I doubt I’m going to win this argument, and it has been a day filled with drama. Reporters, pop stars, sneaking through hallways—a soak in a hot spring might just be what I need.
Maybe five minutes won’t hurt.
I look around. Just trees and birds and one very smug musician.
“Turn around,” I say, voice firm.
He grins and obliges, turning his back to me and planting his forearms on the rocky edge of the pool as he stares ahead.
Quickly, I strip down to my underwear, goose bumps rising across my skin as the evening breeze wraps around my shoulders. Would any sane person strip down outdoors on a spring evening when the temperature’s dropping by the minute? The things Logan gets me to do. I fold my clothes into a precise stack and dip one toe into the steaming water.
Then—
“Bunnies?”
My head snaps up, and I see him staring at the cute design on my panties.
“Logan!” I shriek, diving into the water like I’ve been launched from a catapult, splashing half the forest in my desperate attempt to hide my underwear choice from his prying eyes. I feel like I’m going to burst into flames, and not from the spring’s hot water.
When I finally gather enough courage to look him in the eye, he’s full-on grinning, those stupidly perfect white teeth gleaming in the fading light. “So that’s your style, huh?”
“You’re such a jerk.” I keep my chin raised despite the mortification coiling in my stomach.
I paddle closer, narrowing my eyes at him before I raise my arm and send a tidal wave of water directly into his smug face.
He sputters, water dripping from his eyelashes as he wipes his face. “Totally worth it.” Then adds with that infuriating half-smile, “They’re cute.”
Oh my god. I roll my eyes and swim away, trying to convince myself the furnace-level heat in my face is absolutely, incontestably from the hot spring and not from the way his gaze lingers on me.
Logan glides after me. He’s like one of those Olympic swimmers who make even the most awkward movementsappear fluid and intentional. Meanwhile, I’m splashing around like a distressed kitten.
I veer left, putting some much-needed distance between us. “I need to know something,” I say, pausing near a moss-covered rock jutting from the pool’s edge. The rough surface feels reassuringly solid against my palm. “And don’t sidestep. Tell me the truth.”
He stops a few feet away, water lapping gently around his shoulders. “All right. Shoot.”
“Are you dating Victoria Delacroix?”
Something shifts in his eyes—like he knows he can’t keep it from me any longer. I brace for the revelation.
“No,” he says simply.
I keep swimming in circles across the surface while he trails behind me.
“Are you sure?” I glance over my shoulder, catching his gaze. “Because she definitely came at me like a woman scorned.”
He sighs, sending small ripples across the steaming water. “Our record label wants to sell us as a couple. It’s all part of some elaborate marketing ploy. Public appearances. Joint interviews. Singing duets.”
“So I’m a complication,” I say, circling around the shallow edge as he follows. Great. I’ve managed to get myself caught in the crossfire of music industry politics. As if my life wasn’t already a country song waiting to be written.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” That self-assured smirk returns, soft and cocky. “There’s nothing complicated about you.”
“Gee, thanks.” If that was supposed to be a compliment, he needs serious help in the delivery department.
“I mean that in the best way.” He raises his eyebrows, droplets clinging to them like tiny crystals. “You’re . . . real. Refreshing. Honest.”
I frown, treading water to stay afloat. “So your ideal woman is a chilled soda and a spreadsheet?”
“With a little sass and a killer eyeroll,” he adds.
