Page 22

CHAPTER 22

LOGAN

M y knee bounces as the line tries to connect to Kaplan.

I’m a grown ass man who can make his own decisions, and actually my decision is already made. But I do need to send a message to the PR and marketing team that I’m not some pushover who is going to say yes to whatever they propose. I have an agent who looks out for my best interests and who needs to be part of the decision.

Ish. I’m still kinda pissed at Kaplan.

“Good morning, Logan,” he says in his peppy way.

“Hey,” I say in return. “Something came up from the PR team that I thought you should know.”

Immediately that makes his tone shift. “Oh, no. Please don’t tell me that someone took pictures of you doing something illegal or compromising. I already have enough of that with another client.”

“You really think I’m the type of guy to, I don’t know, speed on my bike while drunk and naked?” I ask in a deadpan. Like shit, I know I live in Florida but I haven’t turned into a Florida Man quite yet.

“Well, no.” He settles a bit. “Then what’s up?”

“ SPORTY wants to do a feature with me and… and the social media manager.”

After a bout of silence, he says, “The same social media manager who I declined the offer of a publicity stunt with, but you went ahead with all on your own?”

“Uh huh. That one.” I lean back on the chair and it emits a terrible squeak like I could break it any second.

“Do you want to do it?”

“Yes,” I respond.

“Why?”

Huffing, I sit with the question for a good moment.

There’s no real reason. Women don’t harass me regularly enough to need the permanent services of a fake girlfriend who can keep them off me. Yes, I feel kind of shitty that the association with me has dealt her so much hate on the internet, but I also could snuff that with a simple statement on my own social media accounts. Or through Kaplan, in fact.

I just… I want to. But that’s not a good enough answer for my agent or, frankly, for myself.

Then something clicks. I bend forward to rest my elbows on the table and speak closer to the phone. “Here’s the thing. I don’t have a firm prospect to trade to. I think it’s important that in the meantime I keep playing along with the team and not stirring the pot.”

“That’s awfully nice for a guy who has cut off other teams cold turkey.” He gives out a humorless chuckle. “Are you sure that deep down you don’t want to stay?”

“No,” I say vehemently. “I don’t want to stay. There’s nothing here to stay for.”

“Call me back when you don’t have to convince yourself of that,” he says sarcastically.

I snap back. “And you call me back when you have a real deal to consider.”

He grunts. I do the same. And we end the call like the mature men we are.

Asswipe . I don’t know who I’m referring to, if him or myself. Maybe both.

I press my fingers against my scalp and do a little massage, trying to bring me back to zero. I get that all my reasons to not pick any of the teams he’s been working with seem irrational, especially when I won’t go into the details of why I’d rather retire and become a llama farmer or whatever. From his perspective, I’m probably a more difficult client than the one who is facing a PR nightmare right now.

Yet I can’t bring myself to talk.

I’ve even stopped going to therapy. It gets harder and harder to talk about something that was a big issue but is not really an issue right now, yet is still affecting me. I feel like an immature brat who can’t get over himself.

The chair produces another protest as I get up, but manages to stay in one piece. As I step out of the conference room, the first thing I notice is a bunch of curls peeking from over a cubicle wall.

My lips twitch.

I press them tight, killing the smile before it forms.

Tucking my phone in my pocket, I keep tracing the path to the right cubicle and find the two women whispering to each other. Of course they stop the second I show up.

“What’s the verdict?” Winters asks.

The verdict is that my agent suspects I’ve lost the plot. Unlike him, I know I have.

“We’re game,” I answer.

“Awesome. I’ll reach out to their team and get this arranged. Thank you both for your support,” she says, glancing at her roommate and at me.

“Right.” Rose springs to her feet, salutes down at her friend, and squeezes out of the cubicle in front of me. Her eyes lower for a second before returning to my face. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

I fold my arms and this time her attention glues there. “First of all, we’re headed down the same direction. Say that when we really part ways. Second, what are you staring at?”

She coughs. “You do recognize that your tattoos are eye catching, right?”

I look down at the full sleeve tattoos of both of my arms. They’re plentiful but the least intimidating art ever.

On my right are vines of Korean roses, their pink petals stark against the red roses that are considered the flower emblem of the US. My left arm is similar but with a mix of small bluebells and red roses, the former being the flower of Sweden.

