Bad Love (Modern Romance Book 2)

by Piper Lawson

  "He does. But it won't be with me." The thought makes my chest hurt.

  "Why the hell not?"

  I turn back to the beautiful dresses and run one through my fingers. "Because men like Logan Hunter don't clean up kid vomit. They don't cover for you when you have to work late. They don't see you in your face mask, and if they do? They definitely don't turn around and look at you like you’re their fantasy come to life."

  "That is a whole lot of bullshit." Rena blows out a breath. "I also brought shoes. Because there’s no way you’re wearing flats with that dress."

  I start to protest as she produces a pair of wedges with sky-high heels.

  “Before you comment, realize that the second Logan sees these, he’s going to be picturing them around his neck.”

  I cock my head, feeling the buzz of electricity. "They are cute."

  "Good call. Now Final Jeopardy. This one's for all the accessories." Her gaze meets mine. "Are you falling for him?"

  I think of earlier today when I pulled my "Do Me” list from my notebook and realized it'd been augmented. To every item, from waxing to skydiving, black pen had added the words “during sex.”

  Except the last one—be more sexually adventurous.

  He’d added "with Logan Hunter."

  "I can't answer that.”

  Her smile grows. "You just did."

  21

  My first and only car was a twelve-year-old Buick. It wasn’t even mine. Technically, it was my brothers’ and mine to share when we were in high school.

  I didn’t care. I've never cared about four wheels beyond where they could take me and how much it cost to fill them up.

  But when Logan's car pulls up on Saturday morning, my jaw drops.

  The way he drags his sunglasses down his nose to look at me has me wondering if I’ve stepped into an alternate universe. If I haven’t, I should’ve worn something fancier than capri pants and a crisp white T-shirt I never wear when Rory’s around and cooking—and spills—could happen at any moment.

  My gaze roves the curvy lines of the car. "Tell me you borrowed this."

  "Don't make me lie to you, Peach." He flashes me a grin. “Kendall, this is Monty.”

  There's another person in the car, and I’m momentarily thrown. The guy’s bigger than Logan, dressed in a button-down shirt, hair and beard trimmed, and sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoos that reach his wrists on both sides.

  The guy nods at me from the back seat, lifting his sunglasses to show sharp blue eyes. “Nice to meet you.”

  This is Logan’s best friend.

  The one who runs Hunter’s Cross.

  “You too.” I smile, but I’m grounded in the uncomfortable reality that I'm about to spend time in Logan's world.

  Maybe Logan knows it too, because after he helps me put my bag in the back with a quick kiss that steals my breath and I shift into the passenger seat, Logan opens with, "We need you to settle something."

  "Okay."

  "Marvel or DC?"

  I blink. "Are you joking? Marvel. Avengers: Endgame will stand the test of time."

  "Good. That was to prove you had sound judgment."

  I shake my head as the car peels away.

  "The real test is this,” Logan says. “Master-created recipes or customer-created?"

  I turn it over. "Customer. People love things they make themselves."

  "Thank you."

  I turn back toward the one who seems to have lost whatever argument I’ve settled. "Sorry, Monty."

  "It's fine. Women always go with Hunter."

  "Smart people always go with Hunter,” Logan corrects, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “But I was thinking about our financials. The fruit beers have really exploded. We're up twenty percent last quarter on those. But that’s not the big play.

  “Customers like experimentation, trying new things. They want to be satisfied. Their way. We should do personal brews."

  "You mean for weddings and shit? There are home breweries for that," Monty says. "Corner-store DIY shops."

  "Yeah, but ours will come with insights from Freddy, the Einstein of the beer stein. We could have a contest to find one new recipe every year, judged by customers. They vote up the brews they want made,” Logan says without pausing for breath.

  "There's a scaling problem," Monty interrupts.

  "Not if we do it right. The unpopular ones fade fast. People get engaged with the best ones. They tell their friends. Hell, we could partner with restaurants. If your beer was available at a Michelin-star restaurant in Midtown, you'd shout it from the rooftops."

