Page 99 of Tips and Trysts

He groans so loudly that it nearly startles me.

“Good boy,” I whisper, stroking his inner thigh and caressing his muscular body until I feel the newly formed goosebumps on his skin subside under my touch. “Relax for me—yeah.” When the tension in his hole eases, I push again. My fingertips penetrate him an inch, and I stop there. “Still with me?”

One of Everett’s hands is tangled in his dark hair and the other is gripping my wrist. “I could take more.”

Adorable. “You want to be brave for me, baby?”

He nods, and the temptation to take things further is certainly there. But instead, I draw my fingers back and press a kiss on hisknee before guiding his leg to the mattress. It’s enough for his first time.

When I lay next to Everett, he pulls me into his arms and kisses me.

“My father apologized for last night,” he mentions moments later. “He still wants me to come by to prep for the Rutherson interview next week.”

Skeptical doesn’t even begin to cover my reaction. “Do you believe him?”

“Do I believe he’s fine with us? No. Do I think I’m more useful to him as an asset rather than a liability? Absolutely.”

“Well, be careful,” I murmur.

“Logan men are unpredictable,” Everett replies, exhaling. “I’m always careful.”

Thirty-Four

EVERETT

Regina Rutherson’s studio iscold. In the green room, the AC is on full blast to counter the District’s summer humidity, and after half an hour, the inevitable heat of the studio lights becomes my north star. I text Cora about it. She responds with a euphemism-laced series of emojis about her plans for me tonight, and the room miraculously feels a few degrees hotter.

“Evening, son,” my father says as he strolls into the green room.

…And we’re back to freezing.

I rise from the green room’s shabby gray couch to greet him, partially because he expects it, but primarily because I’m four inches taller than him and I like to remind him whenever possible.

As usual, Beverly isn’t far behind, but when she enters, she stops in her tracks. “Oh,” she mutters. “You’re already here.”

“Evening,” I say, bobbing my chin at her before I face my father. “Dad.”

He pulls me into one of his typical hugs, patting my back with the flat of his palm. I doubt he’s ever noticed, but I never hug him back.

After he pulls away, he adjusts my tie. “You didn’t bring her.”

I temper my expression, but my eyes nearly narrow. My father and I have spoken every day this week in preparation for this interview. I even drove to Richmond to prepare in-person. Not once did he mention Cora—until now.

“Why would I bring her around you?” is my honest response.

My father’s eyes lock on mine. They’re the same shade of green but smaller. Beadier. He leans in, glaring. “You’re going to be excellent today,” he states, barely opening his mouth, hushed just above a whisper. “Regina Rutherson will take any weakness you show and run with it. You arenotgoing to let me down today, son.”

A threat veiled as encouragement is a Warren E. Logan specialty. Accordingly, my response is an Everett C. Logan specialty: a lie. “You’re well aware I have no weaknesses.”

My father notches his eyebrow. “I’m running for Senate. This is not some piddling, local, non-voting representative role. I will be asenator. Tell me you understand the gravity of the situation, Everett.”

I force myself to mask my surprise. My father is careful. This light admonishment is the closest he’s ever gotten to reprimanding me outright.

“I understand.”

My father releases an exhale before straightening my tie. “Good boy,” he mutters before patting his fingertips against my cheek—gentle on the first one, vindictively sharp on the second.

I clench my jaw to absorb the sting of the slap, gritting my teeth to keep from reacting. My cheek throbs against the blast of cold air from the AC, but I refuse to let him see it. Luckily for me, my father doesn’t stay to admire his handiwork. He strides outof the green room, leaving me alone with Beverly, who parts her lips but doesn’t speak.

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