Page 70 of Hot Saltwater Kisses

“You do,” he cut in. “Youdo.”

I scoffed, my stomach fluttering thickly. “The hell I do. I told you about Michael, Logan. And you? Logan fuckingPrescott. What was this to you—a joke?”

“No.” He shook his head, and even just that hint of movement made me dizzy. “No joke, Milo. It couldn’t be further from that.”

“Funny way of showing it.” My derisive laugh fell flat. I circled him, ever closer, and Logan turned with me, arms by his side, voice heavy.

“I swear, Milo—I was going to tell you. I just needed to figure out first what to tell my family, find a way to make this work.” Logan flashed a careful smile, and Jesus, I wanted topunchhim.

“Stop.” Taste of grit on my tongue. “Stop fuckingtalking.”

“Please, Milo. Please just let me explain.”

“Don’t bother. We’re done.” I was right up in his space now, my fist raised. Poised to strike, only I was trembling, couldn’t put my weight behind it because God, I loved him. I loved him even though I shouldn’t.

Logan caught my wrist, his eyes wild. Everything ground to a halt for a fractured instant.

Then he jerked me into a desperate kiss. His mouth crashed into mine, hard and hungry, his hands tangling in my hair, points of pressure against my scalp. Sheer animal instinct had me melting into it, sinking into quicksand as my lips parted for him. Helpless to deny him.Helpless.

Logan swayed, halting. Then he surged forward, tumbling us bothonto the bed, covering me up and pulling me under. His half-buttoned shirt trailed over my arms, knee pressing down between my thighs. It was dark desperation, frantic, his hands gripping me too tightly, sure to bruise.

“We’re not done,” he whispered into my mouth. Repeated it like a litany. “We’re not done. We’re not.”

The scent of clean laundry rose from the sheets, white heat radiating in my bones and filling the empty space in my chest. Thoughts sluggish like a murky river in summer. Like I was underwater, fighting my way back to the surface.

I shoved him off.

He went without a fight, like he’d already given up. I rolled off the bed and stumbled to my feet. Jesus. He’d just—he’d taken advantage of my weakness. He must have sensed that I would fold right into him, and he’d used it against me. Just like Michael. Ruthless. Selfish.

Blinding anger pushed words to the very edge of my reach. “Do not fuckingtouchme.”

Logan flinched. He propped himself up on his elbows, spilled across the bed like a wet dream or a nightmare. Guilt was etched into every line of him, his eyes wide and shocked. “I’m sorry. I’msosorry, Milo.” His voice caught on my name. “Please,pleaselet me explain.”

No, thanks. I wasn’t doing this. I wouldn’t sit through a monologue about how he hadn’t meant to hurt me, about how his real identity had seemed like a footnote to this inconsequential fling we’d had. How sorry he was that I’d mistaken this for more than it was.Here, little boy—want some money for your trouble?

“Please.” Logan’s voice had grown see-through, translucent like a shattered promise. Something snagged in my mind, but I couldn’t grasp it. “Milo…”

Fuckno. He’d already broken my heart. I wasn’t hanging around so he could waltz all over its scattered pieces.

“It doesn’t matter,” I told him. “I don’t care anymore.” The words lodged in my throat like glass splinters because of course I did. “Just… stay the hell away from me, Logan.”

I made myself turn away, muscles liquid. Too much—this, him, allof it, and I needed to get out of here so I could think,breathe. I wrenched the door open and left, almost tripped on my way down the stairs, grabbing the railing to keep myself upright. Pressure built behind my eyes.Fuck this. I’m not gonna cry.

It was over. I had a suitcase to pack.

INTERLUDE: LOGAN

Oh God.

I dropped back onto the bed. The fan spun circles above me, my head spinning right along. Round and round. Out of control. Sunlight slanted through the half-open curtains and painted disorienting stripes on the walls. I was spiraling, spiraling.

This wasn’t… It wasn’tsupposedto go like this. I’d had a plan, and now it all just—fuck. Everything unraveling at warp speed, like a sweater that fell apart with one pull of a loose thread.

‘Stay the hell away from me, Logan.’

The ceiling swayed in front of my eyes, wooden beams threatening to tumble down and bury me whole. Maybe this was a bad dream. A cruel illusion conjured by guilt, subconscious punishment for diving ever deeper into an ocean of lies. Yeah. Any minute now I’d wake up, and it’d be morning, and Milo would be next to me. Not hating my guts.

Denial. That was the first stage of grief, right? Then anger, then… something. I couldn’t remember. Didn’t matter.

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