beautiful you really are.”
“Not practically, Logan. Iwasbegging.”
“I couldn’t, though.” He looks up at me. “I hope you got that.”
I nod. “I did, and I do. Doesn’t make it easier, but I understood.”
“It was self-protection. I felt myself falling for you, and I couldn’t let myself get too attached too soon, not knowing how things would shake out between you and Caleb.” He ducks his head. Speaks to his shoes. “Even still, I have this…fear. That you’ll still go back to him.”
“Logan—” I want to reassure him, but he speaks over me.
“I don’t fall easy, Isabel. But when I do, I fall hard and fast.” He stands up, strides over to me, takes my hips in his hands. “There’s no going back for me now. I wouldn’t want to, even if I could. This is it, for me. I don’t—I don’t see anyone ever being able to match you. So just keep that in mind, okay? Do what you have to do. I’ll never hold you back if your path leads you away from me. But just—just don’t do so lightly, okay?” Logan is an articulate man, not given to stumbling over his words orhesitating. That he does now paints a picture that leaves me near tears. He is a warrior, a man who has seen and delivered death, and narrowly escaped it himself. A man who has been to prison and come out the other side a better person. A man who has been betrayed and can still find the courage to show himself to me, who can allow himself to be vulnerable.
Knowing what I know, knowing what I’ve done to shake his faith in me—more than once... what courage must it take for him to say these things? It is unfathomable.
“Youare my path, Logan.”
“I sure as hell hope so. And believe me, Isabel, I won’t take a single moment for granted. Not even if we have a fucking thousand years together.”
He palms the damp knot of hair at the base of my head and tugs so my face is tilted up to his.
Kisses me,
and kisses me,
and kisses me.
Love is a painful emotion, I’m realizing. It cracks open the walls around my heart. Demands honesty of me. Courage. Vulnerability. Humility. It is not a light, frilly, easy, storybook thing, where the hero and his lady can ride off into the sunset together. The lady must be a warrior as well, willing to face the darkness with him; she must be brave enough to face the demons and dragons alongside her hero if she wishes to see sunrise, let alone the sunset.
Chapter
Fourteen
My heart is in my throat, thick coil of black hair in one hand, scissors in the other. I blink and let out a breath, stare at myself in the hairdresser’s mirror, at Logan’s reflection. He’s standing behind me, hands in his pockets, watching. His friend, Mei, the stylist—who actually owns the entire salon—has my head in her small, delicate hands. Holding me steady. Soothing. Stroking nimble fingers over my scalp.
She understands, I think, even though I’ve told her nothing of myself, nothing of my story. I told her only that I needed to change my appearance drastically, and she met my eyes, stared at me knowingly for a long moment, and just smiled at me. Sat me in her chair, stroked her fingers through my hair, fanning it out, billowing it, pulling it back severely to assess the shape of my face, folding it up and under to get an approximation of what I might look like with shorter hair.
And then hands me her scissors. “You make the first cut,” Mei says.
Despite having been moments from shaving it to the scalp mere hours ago, now that I have my hair in hand and scissors ready to make the first cut, I’m having a moment of doubt. Of hesitation.
Logan says nothing. Just watches.
Mei takes the scissors from me. Moves to stand in front of me. She is short and slight, hair dyed lavender and clipped close on the sides, left longer on top, twisted and pulled back over her head. She speaks English fluently but with a pronounced Asian accent. “It’s your choice. You do it, you don’t do it, only one who matters is you. But I think you want to do it. We donate it to Locks of Love.” Her fingers run almost compulsively through my hair again. “You make first cut, I make you beautiful. Make youmorebeautiful. You already beautiful.”
She hands me the scissors again, lifts my hair bound between her fingers in a thick rope, a small gap between her two hands. “Cut between hands.”
I breathe out. Snip the scissors open and closed—snicksnick-snicksnick—and then, before I can second-guess myself any further, I open the scissors wide and cut between Mei’s hands. I feel weight float free from the column of my neck. My head feels lighter. Mei takes the scissors from me and moves around to stand in front of me, blocking my view of myself in the mirror. I shake my head, and the sensation is bizarre. No thick sheaf of hair waving at my back, no long strands tangling around my ears, draping over my shoulder. There is nothing. I want to cry, yet also laugh. I’m not sure which.