“I don’t know how you trust your instincts again,” I murmur.
“I’d love to tell you, but I can’t. Whatever made me pick Benji’s father seems to keep leading me to other losers who appear to be winners at first. It’s fucking ridiculous, is what it is. If you figure it out, let me in on the secret.”
“Still single, so…” I give a little shrug.
“No harm in a younger rebound. No strings attached. Get your groove back. I’m all for it. The photos probably don’t do him justice.”
“Seriously, it’s not—”
“I’m not judging.” She holds up her one available hand. “If I could land a man twenty years younger than me, I’d go for it too.”
“He’s only—”
“Mom!” Benji’s voice is loud against the other side of the door. “Mom? We go home?”
“I tried to keep him away,” Logan says, and his tone is mild resignation.
I really, really hope these rooms are more soundproof than I know they are.
“Do you think he heard that?” Matilda asks in a loud whisper.
“Yeah,” Logan says from the other side of the door. “He heard it. For the record, she’s only ten years older than me.”
Matilda looks as red in the face as I feel when I crack open the door.
“Just to be clear, Sawyer’s also the only woman I’ve got penciled into my calendar.”
“I’m sure that’s not—” I start to say.
“It’s absolutely the truth.” He leans against the doorframe as Matilda hurries out of the room, ushering Benji with her. “I’m dialed in.”
“On training,” I stress as Matilda heads toward the front door.
“Sure, on that too,” Logan says with a grin.
“I’ll lock up,” Bituin calls from the front desk. “If you’ve got plans.”
I close my eyes and take a deep, centering breath. Regret over saying yes should be running through me, but I can’t seem to call it up. I like being around him, but I can’t help remembering the conversation I just had with Matilda where she lamented repeating the same patterns.
What if I’m doing the same thing with Logan? Balanced on the edge of sacrificing myself for his wants and needs?
Chapter Fifteen
Logan
I’ve never craved the company of a woman before, but when my doorbell rings, I almost release an audible sigh of relief. We went our separate ways after the training session to freshen up—which felt date-like to me, but I certainly wasn’t going to call her on that—and she agreed to come to my apartment as soon as she was ready.
It’s been almost two hours.
Two hours.
My gut tells me that women don’t take two hours to show up at a guy’s apartment for a casual hangout unless they give a shit about the outcome. I could be wrong—the number of women I’ve attempted to date in any real sense is pretty fucking low.
Maybe I shouldn’t even be trying to date this one, but I can’t help myself. My willpower, which I usually have by the truckload, has deserted me.
As I go to answer the door, I decide that if she’s wearing any makeup, she’s invested in whateverisn’tcurrently happening between us. Actions speak louder than words. She doesn’t wear makeup to our training sessions—ever.
The minute I open the door, I can’t help examining her face like an astronaut searching for signs of life on a foreign planet.
