Page 24

CHAPTER 24

LOGAN

“Y ou’re early,” I say the second I open the door.

“And you’re, uh… underdressed,” Rose fires back, the bite steadily dropping from her voice as her eyes drift lower.

Deadpanned I say, “Yeah, because you’re twenty minutes early.”

And I know because I had it all timed. Rather than showering at the Wild facilities, I rushed home all sweaty and stinky to tidy up first and then shower before her arrival to start the operation. But I was barely done lathering up when the doorbell rang. And kept ringing. And ringing some more.

Now here she is, outside my apartment door carrying a suitcase and eating me up with her eyes.

I’m very aware that I didn’t have a chance to properly dry myself, that my hair is dripping down my naked back and chest, and that all I managed to put on was a pair of black sweatpants—and that’s it, nothing else. If she had any decency she’d look away though.

Rose doesn’t. In fact, she’s doing a second pass now, lifting her eyes slowly over my thighs to fixate on the waistband of my sweatpants.

Leaning against the doorframe, I fold my arms and ask, “Need more time? Want me to turn around?”

But this is Rosalina Mena we’re talking about, she’s absolutely nonplussed about being caught staring. “Actually, yes. I’m curious about your back tattoos.”

I almost laugh but she’s dead serious.

Shrugging, I turn around—not because I’m eager to comply, but because I’d really like to towel myself and change to dry clothes. She can stare all she wants as I head to my room.

“Ohh,” she whispers behind me in tune with her steps falling on my floor. She closes the door behind her. “I didn’t know you liked animals so much.”

I pause at my bedroom door and glance back. “What?”

“Your tats…” She wheels the suitcase all the way to the living room, pointing at me. “A massive phoenix on your chest, plus the huge tiger and horse entwined on your back.”

Ah. I’m so used to my tattoos that I even forget they’re there until someone reminds me, or I catch a glimpse in the mirror. Then everything comes full force—every single reason why I needed them in the first place.

“They’re just symbolism,” I say carefully, not trying to incite the curiosity of this journalist who would eat me alive if I let her.

“Is that so?” I can tell by the way her eyebrow rises that she knows there’s more to the brief answer, and maybe it’s my guarded body language what keeps her from outright asking. Maybe she does have some decency after all.

“Anyway, are you moving in or what?” I look pointedly at her suitcase.

“This? I just figured that if your parents are coming here first, they might be weirded out if they don’t see anything feminine at your place. And honestly, I think I had the right idea.”

Placing her hands on her hips, she takes a good look around at the stark decor. All the walls are white, while every piece of furniture I own is black. There are no trinkets and the only splashes of color are the spines of countless books on the shelves around the TV.

“This place looks very… spartan.” She presses her lips and returns her eyes to me. Or rather, to my phoenix chest tattoo. “Ironic for a guy who is covered in colors.”

I sigh. “Don’t tell me you brought a bunch of pink shit.”

“Um, excuse me.” She puts a hand on her chest, offended. “Haven’t you noticed that my color is lavender?”

I have, actually. Her entire cubicle at work is decked with light purple, and she tends to wear the color often—like right now. She’s in light purple leggings and an off white crop top, oblivious or uncaring to the fact that right now her hips look luscious enough to bite.

“Knock yourself out, then,” I say with a thick voice, finally disappearing into my bedroom and shutting the door behind me.

Swallowing, I hesitate for a moment. Should I lock the door or would that actually be weirder? Like implying that I was expecting her to come in and… I don’t know, debauch me with her eyes while I get changed, if not more.

“Stop this shit. Just because she browsed it doesn’t mean she wants to buy,” I whisper to myself. I’m sure she’d peek at any other reasonably attractive guy in circumstances like this.

I mean, if the roles were reversed I’d probably have been way less cool than her.

After smacking my face so I can get my mind out of the gutter, I head over to the bathroom to finish what I was trying to do. For not the first time this week alone, I contemplate whether shaving my head and face would give me less hassle, but I still apply products to my hair and beard with painstaking care.

I catch muffled sounds from outside as I step back into my bedroom. It’s bizarre to have anyone in my space. I don’t even bring hookups home, yet here I am, buckass naked while my coworker plays house in my living room.

“Better hurry before this feels even weirder,” I mumble.

