Page 103 of Logan
Of course, she’s right.
I’ve been a coward, hiding behind my pride and my fear, letting my insecurities dictate my actions. But no more.
I’m Logan Fucking Valeur. I don’t give up. I don’t back down from a challenge. And I sure as hell don’t let the woman I want slip through my fingers without a fight.
I stand, nearly knocking over the tea table in my haste. “I have to go,” I say, my voice thrumming with newfound purpose.
Cora leaps to her feet, a grin splitting her face. “Yes! Go get her!” She pumps her fist in the air, her excitement palpable.
I lean down and press a quick, hard kiss on her cheek. “Thank you, Peanut. I owe you one.” I’m already moving toward the door, my mind racing ahead, plotting and planning.
“You owe me details!” she calls after me, laughter in her voice. “I want a full report!”
“You’ll be the first to know,” I promise, and then I’m out the door, my heart pounding, adrenaline singing in my veins.
I have a tuxedo to buy, a speech to prepare, and a woman to win.
And this time, I’m not taking no for an answer.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
SLOANE
Istare at my reflection in the mirror as I finish applying moisturizer, my lips twisting into a wry smile.
“It’s fine. I don’t care that he’s going to show up with that gorgeous blonde, and they’ll canoodle right in front of my face.” I narrow my eyes and scold my image.
Damn it, Sloane, stop thinking about him. You said you’d give Johnny a chance, so get The Sexy Dark Lord out of your thoughts.
Why did I agree to a date with Johnny? I think I made a mistake. I conjure up his image in my mind’s eye and try to summon the butterflies of excitement.
Nothing. Not even a damn flicker.
I bring up Logan’s image instead, and the butterflies erupt in full force, a riotous swarm in my stomach. Logan between my legs, his head buried in the apex of my thighs. Logan kissing me, his lips hot and demanding againstmine, his tongue plundering my mouth like he wants to devour me whole.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the traitorous thoughts. My body is clear about who it prefers, who it craves with every fiber of its being. But that choice doesn’t really exist.
A sharp knock at the door startles me, and I glance at the clock, my brow furrowing. Johnny isn’t supposed to pick me up for half an hour yet. Why is he so early?
I tie my robe around me and pad to the door. “Who is it?” I call out, my hand on the knob.
“I have a package for Sloan Harris,” a male voice responds, muffled through the wood. I open the door to find a uniformed delivery man holding a large box, an electronic clipboard in his other hand. I sign for the package.
He leaves with a nod, and I carry the box inside, peering at it. It’s smooth and unmarked, with no sender’s name or return address. How strange.
I set it on the coffee table and slit the tape with a nail, the flaps opening with a soft whoosh. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a swath of rich fabric wrapped in crinkly paper emblazoned with a familiar brand name.
My eyes widen.
Could it be that Johnny sent me a dress? He’s never done anything like that before, never been the grand gesture type.I did tell him I needed a dress.
With trembling fingers, I remove the wrapped garment and hold it up in front of me, the paper falling away to reveal a dress that steals my breath.
I recognize the designer’s name. It’s a couture piece, thekind you see celebrities wearing on the Oscar red carpet, the kind that costs more than my rent for a year.
I lay it on the sofa, stepping back to take it in. It’s golden, and the lining is a soft, shimmering flesh tone, the fabric cut in intricate geometric patterns that reveal tantalizing glimpses of skin.
A daring cutout adorns the chest, and a sky-high slit runs up the leg, promising to show off my curves to devastating effect. It’s sexy and daring, but thanks to the sophisticated, artful design, it’s not revealing or trashy.
