Page 93 of Logan

I won’t cry over him. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Miss Harris? Miss Harris! Please wait.”

I stop and find an unidentified man in a black suit hastening after me.

I hug my purse to my body. “Who are you?”

“My name is James Barron, I’m Mr. Valeur’s driver. He asked me to take you home since you’re not feeling well.”

“He asked you to take me home? How lovely,” I mutter. “It’s okay. I have a car.”

“If you give me your keys, I’ll take care of your vehicle.” He extends an open palm.

I’m pretty dizzy and unsure if I’m able to drive, so I hand him my keys. “I live on?—”

“I have the address, Miss Harris.”

Of course, he does.

He walks over to a huge black car and opens the door for me. Black leather seats greet me, and I hesitate a moment before climbing in and sinking into one.

The driver gets in and looks at me through the rearviewmirror. “Do you need me to stop at a clinic for you first, Miss?”

“No, just take me home, please.”

He pulls out and merges into traffic.

After a minute, I ask, “So, does Mr. Valeur often ask you to drive employees home?”

James smiles at me through the mirror. “No, Miss. You’re the first.”

My heart contracts. Why does Logan have to be like this? Cold and distant one moment, but caring and considerate the next? It makes it hard for me to hate him.

And I need to hate him.

Have to hate him.

Because otherwise I might fall in love with him.

Chapter Twenty-Six

LOGAN

“Hey, Dad, how are you doing?” I ask as I enter his study, shutting the door behind me. This will be a quick visit because I want to go see Sloane and check if she’s okay after what happened at the office this morning.

I was so sure she was just trying to get out of the presentation after spending the night with another man. I didn’t think she was actually sick, and I acted like a total jerk. The way I treated her is unforgivable.

James reported he dropped her off at home, but she refused to go to the doctor and fuck, I’m worried. I want to see her and make sure she’s alright. I want to hold her until she feels better.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since I returned from London, and now the memory of her pale, stricken face in that conference room haunts me.

“I’m fine, you know, the usual,” Dad replies, waving a dismissive hand from his armchair. “How did the board meeting go?”

I shrug, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “Same as always.”

“Georgina said it’s hard to reach you.” He peers at me over his reading glasses.

“Georgina?” I reply, trying not to show him how much hearing that name shakes me. My heart pounds. “When did you talk to Georgina?”