Page 61 of Meet Me in the Valley (Oakwood Valley #2)
Chapter Thirty-Eight
LOGAN
A thin sliver of light spills from beneath Roy’s office door, the only glow on a nearly empty floor. Most of the team has gone home for the weekend, leaving the building draped in silence and bathed in the amber light of a winter sunset filtering through the expansive windows.
Christmas is days away, and the office looks like a holiday catalog exploded inside it.
Tinsel drapes over door frames like silver vines.
White string lights twist around cubicles and monitors, casting a soft, magical flicker across the space.
Two Christmas trees—each more over-the-top than the last—stand proudly at opposite ends of the office, decked out in everything from vintage ornaments to company-branded baubles.
The place smells faintly of cinnamon and pine, like someone hung a bunch of holiday car fresheners in every corner.
I rap my knuckles lightly against Roy’s door frame.
“Come in,” he mutters without looking up.
As usual, his desk is buried in blueprints—sprawled, rolled, layered like architectural fossils. You’d never know there was wood under there. His glasses perch low on the bridge of his nose as he scans a set of documents, only lifting his gaze once I’m seated across from him.
“Harper, what can I do for you, Son?”
“I’ve made my choice.”
Roy stills, the papers in his hand pausing midair before he gently sets them down in the chaos of his desk.
I should feel bittersweet. Maybe guilty. But Roy’s known. He’s known from the very beginning, back when this idea was just a whisper. A loose sketch in the corner of a page.
I reach into my bag and pull out my tablet, placing it in front of him.
My final design. The one I’ve stayed late for, built in silence, refined over months of second-guessing and stubborn certainty.
He pushes his glasses up and studies the screen, his expression unreadable as always. He remains eerily calm, laser-focused, and surgically exact. The same way he’s looked at every project I’ve brought to him over the past six years.
But this time, I’m not waiting for a nod or a pat on the back. I already know it’s enough.
He finally lifts his eyes, pins me with that quiet, knowing stare. Then he hands the tablet back, and I slide it into my bag without a word.
Roy leans back in his chair and shakes his head—not in disappointment, but something closer to understanding.
“It’s beautiful, Logan,” he says. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
“When?”
“By New Year’s.”
A slow smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He rises from his chair, walks around the desk, and pulls me into a firm hug. I stand with him, the finality settling in my chest. His hand claps once against my back.
“About the Mueller project, sir?—”
Roy cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about it. The team can handle it. I’ll call a meeting after the holiday. First phase doesn’t kick off until February, anyway.”
A breath I didn’t realize I was holding escapes me. I didn’t want to leave anyone hanging, especially not the team. This building, this job—it’s been everything for so long.
Structure. Purpose. A place to hide behind plans and deadlines. I’ve been working quietly behind the scenes, and now I’ve got something bigger to build.
Tia asked me over a month ago when our time was coming. I told her to trust me.
Now I’m diving in blind, but all in. Even if the sky falls.
I don’t know exactly what the future holds, but I know she’s in it. And I’ll be damned if I don’t build something real—something lasting—with her. For her.
I shake Roy’s hand, a proud smile tugging at my mouth. I’m a lucky son of a bitch to have had a boss like him.
He glances at the vintage Rolex on his wrist, the one that practically screams Roy, and gives my shoulder one last firm pat.
“It’s still early enough for me to make a phone call on your behalf,” he says. “I’ll send you an email when it’s all squared away, alright?”
I nod. “Thank you, Roy. Truly. For everything.”
Shit. Don’t get all emotional now.
He smiles, bright as the Christmas lights strung outside his office window.
“Happy holidays, Logan.”
“You too, sir.”
Walking out of Roy’s office, I feel ten feet tall. I grab my phone, shooting off a text to Donovan.
Logan
Did you meet with the guy?
Donovan
Yup. Sorry I didn’t get back to you right away. I got swamped at the winery.
Logan
No worries, man. I really appreciate your help. Is he good?
Donovan
Yup. I set up a meeting for you. The link should be in your inbox.
Logan
Shit, thanks. I have over 100 notifications, and I avoided it at all costs today.
Donovan
Haha. I don’t blame you. Anything else you need, brother?
Logan
Not right now. I’ll know more after I meet with him. Thanks for everything. IOU big time.
Donovan
Anytime. Almost there, buddy.
Logan
I know. I’m counting down the fucking days, man.