  Watching them go back and forth is like watching tennis, only the whiplash is between Logan and the rearview mirror.

  It's fascinating. I love seeing the conversation, being in the middle of it.

  "And how would we get our beer into Michelin-star restaurants?" Monty drawls.

  "Working on it."

  "That's what you were asking Rory about last week," I blurt, and the guys turn to me as if remembering I'm still there.

  Logan nods.

  Rory would be thrilled to help. My brain snags on something else. "So, this new marketing director gig is going well."

  “She knows?” Monty asks, sounding surprised.

  Logan grimaces. “Yup.”

  "It's been an adjustment," comes the voice from the back seat.

  Logan holds up his middle finger with reflexive quickness.

  "I've worked with a lot of corporate marketing directors,” I offer. “They're lucky to have you, whether your family name's on the door or not."

  Logan cuts me a look, smiling in a way I feel right down to my toes. "Thanks, Peach."

  Warmth spreads to my fingers, and I glance down and realize he's linked our hands. I turn back to the passenger window, feeling myself flushing. It's like high school.

  Except I never held hands with boys in high school.

  I wouldn’t have known what to do with someone like Logan then. His smug looks would’ve made me look away, his tongue ring would’ve had me hiding, and the way he talks to me—like I’m the enthusiastic Bonnie to his reckless Clyde, in bed and out of it?

  I’m glad I met him now.

  I meet Monty's gaze in the mirror. I'm guessing a guy like him sees everything. At least where his best friend is concerned.

  "So, I assume you've been to this party before?” I direct this to Monty. Maybe I can win him over.

  "This'll be my tenth. Think I get a pin."

  I laugh. "What intel can you give me?"

  "You think I'm going to help you after you took my seat?"

  I shrug. "You seem like a guy who wouldn't hold petty grudges."

  "Damn you."

  "It's low-key," Logan interrupts, his thumb still tracing distracting circles on my palm. "You've got nothing to worry about."

  I think back to the handful of parties I've been to since moving to New York. "Low-key like frozen shrimp rings and screw-top wine?"

  "Not quite."

  "How many people?" I ask.

  "A couple hundred."

  The blood drains from my face. "That's not a party—it's a wedding. Is someone getting married at the same time? If not, you should offer the space and save money."

  Monty barks out a laugh. "I like this girl, Hunter."

  I shoot a smile toward the back seat, glad he’s on my side.

  At least until he says, “So, Kendall, how’re you going to sell ten thousand vibrators in the next month?” Logan groans, but Monty spreads his hands. “No. I have a legitimate interest in this. The company I run could be partly owned by a man sunning himself naked on a boat right now.”

  I don’t understand the last part, but I don’t have to. I take a breath and explain the plan to Monty one piece at a time. He listens to all of it.

  “So basically,” I summarize, “we have a smart product geared toward women who want to take control of their sexuality. We also have novel packaging and a string of new advertisers and content
marketing to promote it. Beginning with a massive launch plan that kicks off in a week.”

  The man in the back drums his fingers on the side of the car. “It still doesn’t sound like a slam dunk.”

  Logan starts to respond, but I turn in my seat before he can. “Slam dunks are for NBA players. The rest of us do the best we can. Logan and I are working our asses off. Did he make a mistake with that bet? Maybe. But we all make mistakes. We can all rise above them.”

  I’m not sure where the fierceness came from, but Monty blinks at me for a moment. “Fair enough.”

  After that, the three of us chat the rest of the drive. It’s like I passed a test.

  Monty indulges me with stories of them growing up. How they dive most weeks. Pranks Logan pulled over the years. But more than that, how they covered for each other.

  It makes me warm inside hearing how they had each other’s backs through school, dating, every mishap. And it makes me feel as if I’m part of a club. Deliberate or not, when they let me into Logan’s car and when Monty let me into this conversation, they let me into their relationship. I get to experience it. To be with people bonded together not by accomplishment, but by the fact that they care about one another and are loyal to the end.

