by Piper Lawson
On the same granite island where we’d pored over financials.
Three times.
For the past couple weeks, I’d been holding the line that Logan couldn’t come over while Rory was here. But then Logan asked if Rory’d heard of this chef he thought was cool and wanted to bring him a book. I relented, and my son had latched onto the book as though it was the last printed product on Earth.
He went on to invite Logan to cook with him (without my permission).
If there’s a way to backpedal from that, I don’t know what it is. Especially when my son looks so damned happy at everything Logan does.
“Logan got that for you,” Rory states. It’s not a question, and I look up to see my son lean over the table where I’m busy folding a pretty piece of paper.
“How’d you know?”
“Because you don’t buy yourself stuff.”
I process that, the fact that Rory notices, while he reads the slip of paper with the instructions. “What’s or-eye-jam-eye?”
“Um. Origami is this.” I point at the flower as I finish the last folds, setting it proudly on the table.
“Cool.” He inspects the images on the package. “Can you make me a dog?”
“I’m working up to it,” I promise.
He turns back to the kitchen, and I realize something as I stare at the folded flower.
It’s not the sex with Logan. It’s that I’m letting my guard down around him. That I make excuses to see him even when I know I don’t need his input for something at work. That I call him Logan and can’t remember when that started.
Regardless, Logan’s working his way into our lives, and I’m not sure what’s going to happen when this bet wraps up in a month.
What also hasn't gone away is the promise he made. An entire night together.
He might’ve forgotten it, but to me, it looms larger every day.
Because aside from the improbable logistics—there's no way I'd have that kind of time without Rory, and we’re not doing that while he’s there—spending the whole night with Logan would change me in a way I'm not ready for.
We finish getting ready and take the train to my parents’ place. When we get there, it's after noon.
As I expected, my mom lights up when she sees Rory. They talk about school and food and his hobbies. She asks what he wants for his birthday, and I curse silently. I’ve had his gift for months, but with everything going on, I haven’t yet planned a special meal or anything else.
Guilt works through me, and I’m still making quick plans for how I can remedy that when then there’s a knock at the door. I go to answer but pull up short when the door swings wide on its own.
Blake walks in, grinning. “Hey, babe.”
He walks past me as I’m frozen to the tile in the kitchen.
I whirl and stalk after him, cutting a look at my mother on the couch, who’s too busy smiling like Oprah after arranging some kind of family reunion.
I grab Blake’s arm and drag him to the front hall. “What are you doing here? We were going to come see you after.”
“I got an invitation for tea.” He looks oblivious.
It’s not that I have a problem with Blake seeing his son. But I have a problem with him thinking he’s entitled to do whatever he wants. "You can’t just barge in.”
“No barging.” He points to his chest. “Invited.”
I bite my tongue. “Just stop. He’s okay with the idea of seeing you—”
“Okay? Man, you really hyped this…”
I ignore him. “But I want to understand your intentions this time.”
"My intentions with him or with you?" The smile that pulls at his lips used to charm me, but now I shake my head. "You ever think of coming back? Your parents would love it."
My hands fold into fists at my sides.
"When we split, you were still a kid. I was too,” he says. “Now… there's something different about you. You're confident.”
Surprise works through me. "Blake—"
"We had a good thing. We could again."
I glance down the hall toward the living room. "I have the best part of you. I don't need anything else.”
Blake shakes his head. “I get it. It’ll take time.”
Whatever.
“Fine, come in. But we have to leave to catch the train back to the city at four."
Blake shakes his head as if I’m overreacting, but he goes back to the living room.
I hover out of view, doing dishes in the kitchen and tidying while I listen to my parents, Blake, and Rory talk.
My eyes flick to the clock, and by the time every surface sparkles, I can’t do it anymore.
I yank my phone from my bag and duck down the back hall toward the laundry room.
I hit a contact on my phone and bite my lip as the ringtone sounds.
We've been texting for weeks. And we’ve talked on the phone. What's different is this is the weekend. So far, we've stayed out of each other’s space outside of weekdays.
Warmth rushes through me as Logan answers. “Hey, Peach.”
"Hey,” I say under my breath as I smooth my finger over the wallpaper seam in the hall. “What are you doing today?”
“Finishing up a dive with Monty.” He’s told me all about his hobby, and it sounds fascinating. “Montgomery says hi.”
“I haven’t met Monty,” I remind him lightly.
“Huh. We’ll have to fix that.” Before I can comment, he says, “Where are you?”
“Rory and I went to Orange.” I blow out a shaky breath as my emotions catch up to me. “We'll be home in a couple hours."
"Kendall." He sounds concerned. "You don't sound good."
"I'm fine. Just been a long day. I guess I wanted to hear your voice.” I regret it the second I say it, but it’s too late. “Orange is pretty strange.”
“It’s the Pez.”
I laugh. “I wish it was the Pez.”
No. I wish he was here.
The silence on the line is comforting, almost as if Logan’s leaning against the wall, regarding me from those amused chocolate eyes, instead of a city away.
"Tell you what. You need dinner. Both of you."
