AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I don’t bother trying to mask the anger in my voice. “I am not a toy to be shared or fought over. Not by you. Not by Aaron. Not by Logan. And the thing is—Logan knows that. He wouldnevertreat me this way.”
Again, Dad blows right by my protests, and the thing is, I’m so used to it, I don’t even flinch. I just keep leaning back in my about-to-break chair, wishing I could end this call. Wishing that ending this call would end this dynamic. But I know better.
“There will be a number of single women in attendance,” Dad goes on. “From whatI’veread, Logan seems to enjoy their company very, very much.”
The only thing worse than having to see Logan linked with women in the press over the years is to hear my father discuss it.
And whether it’s the jealousy burning through me like a stream of liquid fire in my veins or the need to wiggle out from my father’s grasp, I find myself clenching the arm of my chair and squeezing my eyes closed.
“Dad, I am not interested in dancing or anything else with Aaron. And Logan is not interested in the buffet of single women you’re planning to parade before him.”
“This way, everyone wins,” Dad says, like he heard nothing I just said. He probably didn’t. His ears are all clogged up with ego-wax. “You get to have your little rebellion date and I get to keep the Wagners satisfied.”
“No,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Why not?” I repeat, my voice pitching higher. Too high. But there’s no calming down. I’m burning with an indignant rage. “Why notis because Logan isn’t just coming as my date.Definitelynot a rebellion date. He’s coming as my boyfriend.”
Well, now I’ve done it. I’ve shocked Don Douglas into silence. A silence so thick I finally open my eyes to make sure the phone call hasn’t dropped.
Only, when my lids part and my eyes adjust, the very first thing I see is Logan leaning in the doorway.
Cold replaces the hot fire in my veins from moments ago. I am an ice sculpture, frozen solid in my uncomfortable office chair.
How much did he hear?How. Much. Did. He. Hear?
I jab the red button to end the call.
Then, slowly, I lift my eyes from my phone.
My gaze skims over my sticky-note-covered desk to Logan’s arms, crossed over his chest. Up his thick neck, shaved close with barely a shadow of stubble. Past the scar leading from his chin to his firm, unsmiling mouth.
I swallow before I glance over the slightly crooked nose—broken multiple times but fixed by good doctors—and finally, finally meet his eyes.
A cool green, the color of tropical seas tinged with sunlight, not the deep, rich green of fields or leaves.
I could play this off as a joke or make light of it. I could ask Logan how much he heard or just lay it all out there and explain how I’m still—as a twenty-something adult woman—a woman struggling to escape from underneath her father’s controlling hand.
Instead, I just stare, losing myself in his cool, green eyes.
Until Logan raises one brow and speaks first. “Sounds like I got an upgrade. From fake date to fake boyfriend.”
I groan and drop my head in my hands. “I didn’t mean to throw you under the bus, Logan.”
“In this analogy, are you the bus?”
I snort. “My father is always,alwaysthe bus.”
“Oh, I remember very well.”
I hear a shift, and without looking up, know Logan has taken the seat across the desk. I peek at him through my fingers. His elbows are propped on his knees, as he leans forward, hands clasped and his gaze pinned on me.
“What do you need from me?” he asks.
I blink. “What?”
Unlike Logan, whose emotions are kept in the equivalent of a mob boss’s bank vault, mine are always right out there in front, flashing like a billboard in Times Square.
