Page 76 of Wild Catch
His father’s face, normally very fair for someone who spent a lifetime under the sun, suddenly turns crimson. “You would?—”
Raising his voice, Logan cuts him off right away. “I will leave your suitcases with the concierge. I’m sure you can find a room at any of the resorts.” Then he walks around to me. “Let’s go, Rose.”
Logan offers me his hand and I take it, lacing my fingers between his and not looking back for a second.
CHAPTER26
LOGAN
Rose stomps ahead of me, her hands balled up at her sides. Her purse has some black leather tassels that jiggle far too happily with every step—jarring against her body language.
She’s absolutely fuming and I don’t blame her. What my parents said is despicable, just like they are.
And that’s my problem—I’m freaking exhausted. I knew they were going to muck this night up at some point, but I wish they had just shat on me and only on me.
I wish I had figured a better plan to keep Rosalina away from them, but telling them that she and I are only dating for publicity would’ve got them yapping even harder. And the next one to find out would’ve been their golden son, and then Lewis would have told the whole world.
The one who would’ve got the short end of that stick is Rose because that’s just how shitty the world is to women, whereas I’d have been labeled a team player, a business man or whatever.
I run both hands through my hair and tug, mulling over what I could’ve done differently. But the core of it is that I shouldn’t have gotten involved with Rose at all. I should’ve just let her figure out how to do her job without me. I need to learn my damn lesson and understand that the best thing I can do for other people is not get involved—to be alone—and that way no one else has to be subjected to my horrible family.
“Why are you standing all the way there?”
I lift my head. Rose watches me from the corner across the street, eyebrows tight and eyes still flashing thunder. She motions at me to follow her.
Swallowing hard, I check the street both ways and cross to join her. I squeeze my jaws tight, trying to not let her figure out that I’m freaking out, that breathing is starting to get harder and that my vision’s blurring.
The last damn thing I want is to have a panic attack in front of her.
Her angry eyes roam over my face. I use all my willpower to appear calm even as I struggle to breathe properly. “Follow me closely,” she says through gritted teeth, and I manage to jerk my face in a nod.
I focus on her hair. That’s it.
I know I should be more mindful of our surroundings because downtown at night can get dicey in areas, and I need to make sure she at least gets home physically safe. But all I can manage is to put one foot in front of another, breathe, and look at the one curl that cascades over the rest and bounces the most while she walks.
Every so often, she glances over her shoulder to make sure I’m following. I got the message, though, and I make sure the distance between us is reasonable.
Somehow that little curl is enough to keep me from the edge.
I finally snap out of it when she stops us at a red light and I have no choice but to stand beside her and take in my surroundings. We have approached the part of downtown with the most traffic, pedestrian and vehicular alike. Some guy on Rose’s other side is eying her funny and I make a point of staring at him until he realizes that she’s not alone.
After clearing my throat several times, I ask her, “Where are we going?”
“To eat,” she responds in what is basically a grunt.
“You’re angry… yet you can eat?” Every word comes out sluggish, almost like I’m drunk. If she notices it, she doesn’t remark on it.
Rather, her brow darkens even further. “Yes. Can’t you?”
“I can.” I stuff my hands in my pockets.
The light turns green and I follow her for another block until a food truck appears in the distance. I recognize the flag that decorates the signage at the top—there are plenty of Venezuelan players in the majors that I recognize it. In fact, last year’s MVP was the mega slugger Miguel Machado—Venezuelan. And so is Rose.
We approach the line and she asks, “You eat about three times what I eat, right?”
I travel back in time to the night we ate at my Korean spot and that math checks out. It’s kind of funny that she noticed. “Yeah,” I say, trailing the word off.
“Any allergies or intolerances?”