"Logan…" I should protest, but all I come up with is, "I might be terrible company, and Rory's beat too."
"Then I’ll be good enough company for the three of us," he says easily before the line clicks off.
When he spots a figure in the doorway of our building, Rory straightens from his half-asleep dawdling up the street from the subway station. "Logan!"
The man I'm slightly obsessed with fills the doorway, his phone in one hand. It's a warm night, and there's no leather jacket. Just a deep-green polo shirt over crisp denim.
"If you're taking selfies with ‘hashtag just need a Cross’ and making the lobby of my building glamorous, I hate you."
"Ten thousand likes and counting." Those bright eyes meet mine, and I smack his shoulder as he holds the door. "Thought we could have tortellini. I didn’t make it, but someone did." He looks at Rory. "If the head chef approves."
I think I melt, and it’s not the lingering heat from the day.
The smell from the brown paper bag in his hands seals the deal.
I follow them inside as they chatter about pasta and restaurants and chefs. Logan promises to show Rory some cool new restaurant on Instagram.
Rory clearly enjoys Logan. And it's mutual. The thought makes me worry.
Not because Logan’s not a good guy. But it’s easy to get swept away in the moment, and being a spouse, being a parent, day in and day out, takes a certain kind of commitment.
One Rory’s father couldn’t manage.
One I wouldn’t dream of asking of Logan.
One he’s made clear by his lifestyle he doesn’t want, at least not yet.
But for now, we're here, and my stomach's growling, and the most beautiful man I’ve ever met has brought enough stuffed pasta to feed an army.
"You can help me pla
te," Logan says as we head up the stairs. "I also wanted your professional opinion."
"About what?" I ask.
"Not yours. Rory's. I'm working on some ideas for recipes for the brewery."
If there was a way to make my kid light up even more, that was it.
"As long as there's no beer drinking for my eight-year-old. You can't drink alcohol until you're at least ten."
Logan chuckles, and Rory shoots me a look.
Inside the apartment, we dig into the food, which is so good I could cry. My son is a good chef, but these ingredients are next level.
Rory teaches Logan “Which of these things?”, and Logan plays along. More than that, he’s kick-ass at it. Logan has the most fascinating way of looking at the world and can find something wondrous in even the simplest things. I would’ve figured a man who’s seen the world would have high expectations, but he seems content to sit here in my kitchen, debating whether a fork or a napkin is less like cheese.
Afterward, I insist on doing the limited cleanup while Logan sits at the table with a bunch of paper and a tablet with Rory.
Most kids his age don’t spend their evenings writing recipes with men their moms are sleeping with. But now that it's happening, I can’t look away.
I finish cleaning the kitchen, appreciating that Rory's engrossed in something with another person. I put in a load of laundry and even check my work email before the clock reminds me it's Rory's bedtime.
"Let's go," I tell him finally.
He groans, which says something considering he was half-asleep on the train two hours ago. "Will Logan be here in the morning?"
"I don't think so, honey," I say, ushering him to the bathroom to brush his teeth before changing into pajamas.
Once he's in bed and the light’s switched out, I pull the door almost shut and return to the living room. Logan's leaning against the wall, watching me.
I nod toward the two unopened bottles on the counter, which must’ve been in the brown paper bag because I didn’t notice them before.
"It’s in my blood, Peach. I can’t enter someone’s home without it." He winks, and I hold one up, inspecting the lack of label.
“Sure this isn’t moonshine?”
“We should find out.”
I understand he’s asking a question. One I debate briefly.
"Open it."
He grins, probably because we haven’t drunk together since the first day he came over here. The warmth in his expression relieves some of my exhaustion. This guy has some kind of magic over us.
"The opener's in the—"
He goes for the correct drawer, which throws me.
Because he's been here multiple times, I remind myself.
I'm not sure what to do with that, so I take the beer that's offered. I take a long drink. "Mmm, that's good. Strawberry?"
His expression lights up. "Yeah, it is. You’re a good student.”
“You’re a good teacher.”
I cross to the couch, and he follows, sinking into it. Because screw it. He's not staying over, but having an hour with someone who gets me how I am and doesn't expect me to be different is too tempting to ignore.
"Tell me about your day," Logan murmurs.
I lean back on him on the couch. "I saw my mom. She's getting better. But she invited Blake over."
Logan stiffens under me. "How did that happen?"
"Well, we were planning to see him today, I just didn’t expect her to ask him for tea. She probably figured it made perfect sense since he moved next door to them."
"What?" He's staring at me as if I just dropped a bomb, and I realize that might not have come up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We’ve been busy.” I sound defensive, and I’m not sure why.
The tight exhale from Logan is his attempt to calm down, but from the rough edge in his voice as he continues, I don’t think it worked. "How was Rory?"
"Okay. I thought it would be hard for him, but he didn’t seem upset. It’s not like a custody situation. But Blake has a history of getting grandiose, then bolting. He likes to play the hero—at least until it comes time to deliver.
“It confused Rory last time, but he was little. I still don't think he really understood. Now…” I swallow. “Now he would, and I don’t want to see him get hurt."
