Page 34 of Off the Ice

Logan met me just outside the venue, stepping out of a sleek black SUV that looked like it cost more than my annual salary. He was dressed to kill in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, the lines of the fabric emphasizing every inch of his infuriatingly fit frame.

His gaze raked over me as I stepped onto the sidewalk, his smirk widening. “Great choice.”

“Funny,” I shot back, smoothing the fabric of my gown. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

He held out his arm, and I looped mine through his reluctantly, ignoring the flutter in my chest as we walked inside.

This was a job, and we were fake. I reminded myself.

Nothing more.

The tables were draped in deep navy linens, each adorned with sleek silver vases filled with white lilies and sprigs of eucalyptus, their minimalist elegance mirroring the sophistication of the crowd. A live quartet played softly from a corner of the room, their music weaving seamlessly into the hum of conversation and the delicate clinking of champagne flutes. Every detail seemed meticulously crafted, a testament to the balance of opulence and purpose the evening sought to achieve.

The room was alive with Chicago’s elite, prominent business figures, influential politicians, and even a handful of celebrities who glided through the space with practiced ease. Logan thrived in this environment, moving effortlessly from one conversation to the next, his charisma drawing people in like a magnet. I stayed at his side, offering polite smiles and carefully chosen words, but each interaction felt like walking a tightrope, the pressure to maintain appearances never far from my mind.

We’d just settled at our table when it happened. A woman I vaguely recognized, she worked for a local tabloid—cornered me near the champagne fountain.

“You’re Ava Carlisle, right?” she asked, her tone sharp. Her auburn hair was pulled into an impossibly tight bun, and her eyes gleamed with something close to malice.

“That’s me,” I replied, keeping my voice neutral.

“Your pieces on the Hellblades have been... interesting,” she said, her words dripping with insinuation. “But you’ve been curiously silent on the betting allegations. Any comment on why that is?”

My stomach dropped. “I report what I can verify, facts only” I said evenly. “Speculation isn’t my style.”

Her smirk deepened, as if she’d been waiting for that response. “Or maybe you’re too close to your source. Bennett’s got quite the reputation, think that’s clouding your judgment?”

Heat crept up my neck, but before I could respond, Logan appeared beside me like a shadow, his hand resting lightly on my back.

“Everything alright here?” he asked, his tone calm but laced with warning.

“Just having a little chat,” the reporter said, though her expression faltered slightly under his gaze.

Logan’s smile was all teeth, sharp and dangerous. “If you’re looking for gossip, might I suggest the dessert table? They’re serving some excellent crème brûlée.”

The woman’s lips thinned, but she stepped back, clearly not wanting to take him on. Logan waited until she disappeared into the crowd before turning to me, his eyes scanning my face.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice softer now.

I nodded, though my heart was still racing. “Thanks for that.”

“Anytime,” he said, his hand lingering on my back a second longer than necessary before dropping away.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Logan was his usual charismatic self, charming everyone from the mayor to the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. But every now and then, I caught him glancing my way, his gaze unreadable.

As we left the gala, a heavy tension lingered between us. I was grateful for Logan stepping in, but his intervention left me feeling exposed, like he’d seen something I wasn’t ready to face—not with him, not with myself. By the time we reached his SUV, the weight of the night was palpable. Logan’s expression was unreadable as he opened the door, and I slid inside.

He climbed in, shutting the door with more force than necessary, and exhaled sharply. “Alright, enough of this.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Enough of what?”

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala venue through the rearview mirror. “The small talk, the fake smiles, the overpriced champagne. I’m done.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You realize you’re the one who dragged me here, right?”

“Yeah, and now I’m dragging you somewhere better.”

He grinned, suddenly looking more like the Logan I’d met at the bar weeks ago—irreverent, spontaneous, and maddeningly charming.

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