This tends to attract a whole lot less attention than guys who have skulls or something even more sinister printed on their skin. If anything, it gets me a lot of shit for the girly motif—as if guys also couldn’t admire flowers.

That’s not even the case here—I just want to pay very obnoxious homage to the heritage both of my parents try to escape. My father likes to pretend that since he’s spent all his adult life in the US, he’s now more American than Korean. My mother has actually lied to people that she’s French, as if her favorite music act wasn’t ABBA.

I almost smile again remembering how pissed both of them were when I got my first tattoo, the one on my back.

Returning to the present, I say, “I thought you were used to them already.”

“Not really. Most of the times you’re wearing long sleeves,” she argues back.

“This is fun and all that, but I actually have to take a work call now,” Audrey says from her cubicle, shooing us with her hand.

“Sorry, Audrey.” While Rose waves at her friend with one hand, she grabs one of my arms. “Let’s go, you beefcake.”

“Beefcake?” I repeat, letting her drag me out. How dare she call me that way when she has all that ?

I allow myself one more second of appreciating her tiny waist flaring out to the most amazing behind I’ve ever witnessed with my own eyes. Her black leggings deserve an award for clinging so perfectly. But then I force my eyes up to her hair and the most curious thing happens.

I don’t cool down in the least.

From this close, I’m one hundred per cent sure that her hair is softer than silk, just like the hand that’s branding my skin. Everything about Rosalina Mena is soft—except for her tongue. That’s the only part that’s sharp as a knife.

I bite my lip. Maybe I should break the contact. Her skin on mine is doing things to me that have no business happening in the middle of our workplace.

Gently, I tug my arm free and she lets go. We’re alone now, out in a corridor outside of the offices. There’s no need for her to keep dragging me.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, realizing as much.

“Hmm.” I stuff my hands in the pockets of my sweatpants and keep going. She matches my stride without much effort, considering that she’s a pretty tall woman. With spectacular legs, if I might add.

Finally, I point to the left where I have to go, sure that she needs to veer right back to marketing. She nods and we stare at each other for a moment. Me, trying not to let my eyes wander below her cropped sweatshirt. Her, studying my face.

Since I’m the king of finesse, I just give her a nod and turn to the left corridor. After a moment, her steps echo behind me, moving away from me. I check over my shoulder as she walks away, hands joined at her back over her butt. I have to make use of my willpower to not keep staring and resume the use of my legs.

Back at the gym, I work out so hard that Franklin, the head trainer, has to order me to go cool down before everyone else.

I grab a towel and sit by my locker, my heart still thumping in my temples. The heavy workout isn’t even the reason. “Shit,” I whisper to myself. This thing with Rose is starting to go from objective awareness that she’s an attractive woman to something different. Something that makes me exert myself at the gym as a coping mechanism.

That’s not good.

“Whatcha mumbling there, buddy?” Rivera asks, strutting into the clubhouse along with his best bud and others.

“Buddy my ass,” I mumble this time.

“Speaking of asses,” he says as he stops way too close for someone whose locker is clear across the room. “I got something for you, my favorite ass.”

“Go away, Rivera. I’m brooding.”

“This will cheer you up,” Starr says, his mouth trembling. “I helped him pick it.”

“Then I know I definitely won’t like it.” I get on my feet and turn to open my locker so I can grab my uniform. But there, where my purple socks should’ve been, is a different pair. Slowly, I lift my head and turn. “You did not.”

The two clowns burst into a fit of giggles, comparable to five-year-olds.

“C’mon, Kim. Show us what you got.” Brown grins from beside me.

Maybe I need to really speed up the trade process, focus less on finding a high bid and more on acquiring mature teammates.

But then I spot someone who doesn’t belong here, someone with curls that frame her face and a grin the size of the moon. She’s recording the scene like she was in on the whole thing, and I wouldn’t put it past Rivera and the rest, especially because they think that the social media manager and I are a thing.

And if so, I can’t snub her or her work. Not especially when she seems to be enjoying it, even if it’s at my expense.

Sighing, I put up a big show of grabbing the gift and unfurling it before the camera. A pair of the most absurd socks—long, stark white except for the two tiny alligator feet at the knees—makes the whole place erupt in laughter.

Where normally I’d be bristling at being made fun of, I can’t help but staring at Rose as she guffaws, her face bright with how hard it is to get air in, and how much her eyes twinkle when she looks at me.

And that’s how I finally realize that I’m toast.