Page 111 of Wild Catch
I need to be way less keyed up for this. Puffing my chest, I finally make my way out of the building and head over to him.
What was it that Lucky called it earlier? Skimpy? Because Logan’s in another of those outfits that are like catnip—a black muscle T-shirt that clings so tight to his body that I can even make out the shape of his belly button, black cargo pants with a little black pouch tied around his left thigh, and black combat boots. I’m sure he’d look great in other colors but goodness, the all black ensemble makes my knees buckle.
Somehow I manage to stand upright in front of him. “Hi.”
“Hey.” He tips his chin. I wish I could tell him to unfold his arms so all those muscles, the veins and the tats weren’t so in my face. It makes me want to lick them.
Clearing my throat, I start speaking. “Thank you for meeting me here. Er…”
He cocks one eyebrow but patiently waits for me to gather my wits, now that they’ve scattered all across the place at the sight of his incredible arms. But then I remember that the topic isn’t a fun one, and that I’m not supposed to haveanyfun with this man.
“Right, I’m just gonna cut to the chase.” I adopt his same posture, hoping it helps me brace myself. “You might have already seen this on your social media feeds, but you’ve gone viral again and this time it’s not good.”
“Is that so,” he says flatly, not as a question, and it doesn’t let me glean if he was already aware or not.
“Yes, someone recorded the altercation between you and your brother. The clip they published makes you look like the complete villain because there’s no further context. I’m…” I swallow hard but press on. “I’m thinking the whole thing might’ve been orchestrated. By your brother.”
For a second, all Logan does is hum from his throat like I’m just telling him about something that happened to the friend of a friend of a cousin.
“That wouldn’t surprise me.”
I frown. “Then why are you so calm?”
He shrugs those powerful shoulders of his. “Not my first rodeo with him.”
“So—” I splutter. “You’re fine with being dragged through the mud? With everybody talking shit about you like you’re some two-bit villain? With your reputation going down the drain overnight? Is that fine with you, Logan?” I’m only conscious of how my voice has risen when I stop yapping to catch my breath.
Even worse, he just stares at me calmly. His hair is damp from a shower and still drips on his muscle shirt, and I’d much rather look at that than into his all-seeing eyes.
“What’s it to you?” he asks in a quiet voice.
“Huh?” In contrast, mine is squeaky.
“Why do you care about what people say about me when even I don’t?”
I—I?—
Mierda.
He finally loosens his arms and puts his hands in his pockets. Then takes one step closer. I try to breathe deeper so I can get oxygen to my brain, desperately needing it to work, but that just brings that manly piney scent that clings to his skin into my lungs.
“Why do you care, Rose?” he repeats, looking down at me.
“I just—I just think it’s unfair, that’s all.”
“So you’d react the same way if this was happening to, say… Machado?”
I lift my chin. “Of course.” And that’s not entirely a lie. The current crop of Orlando Wild players is made out of pretty standup guys.
But it’s true that I don’t care about all of them the same way.
Logan’s eyes roam around my face, looking for a hint of that truth. My mind screams at my legs to run, to take me away from the danger I’ve put myself in. They stay rooted on the asphalt, though. The traitors know the feeling of being wrapped around Logan—on his bike, that is—and would rather do that again than run.
Wordlessly, Logan lifts his hand and carefully, as if the motion could hurt me, he slides a finger into one of my curls and tugs gently. And I feel it right down to my toes.
“You care about me,” he whispers, returning his hand back to his pocket. “Why?”
The one-word question snaps me out of the haze.
