Page 117 of Snared Rider

“Are you cut up about it?”

Now, why in the hell did I ask that?

Annoyingly, I’m curious about his answer and I can’t stop from sliding a sidelong glance at him. What I see surprises me: he looks upset.

“Seeing you hurt, lying in that fucking hospital bed was the worst feeling I’ve ever had.”

Hmm.

I don’t know what to do with that. What I do know is I need to shut down this little heart-to-heart session immediately.

“You don’t need to stay; I really don’t need drinking company,” I tell him.

“Whether you need it or not, you’ve got it. You’ve always got me, B.”

Shit. Fuck. Bollocks.

His words hit me right in the feels. I will myself to sober up because drunk I have no defences against him. But I’m well and truly intoxicated, and nothing short of a miracle (or a gastric lavage) will help here.

“So, let’s deal with the second point: I know you like your job, love, but it is just that—a job.”

This annoys me. Late nights, working weekends, not taking holidays in months; I grafted to get where I am. He doesn’t have a clue about the sacrifices I’ve made over the years.

“A job I worked hard to get and keep,” I snap at him.

“That I don’t doubt; you’ve always worked hard, but Beth, it is just a job. I don’t know anyone who lay on their death bed wishing they’d given more to work.”

This is probably true but no less irritating. “What would you know about working hard?”

My words hit a nerve because his jaw clamps impossibly tight.

“You think I haven’t had to work hard to get to where I am? That I didn’t have to prove myself to Derek, to Slade, to your father and Tap and all the other fucking brothers in the Club?”

“You’re a Harlow and male,” I say, offering no other explanation. I don’t need to because Logan gets it.

“Yeah, and having that name isn’t exactly a boon, Beth. The reputation I had to live up to… especially after my dad died.” He shakes his head. “I sacrificed more than you’ll ever be aware of. Fuck me, I wasn’t handed this patch because I’m a Harlow, sweetheart,” he says this in a way that tells me I’ve insulted him, which I definitely have. “I earned it. More than earned it. I showed my mettle and I proved my worth.” He stares at me. What he’s trying to see I don’t know, but then he growls, “You’re so fucking busy feeling sorry for yourself you can’t see what’s in front of you, can you?”

“And what’s in front of me, Logan?”

“A chance.”

“A chance?”

“Yeah, a chance. I let you go so you could find happy but looking at you there’s fuck all happy about you.”

This is true, but not something I need my ex-boyfriend to point out. Particularly given he is part of the reason I’m not running around, wind in my hair, singing.

“Well, as I explained with the five finger thing, it’s been a rough ride since I got here.”

“No, darlin’, even before that. I don’t think you’ve been happy a day since you left Kingsley.”

Yeah, and whose fault is that?

I don’t say this because I told him I would ‘let things go’.

“I’ve been happy,” is my oh so fantastic comeback, but thinking about it I can’t pinpoint a single happy memory in the past decade. This is as sobering as it is depressing.

“Sure you have.” He lifts his legs so his knees are near his chest, his hands draped over them. “You know, life’s short, so short. It can be taken from you in an instant. You can’t settle for second best. I want you with me, Beth, but mostly I just want you happy, and I don’t think you are in London. If you’re being honest with yourself, I think you would see that, too.”

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