  It’s beautiful.

  “You must’ve missed him when he left after school,” I comment.

  “I did,” Monty says. “If he leaves again, I’ll kick his ass.”

  I cut a look at Logan, who says, “Not planning to.”

  That makes me feel better and worse. Better because hearing that he’s planning to stick around New York long term makes my chest tighten with excitement. Worse because I can feel my expectations rise every second.

  When Logan stops and gets out at a gas station on Long Island, I shrink against the seat.

  "You okay up there?" Monty asks.

  "Great."

  "Bullshit." But there's no malice in it. "I’ll be straight with you. It's a Hunter party,” he says, mistaking my nerves for being solely about tonight’s event. “Everyone who's anyone will be there. You might make it into the style section."

  My jaw drops. "You're kidding."

  "I've been in it twice, which is a joke. One year I wanted to wear overalls just to see if they'd still take my picture. Hunter's mom had seersucker brought in in retaliation."

  I chew my lip, my gaze landing on Logan. He winks at me through the window, but it doesn't ease my nerves.

  "What do you want from him, Kendall?" Monty sounds genuinely curious.

  "Nothing," I reply softly as I watch Logan.

  "That's a shame. Because if he brings you home, he wants something from you."

  The house emerges from the distance. It's a beautiful colonial with ten windows along the front. I have time to count them all as we go up the gravel driveway.

  "It's all lies," Logan murmurs as he grabs my bag from the trunk.

  "What is?"

  "Whatever Monty told you."

  The man in question is already ambling up the steps to the house, looking at ease.

  I find a smile somewhere. "Noted."

  "We'll have fun. Promise." He kisses my hand before starting up the steps.

  "Are we meeting your family now?"

  "My father's still at work. My mom's running around. And my grandmother's busy. She'll be here later. We have an hour to get ready before the party."

  "I need it."

  He shows me to a room upstairs—our room for the weekend. The hardwood floor is beautiful, and sun streams through the huge window onto the four-poster bed. The walls are painted a dark blue that should feel oppressive but feels serene and masculine. Black-and-white photos hang at eye level, and when I get close, I realize they're of his family.

  I'm used to having to find my way, but usually that means surviving—for me, for Rory. There's nothing about survival here on Long Island. These are people who are thriving. Who're far from danger and poverty.

  It's ironic that in this strange place, Logan's the most familiar thing I have.

  "This was my room when I was a kid. It's been redecorated a little since."

  "I love it."

  "The en suite's there." He nods at a door next to the dresser.

  "Is there time to take a shower?"

  "Good idea."

  I meet his gaze, and the feeling of grunginess evaporates, replaced by desire. Oh boy.

  "You want to have sex in your parents’ house?" I whisper, thrilled and a little scandalized. I guess there are some innocent corners of my psyche that haven’t been exposed to light.

  Or whatever the sexual equivalent is.

  "We haven't seen each other for a week." His wicked grin follows me. “I’ve been jerking off from memory.”

  “Sounds terrible.” But the idea that this gorgeous man chooses to fantasize about me when he’s stroking himself still blows my mind.

  “It is,” he insists as we strip off each other's clothes. “I can’t remember whether you have seven or eight freckles on your right ass cheek.”

  My hands still on his jeans. “I don’t have freckles on my ass.”

  “You do. And they should be declared protected landmarks.” He kisses me, deep and hungry, and backs me into the shower.

  "How does this get better every time?" I pant against his neck, slippery from the spray.

  "Because we’re that good. And because every time, I realize a little bit more how incredible you are."

  Logan's serious gaze meets mine, and my chest cracks.

  I'm turned on and breathing hard, and so is he. I need him inside me yesterday, need to resolve this crazy-huge feeling of having and needing. But I realize, shocked, that I don’t only want the pleasure, the burning desire.

  I want him close to me. I want him to be a part of me.

