“I don’t give a shit. Don’t pretend. Worst case scenario, we just get to spend more time doing something that’s pretty great.”
I looked up at him, hot water streaming down my back. Was this a promise I could keep? I decided it was at least one worth trying for. “Okay.”
He nodded in approval. “Good.” Logan’s hands slid from my hips, and he turned.
My pulse skipped as I poured the body wash into my hands and lathered it. He stood still, water slicking down his shoulders, one arm out, pressed against the tile.
My palms slid over the broad muscles of his upper back, and he flinched. “Is that okay?”
He chuckled, his hand reaching back to pull me closer. “You might not be breakable, Crys, but I think I am.”
I pressed closer, dropping my head and pressing my cheek against his skin. His hand squeezed on my thigh, warm water coursing from his body to mine.
Logan growled low in his throat, his hand circling my wrist as he turned to face me. “You’ll have to do that later.” He dropped his head, kissing me, rough and desperate.
I felt for the soap dish and set the bottle there with my hairpins. Yeah. I was good with that.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
The restof the weekend blurred into two parallel universes. The official one that everyone involved with the Marcus Foundation saw, and the secret one that Logan and I lived inside our hotel room.
Norman paraded us through small breakout sessions. One with the MacIntyre Foundation, one with a couple of MLAs, another with a gaggle of private-school women who controlled half the city’s fundraising committees.
I sat in on discussions about youth pathways in the arts and long-term community engagement, listening to smart things about infrastructure and mentorship. I soaked it all up like a sponge.
Logan sat through media-coaching refreshers and sponsor conversations. He answered questions about the Blizzard mess and why he was interested in the new gallery.
On paper, we were composed and professional. In practice, we could barely keep our hands off each other.
It started small. His knee brushing mine under the dinner table. My hand resting on the back of his chair and lingering longer than necessary. His palm on my back as we squeezedthrough a crowded foyer, or his thumb tracing a distracting little circle just under my shoulder blade.
I was drunk on all of it. Drunk on him. On the fact that this man who could bulldoze an NHL defenseman with his shoulder would go dead still if I touched the inside of his wrist. That he would excuse himself from a conversation mid-sentence to follow me upstairs if I sent him one well-timed look.
We did our jobs. We showed up. We were brilliant, behaved, and impeccably professional in every meeting scheduled for us. But the second there was a break in the calendar?
Being with Logan was the most fun I’d ever had.
We ordered room service and ate dessert in bed, laughing so hard over some story about training camp that my stomach cramped. We argued over movies and books. We watched half of some terrible late-night sitcom with the volume low, his hand resting over my bare hip like it had always belonged there.
I did my exploring, and he did his. He spent hours that weekend doing exactly what he’d promised and then some.
I never once pretended.
On Sunday, late morning, we packed up the room in a daze.
The drive back down the mountain was quiet. Comfortable. I kept waiting for the regret to hit. The shame. But it didn’t.
I was positive it would happen once I got home. Once I saw Maddie and Shar face-to-face. They’d been supportive of this whole thing before, but there was no way in hell I’d be able to explain this.
When we hit the outskirts of Calgary, my stomach started to hollow out. Not because of what had happened, but because of what was about to. Logan would take my exit. He’d drop me at the fourplex, he’d drive home, and we’d both drop back into our regular lives.
The life where we didn’t sleep next to each other. Where we couldn’t just disappear upstairs for an hour before dinner.
Logan pulled to the right and flicked on his signal. Theclick-click-clickechoed in my brain.
“Logan—” I started as he said, “Come to my place?” already pulling out of the turn-only lane.
