Page 14 of Meet Me in the Valley (Oakwood Valley #2)
Chapter Eight
LOGAN
Donovan
Yo, where are you?
Logan
Home. Just got back from a run. You at work?
Donovan
Yeah. me and Wy are taking a break. So the Mrs. wants to have everyone over at the cabin tonight for a bbq bonfire get together before you and T leave for Austin. You down?
Logan
The Mrs. huh? pussy whipped!! You’re not married yet. and yeah I’ll go as long as you’re not manning the grill.
Donovan
Lucky for you, Wyatt’s on grill duty. oh also, fuck you.
I stare at my phone with a smug grin, kicking off my shoes at the front door of the pool house at my Dad’s place I stay in when I’m back in town.
Tucking my phone back into my pocket, I pause.
A rigid thought enters my mind. I pull up Donovan’s name again on my phone as I walk to the bathroom to turn on the shower.
Logan
Is Isabel gonna be there?
My teeth tug at my bottom lip as I watch the three dots appear on the screen.
I feel bad for bailing on Isabel last night.
Tia needed me, and while I don’t regret breaking the street laws to get there, Isabel expected something from me —I was too much of a pussy to admit I wasn’t into it from the start.
I knew deep down, I wouldn’t be able to follow through with it.
She said we were good—literally shoved me out her front door, fully aware I was running to Tia. But still, I never got the chance to actually apologize.
Tia was right. Isabel’s not just some girl I can walk away from. She’s our friend. And I’d be an even bigger asshole if I treated her like all the others. I’m hoping she shows up to the barbeque so I can set things right.
Donovan
Yeah, I’m pretty sure Audrey invited her. Is everything cool with you two since last night? Were you “into it”?
Logan
Everything is cool. I think. And you were right. I wasn’t into it…I couldn’t follow through. Need me to bring anything for tonight?
Donovan
See? I don’t know why you doubt me. Knowing Iz, I’m sure everything is fine. And no need to bring anything, brother. Just yourself. Happy to have you home, even just for a little bit.
Logan
Happy to be home. See you tonight.
The bathroom fills with steam, and I step into the shower, letting the hot water pelt my body.
It’s been an eventful couple of days, and the exhaustion from this trip is finally sinking in.
It’s been full speed ahead, and on top of that, the emotional warfare from last night has my brain and body slumping.
I bury my face under the spray, shutting my eyes as Tia’s face pops into my mind. The way she broke down in my arms, so small and fragile. Fuck. I never want to see her in that state ever again. Not if I can help it.
But then I’m thinking about how beautiful she looked when she cried. Most people are messy, red-faced, wrecked when they break—but not Tia. Even in her unraveling, she was breathtaking.
Maybe it was the vulnerability. The way her walls dropped, the way she let me see her—all of her. And I didn’t look away. That should’ve scared me.
But it didn’t.
What scares me is how right it felt. How natural it was to hold her, to want to take that pain away. She’s my best friend. She’s not supposed to make my heart ache like this. But she does.
And when her head tilted slightly, lips just shy of mine, I forgot about everything we’re supposed to be. All I could think about was how easy it would’ve been to close that space.
To feel her. Taste her.
And the worst part?
I don’t know if I’d be able to stop.
As if my hand has a mind of its own, I give my length a rugged tug, eliciting a low groan from my chest. I lean forward, pressing one hand into the cold shower tiles as the heat from the water matches the heat I feel building at the base of my groin.
I let the unfamiliar feelings of lust for her drive my hand up and down my slick shaft, pumping at a steady rhythm as my eyes squeeze shut to think about her in absolutely obscene ways.
Bent over my desk at home with her supple breasts against my blueprints. Full, pink lips wrapped around my throbbing cock as I fuck into her face. I imagine what her pussy looks like—smooth and bare, or a strip of hair just above her clit where I would devour her whole with my mouth.
“Fuck,” I mutter, turning the water all the way to the coldest possible setting. I press both hands on the tile in front of me and let the freezing water wash away my sinful thinking.
What the fuck, man? This is wrong. So fucking wrong. You were there to comfort her—be a safe place to land. Now you’re wanking your dick to thoughts of her when you know damn well you shouldn’t be? What’s the matter with you?
My cock is still hard as stone despite the drastic change in temperature, so I think of the most unattractive, ridiculous thoughts to tame it.
Pineapple on pizza.
Ingrown hairs on your ball sack.
Mufasa dying.
Granny’s wrinkly cleavage, rest in peace.
Not Tia. Not Tia. Not Tia.
I look down as my bottom lip quivers from the cold, my erection finally soft and no longer pining after my best friend. Thank you.
After aggressively scrubbing my body and washing my hair, I turn the shower off, only to stand there—breathless.
Ashamed. A little guilty. Kind of turned on.
Never in the ten years of friendship with Tia have I ever seen her in that way .
It’s no doubt that when Tia walks into a room, all eyes are instantly on her.
It’s not just her sun-kissed smooth skin or her piercing hazel eyes that switch from honey gold to green depending on how the light hits them. It’s her aura.
The need to get closer to her, to know her, to be her friend. I see it everywhere we go, and I’m the lucky bastard she keeps close. I hold the title of best friend. And that’s just it. Best. Friend.
Friends don’t jack off to the image of their female best friend. Especially after they’ve confided in you with the most devastating news of their life.
Jesus.
I dry off, refusing to look at myself in the mirror because I’m punishing my mind for its dirty, dirty thinking. With my towel slung low on my hips, I flop back onto the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Tiny rainbows scatter across the walls, cast through the window by the afternoon sun.
Funny. I feel like the opposite of rainbows.
The ceiling fan hums in a steady rhythm, matching the loop in my head that keeps whispering the same thing: You’re a piece of shit.
Then my phone pings from the nightstand, snapping me out of the spiral. I reach for it, not expecting anything worth seeing—until I read the name.
Peter Decker. Private Investigator.
My stomach flips. My heart stutters. I sit up fast and scan the email, a grin spreading before I even hit the second paragraph.
“Fuck yes.”
Finally. Good news. And I can’t wait to tell Tia.