“Hurry up, I’m getting impatient!” Tia squeals through the phone. She looks absolutely adorable in her ugly Christmas sweater, which features Santa Claus wearing sunglasses and “Happy Holla-Days” stitched across the front in bold, ridiculous letters.
Grinning, I prop my phone on the coffee table and step back into the frame, wearing nothing but flannel pajama pants. My t-shirt somehow disappeared before I called her, and I didn’t miss the heat in her eyes the second she picked up.
Okay, so I know where my shirt is. But she doesn’t have to know that.
Tia’s curled up in her room, my Christmas present sitting between her legs, waiting to be opened.
I’ve got the one she sent me sitting under my sad excuse of a Christmas tree.
I had too many loose ends to tie up here to make it back to Oakwood Valley for the holidays, so festive wasn’t really in the cards.
The tiny plastic tree I picked up from a convenience store for twenty bucks will have to do.
I even stuck a little star on top so it wouldn’t look completely pathetic.
Tia giggles on the screen, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. God, I want to run my fingers through it again. And I will.
Soon.
“Okay, you go first,” she beams, clapping her hands together like a kid on Christmas morning.
Her excitement always does something to me. Butterflies, knots, full-body tingles—every damn kind of flutter you can imagine. She hits them all.
I kneel in front of my phone and reach for the flat gift wrapped in snowflake paper and topped with a bright sky-blue bow. A sticker in the corner catches my eye. I can’t help bursting out laughing when I read it.
To: My favorite sexy asshole
Love: Your favorite sexy minx
“You most definitely are my favorite sexy minx,” I say, smirking. “Though … you’re also wearing way too many layers right now.” I’m half teasing. But also, definitely not.
Every time we video call, the need for her sharpens. Builds low and slow. The calls have never crossed that line. But the charged, heated stares and the way she steals the breath from my lungs every time her face lights up on my screen?
Yeah. It’s getting pretty fucking hard to hold back.
I haven’t touched myself since Vegas. Call it sexual penance for the shit I put her through. The guilt. The hurt. The emotional whiplash.
But it’s more than that. I know without question that the next time I let go, it’s going to be with Tia.
And it sure as fuck won’t be through the phone.
My minx has that cunning glint in her eye—one I haven’t seen in way too long. She nibbles on her bottom lip, all coy and innocent, but I know better. She’s a deviant little devil with something wicked up her sleeve.
My breathing stutters when I see her arms cross at the hem of her sweater.
Oh, hell.
“I suppose you can have part one of your present since you’ve been a good boy this year.”
Good boy? Not even close. Checked Santa’s list myself. I’m circled in red at the very top of the naughty column. But the moment Tia slowly peels her sweater over her head, revealing a cranberry red lace bra that hugs her perfectly, her name slots right under mine. Bolded. Italicized. Starred.
Naughty, naughty minx.
“Fuck,” I groan, tossing my head back in sheer agony. “I’m dying here, baby.”
The word slips out without thought— baby —and it hits like a sucker punch to the chest. I haven’t called her that in a long time, but it rolls off my tongue like it never left. And the way she reacts? Worth every syllable.
Her eyes sparkle brighter than Christmas lights in the room behind her. I watch with rapt attention as her chest heaves with the tension brewing between us.
“Is that a matching set?” I rasp, clenching my fists in my lap just to avoid palming the erection straining against my pants.
“Mhmm. Sure is,” Tia drawls, fingers flirting with the waistband of her jeans like she’s seriously considering making my head explode.
“Show me.”
But Tia only smirks. “Open your gift first.”
I groan again, but I do as I’m told because it’s her, and I’ve never been able to tell her no.
I tear into the edge of the wrapping paper, careful not to damage whatever’s inside. My fingers pause asI pull out a book—the kind not bound by glossy covers, but something far more personal. She made this. For me.
As soon as I flip open the cover, my breath catches and my lungs seize.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, the first page hitting me like a freight train. Emotion crawls up my throat.
“Is this? I’ve never seen this picture, T.”
I look up at her, wide-eyed, a rare kind of shock settling into my chest. Her laugh bubbles through the screen, warm and rich, wrapping around me like the most unexpected gift. I’m in awe, eager to keep turning the pages.
“I had to really dig through the archives for that one,” she says, eyes twinkling. “I almost forgot we even took it that day. We were just babies.”
I smile, fingers brushing over the photo of two bright-eyed, hopeful freshmen who had no idea how sweet life was about to become because of one friendship.
Our friendship.