Page 100 of Logan

He’s like a black hole, sucking in all the light and air, leaving me breathless and reeling. His eyes rake over me, predatory, possessive, like he’s trying to strip me bare with just a look, and I feel it like a physical caress, my skin prickling with awareness.

One word from him, one touch, and I know I’ll shatter into a million pieces, scattered to the winds. And God help me, but I crave it, crave him, even now, even after everything.

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” he says, his voice cool and controlled, a stark contrast to the heat simmering in his gaze.

“Yeah, thanks.” I know how much passion lurks beneath that icy exterior. I’ve felt it, been consumed by it, branded by it.

I remember the fleeting touch of his hand outside my apartment, the way his fingers lingered on my skin, the way his eyes softened. That touch, that look, it didn’t feel detached, clinical. It felt intimate, tender. Almost...loving.

But I must have imagined it, projected my desperate desires onto him, because the man standing before me now is as remote as the moon, as untouchable as the stars.

“I need your results from the new glucose monitor network,” he says, crisp, businesslike, not a hint of warmth or familiarity in his voice.

I nod. That’s all he’s here for. Of course, it is. Stupid of me to think, to hope... “Is that all? I could’ve emailed that to you.” I hate the way my voice wavers, the way I can’t quite keep the hurt from surfacing.

Something flickers in his eyes, there and gone too fast for me to decipher. “I wanted to see that you’re okay.” The wordsare soft, almost tender, but his expression doesn’t change, his mask firmly in place.

“As you can see, I’m perfectly fine. Thank you.” I lift my chin.

Say something. Tell me you want me, that you don’t give a shit about the results, that you’re willing to take the risk for me, for us.

Tell me London wasn’t just a beautiful dream, a cruel mirage. Tell me I’m not alone in this, that I’m not crazy for feeling the way I do. Please, Logan.Please.

But he doesn’t say any of that. The corners of his mouth tighten, and his jaw clenches, but he remains silent, inscrutable. He gives me a curt nod and turns on his heel, striding out of my office without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

LOGAN

Ireturn to the office, my hands clenched into fists in my pockets, anger and frustration coiling in my gut like a nest of vipers.

“Mr. Valeur.” My secretary tries to get my attention, her voice tentative, but I brush past her.

“Not now,” I say, striding into my office and slamming the door behind me, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the tense silence.

I fish the crumpled envelope with the tickets out of my pocket, the one I crushed into a tiny ball, and now toss it into the trash can with a flick of my wrist. Then I pick up the phone, my fingers stabbing at the buttons.

“Cancel the flight,” I bark into the receiver, not bothering with pleasantries.

“Cancel the concert tickets too?”

“Cancel everything,” I snap and hang up without waitingfor a response. I drop my head into my hands, my elbows braced on my desk, and let out a shuddering breath.

The door bursts open, and Liam strides in. “Did I hear right? You’re taking a day off? Since when do you take vacations? I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“And you won’t.” I lift my head, my jaw clenched tight. “I just canceled everything.”

“No.” He collapses into the chair across from me, his brow furrowed. “Why did you cancel? Is there an emergency here? Something I need to know about?”

“Nothing like that.” I shake my head. “I just made a mistake about something. I thought I could be something I’m not. I should’ve known it would never happen.”

“You’re not making sense, Logan. Are you losing it?” Liam leans forward.

“I guess I am.” I swivel my chair around, turning my back to him. My heart feels like it’s been ripped out of my chest and stomped on by Sloane’s feet, and fuck, it hurts. It physically hurts.

A sharp, stabbing pain that takes my breath away. “Apparently, I am losing it.”

“Wait. You’re talking about a woman, right? It has to be. Is it Georgina? Is this about that picture of you two at the restaurant? Did you get back together with her?”