Page 22 of Pure Bred

I close my eyes, savoring the warmth of the kiss he presses to my neck. “It’s more than all right, cowboy,” I murmur, desire shimmering through me.

Logan and I spend the first twenty-four hours of his visit holed up in my bedroom, making up for lost time. It’s intoxicating to have him here in person instead of just a voice on the phone. I savor the weight of his body on mine, the taste of his skin, the way he growls my name as he drives into me.

When we finally emerge, disheveled and starving, I suggest we head to one of my favorite spots for dinner. It’s a tiny Italian place tucked away in a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of LA, where the owners know me and respect my privacy.

Forty minutes later, we’re sliding into a cozy booth at the restaurant. Logan looks adorably out of place in his flannel shirt, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care, and I love that about him.

“What’s good here?” he asks, scanning the menu.

I lean in, pointing out my favorites. “The gnocchi is to die for. Oh, and you have to try their tiramisu.”

We order, and then we fall into easy conversation. It feels so natural, like we’re picking up right where we left off when wewere in Eagle Falls. The ease of it all gives me hope that this really could work out after all.

Logan is in the middle of telling me about his and his dad’s spring plans for the ranch when I notice movement outside the window. My stomach drops when I see a man with a camera crouched behind a parked car, his lens pointed directly at us.

“Sierra?” Logan says. “You okay?”

I force a smile, trying to act normal. “It’s nothing. There’s just a paparazzo outside.”

Logan’s eyes flick to the window, his brows dipping as he spots the photographer. His jaw tightens, and his whole expression turns protective.

“What do you want to do about it?” he asks, voice low and controlled.

I sigh. “It’s best to just ignore them. Hopefully he’ll get bored and leave.”

I try to steer our conversation back to what we were talking about before. But I can feel the pap’s lens on us, intruding on our private moment. And Logan’s responses become shorter, his eyes darting to the window more frequently. He can tell I’m annoyed, despite my attempts to hide it.

Suddenly, Logan stands up.

“What are you doing?” I ask, alarmed.

“I’ll be right back,” he says gruffly, striding toward the exit.

My heart races as I watch him approach the paparazzo. What is he thinking? These guys never back down, no matter how muchyou ask. I’ve tried reasoning with them before, but they always insist they have a right to be there.

Outside, Logan towers over the photographer. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but his body language is calm yet assertive. To my utter amazement, after a brief exchange, the paparazzo actually retreats. He packs up his camera and walks away, just like that.

I stare, open-mouthed, as Logan returns to our table. He slides back into his seat like nothing happened.

“How did you do that?” I ask, incredulous. “They never leave when I ask them to.”

“I just told him the truth. That he was ruining a special moment for two people who don’t get to see each other often. Asked him how he’d feel if someone did that to him.”

I blink, surprised by the simplicity of it. “And that worked?”

He shrugs. “Guess so. Maybe he just needed a reminder that we’re all human.”

“Well, that settles it,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m never letting you go back to Montana. I need you here full-time to chase away the paparazzi.”

Logan laughs. “I don’t think the horses would appreciate that very much.”

We finish our meal, savoring both the food and the renewed privacy. As we head back to my place, Logan leans forward to speak to my driver.

“Mind if we make a quick stop?”

I raise an eyebrow at Logan, but he doesn’t give anything away. A few minutes later, he hops out of the SUV, leaving me curiousand slightly confused. When he returns, he’s holding a gorgeous bouquet of flowers.

“What’s this?” I ask, taking them from him. Their sweet scent fills the car.

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