  Our touches turn slow, and I don’t know who made the change first. But this isn’t fast and desperate.

  "We should finish this in the bedroom," he murmurs, dropping a kiss at the corner of my lips. Because the condoms are out there. “Unless…”

  “Unless what?” Water flicks off my lashes as I blink at him.

  He tosses his hair back, meeting my gaze. “I get tested regularly. Plus, I haven’t been with anyone since I met you.” His expression looks oddly vulnerable, as if he’s confessing something by telling me that.

  I've never gone without except with Blake.

  And that changed the course of my life.

  But Logan’s changing my life every day.

  The thought is terrifying, but it’s true.

  That’s why I frame his face with my hands when I say, "I'm on the pill."

  "Yeah?" I nod once, and he presses his slick body against mine on a groan.

  Logan claims my mouth, and I wrap my arms around him, losing myself in the feel and the scent and the slickness of him. I don’t realize what he’s doing until my legs are hitched up around his hips and he’s slipping inside me. My moan is lost in his mouth, my tongue tangling with his.

  The feel of him like this is unreal. I squeeze my eyes so hard they tear up, but the shower washes the tears away as Logan builds us both.

  It’s more intense than I thought possible. I’m not sure if it’s because we haven’t been together for a week, or because of this new closeness, or what it all means, but I can’t dwell on it because the sensations demand my attention. Logan and I cling to each other, grasping and groaning, until I’m coming, and I feel him shake inside me.

  After we get out of the shower, I kick him out of the bathroom so I can get ready.

  "Can I see the dress?" he calls through the door.

  "I'm doing my hair first. I want you to get the full effect."

  "Sounds promising." Noises tell me he’s getting ready too. "It means a lot to me that you came. I like seeing you here. All my favorite things are together."

  My heart skips. "Now all you need is a Cross.”

  "Oh, don't worry. I'll find one." I can hear his cocky grin as he leaves.

&n
bsp; My smile fades as I continue curling my hair.

  Because I wasn't entirely honest with Monty. I want something from Logan.

  I want everything he can give me. I just don’t know if I can have it.

  When I finally head out the door and down the hall, the house is transformed. There are well-dressed people everywhere. Easy smiles, drinks. Before my wedges hit the bottom step, a waiter with a tray of something fizzy finds me, and I accept one.

  It takes me a few minutes to locate Logan.

  I see him before he sees me, and damn, he's handsome. Button-down shirt and slacks. Dress shoes. As if he feels my stare, he turns. His smile freezes as he gives me a once-over.

  "You’re beautiful," he murmurs as I approach.

  My heart warms. "You too."

  I'm not sure how to act with him, but he bends down to brush a kiss over my cheek. Then he tugs at his pant leg to reveal a sock. “These meet your approval?”

  I bend down to take a look, realizing they’re little mountain climbers with the words “Time for Adventure” woven into the knit.

  I laugh in delight, some of my nerves falling away. “Logan, where did you even find these?”

  He shrugs. “I’m resourceful. And they seemed fitting given the occasion.”

  I blink, confused. “But you’ve been to this party for years. It can’t be an adventure.”

  “You’re the adventure, Kendall. We are.”

  The room suddenly feels too small, and what’s inside me is too big. I’m almost glad when we’re interrupted. Until I realize the tall, stylish woman approaching has Logan’s dark eyes and straight nose.

  Logan stops with his arm around my waist. "Mom, this is Kendall. She's helping me with a project."

  "For Hunter’s Cross?"

  "Not exactly. An extracurricular.”

  We exchange some pleasantries, and Logan’s mom is sweet. She’s clearly smart, which I can tell from the questions she asks when she finds out I’m in marketing too. But not in a judgmental way, as if she’s trying to trip me up. She seems curious and genuinely enjoying everything about this place, its people, and the conversation.

  "So, what kind of project are you helping Logan with?" she asks, smiling.

  I shoot him a warning look, but he's not going to say anything stupid. He wouldn't in front of his parents.