I’m not sure what she’ll wear but I know I can’t go wrong with black. Is it lazy? Sure, but I’m not angling for a modeling gig tonight. All I’m after is for the night to be short—not even uneventful. That’s an impossible wish.

This time I make sure to put on underwear before donning black slacks. I pair them with a silky black button shirt, rolling the sleeves up to my elbows and leaving enough buttons open that the tattoos are visible. The more reminders my parents get that I’m the imperfect child, the black sheep of the family, the undesirable one they actually can’t wait to get rid of, the faster the night will end.

Finishing the look with the douchiest black loafers in my closet just feels like the cherry on top.

Before leaving my room, I grab an Omega watch that isn’t the most expensive in the market, but is black and indestructible. Like my soul , I think sardonically.

Outside, Rose’s suitcase lays splayed open on the living room floor, mostly empty at this point. She’s by my bookshelves, stretching on her tippy toes to place a purple vase with fake lavender flowers on the top shelf. Pretty sure she’d be offended should I ask if she needs help, so I let her stretch as much as she wants…

And instead, stare at her ass.

Yeah, those leggings should be illegal.

I tilt my head to get a better angle.

Of course, that’s when she finishes and turns around. Her eyes widen at catching me in the act.

“I believe in equality,” I explain calmly. “If you can check me out as much as you want, then so can I. Turn around again.”

Rose splutters. Color blooms on her cheeks. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Am I laughing?” I twirl a finger in the air. “Turn.”

Unwilling to be called a coward, she does turn around, twisting just so to look at me over her shoulder. “Are you a butt man, Logan?”

I tilt my head to the other side, committing her curves to memory. Not terribly difficult when her leggings are so tight that I don’t know how she put them on in the first place. “So I am discovering.” I shrug and narrow my eyes. “Are you sure those leggings are legal?”

Blowing a raspberry, she faces forward again. “Thanks for lifting my self esteem, but I need your help to finish decorating your place so I can go get changed.”

With considerable effort, I tear my eyes away from her to observe the changes. There’s a fluffy blanket and a couple of cushions on my couch, all purple. A matching mug sits on the kitchen island, and a beige cardigan’s strewn on the back of a barstool. She has replaced the kitchen towels with hers, and there’s another vase with fake flowers on the sideboard table by the entrance.

While I’m noting all the little things, she approaches with a reusable shopping bag that she offers to me. “Put all this stuff in your bedroom and bathroom.”

I take a peek at the bag and promptly glance up. “Are you sure?”

“We want to be convincing, right? Unless…” She tugs back at the bag. “Maybe you’re not that chummy chummy with your girlfriends?”

I’m not. Like at all. It’s why my girlfriends always left. They all wanted a level of intimacy I can’t give. My more recent dates never even made it to girlfriend status, sparing me from having that conversation in the first place.

Rose is neither. But my mother is a hound and if she detects the slightest whiff that this isn’t normal, she’ll pounce. And probably on Rose.

I tug at the bag again until she lets go. “Fine.”

“Great. Should I use your bathroom to change?”

“Even better, I have a whole spare bedroom and bath down that door.” I point behind her.

“Thanks.” Rose skips back to her suitcase and picks up the last item, another shopping bag that must’ve been crammed in there along with the other junk. “I should be quick, just need to do my makeup and change.”

“Take your time, you’re still early.”

She glances back and smiles at the last second before disappearing behind the door.

“What the hell am I doing?” I ask myself, shaking my head.

Back in my bedroom, I circle my extra large king bed to the opposite night table, the one I use the least. I put the two bodice ripper romance tomes on it, along with some purple hair clips.

Up next, I set a purple toothbrush in the bathroom right next to my black one. They don’t look terrible together. At least it’s not pink.

Reaching into the bag again, I come up with the dicier items. Women’s hygiene products.

I let out a long suffering sigh because now that I’ve seen this, I can’t unsee it. I will forever know that Rosalina Mena prefers this brand of shampoo and conditioner, this hair cream and gel, and these tampons.

Going big with the deception here, huh?

Once I’m done, I ball up the bag and set out to wait in the living room. This can take anywhere from five minutes to five hours, and I wouldn’t be surprised if my parents arrive before she’s done. I dump the reusable bag in her suitcase and zip it up, wheeling it into my room and leaving it in a corner by the balcony door. The bodice ripper books catch my attention and I grab one to settle on the couch with.

