Page 29 of Snared Rider

I don’t know if Dad will care. It’s hard to know what will bother him and what won’t. Sometimes, I think he wishes I was a boy; being a girl complicates things, particularly when most of the time he treats me like the former anyway.

So, I’m keeping out of sight, out of mind; isn’t that the saying?

Logan moves to lean against the wall next to me and my breath stalls as his arm rubs against mine. It’s an accidental gesture, but it has my heart racing and heat flooding my body.

He nudges my shoulder with his in a move that is very deliberate and brings me out of my fog. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? You’ve been a moody cow all night.”

“I’m not moody,” I counter, even though I am. I didn’t want to come tonight, which makes me the worst person ever. If it was my birthday Mackenzie would be celebrating and forcing me to have a good time. Why I can’t just suck it up for one night and enjoy myself, I don’t know, but I’m not in the mood to party. And I’m not in the mood for a good reason.

The man standing next to me.

I’ve been watching him all night, joking with his sisters and giving Jem a hard time. He’s a hard man to miss, and not just because of his height and brawny frame. He’s beautiful. I never thought a man could be beautiful before Logan, but that is the only word to describe him. This close, I can’t help but slide a sidelong glance his way. As I do, my eyes zero in on the thick white jagged scar running through his right eyebrow. That scar is a reminder of the night we nearly lost him, the night we did lose his father.

But none of this is why I’ve been moody all night; I’m moody because of her.

Gwen fucking Holland—Logan’s latest girl.

He brought her tonight; I can’t believe he did. She’s sitting with Mary and Sofia, seemingly boring the Harlow matriarch to death, if her expression is anything to go by.

Gwen is like a fairy princess. She’s blonde, petite and bubbly. I’m none of these things. My hair is a dark brown and, as always, I’m wearing it in a messy top knot.

Her stunning jade coloured dress is poles apart from my ragged jeans and my plain vest top. The way Logan’s eyes keep heading in her direction it’s obvious he likes what she’s wearing, and this cuts me to the bone.

He smashes through my darkening thoughts with, “Well, fucking cheer up. Honestly, I can’t stand looking at your miserable face all night. You’re making me depressed.”

I smack him in the gut, receiving a satisfying grunt of pain from him. Ever since the boys hit puberty they’ve been so much bigger than me. It’s not often I can hurt them (not that I’m seriously trying to anyway).

“Then don’t look.” I pull my gaze from Gwen and focus on the label on my bottle, picking at the corner.

“It’s hard not to. You paint a sorry picture, darlin’.”

Darlin’.

This is a new term of endearment he’s started using with me and as much as I hate to admit it I love how it sounds. I love it so much I can almost ignore the fact he uses it with everyone, not just me.

“I’m just trying to enjoy a beer in peace, Logan.”

His arm goes around my shoulders, and I stop breathing as he pulls me into his side. I fit under his arm perfectly, like I was meant to be there. I let out a small noise that could have been a moan because it feels good. Too good.

Too bad it doesn’t mean anything.

“Whatever the question, beer is the answer,” he says philosophically.

I keep my emotions under control, which is difficult. I want him to see me as a prospective partner and not a child. I’m sixteen for god’s sake.

Somehow, I keep my voice level as I say, “I thought it was cake. Cake is the answer.”

He leans into me and I freeze. This close I can smell him and feel him. I can’t draw air as he presses a kiss to my hair. I melt under his lips and will him to move lower, to my mouth. Kissing Logan is a fantasy that keeps me awake most nights, but it will always remain just that: a fantasy.

But my brain doesn’t care this kiss means nothing, that it’s a brotherly gesture, not one made by a man who wants more. It goes into overdrive and I close my eyes, relishing the touch, imagining so much more is happening than a chaste kiss.

And I want more.

I’ll always want more from him; I’ll never have it though, and that makes this whole situation torture.

“It’s beer, darlin’. Trust me.”

I open my mouth to argue back when Slade’s voice yells over the music, “Hey, prospect!”

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