Logan's fingers thread through my hair. It's oddly intimate. Under me, his chest and abs are rock solid.
"Don't let him in," he says at last.
"Keeping Blake out of Rory’s life completely might make things worse. I'm not sure that's right for Rory."
"I'm not only talking about Rory's life. I'm talking about yours."
The tone of his voice has me shifting off his chest to look him in the eye. "What?”
His face is hard. "Come on. Your parents invite him over? They still like him after everything? They’re not trying to give their grandson back a father. They’re trying to give their daughter back a husband.” I turn it over. “The guy would be a moron not to try to get back with you.”
I wish I could argue with him, but seeing my ex today gave me the impression Logan might be right. “The easiest thing in the world is wanting what you can't have. Especially for Blake."
Hunter's eyes flash as his fingers dig into my waist. "Up."
Surprise jolts through me. "We were relaxing," I protest.
"It's not working." He grabs my wrist and starts down the hall.
I stumble after him, him steering me into my room.
Though Logan’s been here a handful of times, I realize it's our first time in here.
My hand hits the switch by the door reflexively, and the overhead light comes on. I don’t have time to judge my stuff or to tidy, and the effort would be wasted anyway because Hunter’s not taking it in. He’s looking at me. And he looks pissed.
"Logan," I whisper, conscious of my son down the hall, "what're you—"
His fingers thread through my hair, and he kisses me, drugging and deep. "He can't have you back, Peach. Not now. Not ever."
His mouth crushes mine, and I melt against him. I take his face between my hands because even though I don't like possessive, there's something startlingly attractive about Logan being unnerved.
"I'm not with him, you idiot," I pant. I almost add, "I'm with you," but stop myself.
That would raise the stakes.
More than the fact I called him on the weekend.
More than him showing up at our door with pasta for three.
My back hits the wall, and he's already streaking a hot trail down my neck with his lips, his tongue. The barbell and the scratch of his beard contrast with the slick heat of his mouth.
I should make him stop going caveman when my ex-husband is none of Logan’s business. We haven’t made any commitments to one another. His lifestyle makes it clear that’s not what he does.
But I love that he's here, in my apartment. That he spent an hour making recipes with my son after getting us dinner. Most of all, I love that he's touching me and kissing me.
I love that he knows exactly what to do to make me weak.
Every second out there in the world, I have to have the answers.
With Logan, I don’t.
With Logan, it’s simple even when it’s complicated.
I wrap my arms around his body, and the feel of his hard muscles under the polo shirt sends me into a state of greedy desire.
His lips find my earlobe, and I squeeze my thighs together. "Remember that night I promised you?"
I nod.
Logan's hands yank my shirt out of my pants, then span my waist in a way that has me sucking in a desperate breath.
"This is it."
19
The past few weeks with Kendall have been a kind of rhythm I didn’t know I wanted. I work harder than I’ve ever worked, but it’s worth it because those days are studded with hits of awesomeness.
She’ll stop in at my place, or I’ll drop by her office.
We make decisions
about the vibe—which she somehow twisted Ben’s arm to take from good to boss—but we’ll also laugh and tease and talk.
It’s never long enough.
I’ve been looking forward to a night where I can take my time, instead of our rushed moments between work and life.
Now, her slow curves are under my impatient hands, and I can't find satisfaction because all I can think of is this faceless prick who had her first. The one too stupid to know what he had. The one who broke her heart—and her family.
My body’s buzzing, my throat burns, and my fists haven’t unclenched in the last thirty minutes. I'm angry and unsettled, and I need something from this. From her.
I've always enjoyed sex. I’m not enjoying it tonight.
It doesn’t take rocket science to figure out why. Her ex moved in next to her parents.
What the actual fuck?
I know the guy texted her, but she hasn’t mentioned him since. If he was still trying to see her, she should’ve told me.
Why? Because she’s yours? a voice taunts me.
I squeeze her ass, then yank her legs up around my hips so I can grind into her.
The low moan from her throat is a protest, but her arms lock around my neck. Her mouth is hot under mine. I give her my tongue like I’m going to give her my cock. I'm rock hard already, straining in my jeans.
I yank her shirt out of her jeans. Then I rip it down the front.
"What are you doing?" Her startled whisper does nothing to soothe my frayed nerves. “I didn’t realize your plan involved destruction of property.”
"I'll buy you a new one."
I move back to her neck, but she twists away. My jaw clenches as she grabs my face, her expression a mix of arousal and shock.
My hands span her stomach, feeling her heavy breathing and smooth skin, sliding up to cup her breasts through the lacy bra. It's not porn star lingerie, but it's hot because it's her. Because it's keeping those small, round tits from me and I want to know they’re mine. She’s mine.
I've never felt this way before.
Never wanted so badly to be the guy. The one she lets down her guard with. The one she laughs with, flirts with.
The one she gives all of herself to.
I can’t control what she says to Blake, but I know I’m the only one who gets to kiss her full lips, and lick her pussy, and fuck her until her eyes turn black.