I’m only into chapter two of the budding romance between a widower duke and his daughter’s governess, when the guest bedroom door opens. I look up from the page, but the doorway is empty so I focus back on the book. The characters are about to accidentally encounter each other in the library in the middle of the night when I finally catch Rose from the corner of my eye.

The paperback slides from my hands.

“What the…”

“You don’t like it?” Rose looks down at herself.

“That—” I shake my head hard and unglue my tongue from my palate. “That’s not the issue.”

“Then what?” Her pretty face scrunches up in a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

I run both hands through my damp hair. “I mean that this is going to force me to act like a boyfriend.” She still doesn’t get it and I grunt. “Otherwise you’re going to get harassed all night.”

“Oh.”

Oh , she says, as if she hadn’t turned into a walking heart attack in a black dress that hugs her body all the way down to her knees. It might even be considered somewhat demure because it shows no skin and is long sleeved?—

I start choking.

“Now what?” Rose puts her hands on her hips again.

“T-Turn around,” I command, still choking.

“Dude, you’re gonna have to control yourself?—”

“That’s not—” I wave my hand. “Where the hell did the rest of your dress go?”

She clicks her tongue. “Nowhere, you silly goose. The dress is like this.” It’s missing a hell of a lot of fabric at her back, is what. She gathered her hair atop her head, which means the curve of her neck down to her spine and to the small of her back are exposed to… to…

My eyes and everyone else’s.

How is it even holding up? Like, shouldn’t the thing slide off her shoulders?

“Logan.” Why is she looking at me funny? “You’re a really bad host, you know that? You stare at my ass and don’t even offer me a drink.”

“Shit.” I spring from the couch. “You’re right, I’m not used to this.”

“Aren’t you?” Rose follows me to the kitchen. “That’s surprising.”

Ignoring the dig, I stop at the fridge and open it. “I have still and sparkling water, orange and apple juice, almond milk, and chocolate milk. No alcohol.”

Another smile stretches her lips, now a deeper pink than her natural tone. “Does a kid live here?”

“Yes, me.” I reach for a sparkling water for me and she motions at me to offer her another one. Opening the first bottle and handing it to her, I change the topic by saying, “Listen, Rose. There’s something you should know about my parents.”

“Are they serial killers? Is that why you’re single, because they keep killing your girls?” she jokes.

I open my bottle and my voice lowers. “No, but it’d be a lot easier if they were. They’d just be in jail.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t trust people with dead eyes and fake smiles. Remember that?” I ask before closing the fridge and leaning back against it. “Wanna know how I learned that?”

She can sense that I’m not playing around right now. Before I get too worked up about this whole situation again, I take a good swig from the bottle and force myself to take a few deep breaths.

Slowly, I lift my eyes to her curious ones. “My parents are narcissists. I don’t mean the kind of people who stare at themselves in the mirror too much—I’m talking about the freaky ones. The ones who will make your life a living hell if you let them in.”

Air rushes between her lips. “Logan?—”

“Don’t be interesting,” I say vehemently. “Don’t give them anything to latch on—not anything funny or clever, certainly not anything personal that they can use against you.” I set my bottle behind me on the counter. “Don’t talk back at them even if they’re rude or they insult you. Be so boring as to make them sure that I’ll break up with you soon and they’ll never have to see you again. Please.

“It’s for your own sake,” I finish, realizing that as I spoke I got so much closer, until her hand that holds her water pushes against my stomach. Rose’s head is tilted back as she meets my eyes, and even though she’s not wearing heels, our height difference isn’t so drastic that this is uncomfortable for her.

And she’s not moving away.

“Are you trying to protect me?”

“Yes,” I respond right away. “I’d protect the whole world from them if I could.”

“Then…” Her big brown eyes roam all over my face, trying to read between lines to decipher the deepest parts of my psyche. And she does, because she asks, “Who is protecting you from them?”

I freeze.

And blink hard.

“Myself.” And the prescription I’m loaded up on.

“What if you accepted help?” Her eyes fill up with warmth, genuine and unbridled. “From me, that is.”

I open my mouth, but I still don’t get enough air into my lungs. My throat works with a heavy swallow and I try to refute the offer, but no sound comes from my throat.

Instead, the doorbell goes off.