Page 13 of Logan
Treat her better
- ‘Send My Love (To Your New Lover)’ Adele
As I open my eyes, I feel like I have been hit by a truck. Actually, scratch that—multiple trucks, one after another, like the universe lined them up just for me.
The first truck goes by the name tequila. I love it, but the feeling is not mutual. It’s the kind of friend who shows up with promises of fun and ends the night by pushing you into traffic.
The second truck? Logan.
He blindsided me twice last night. First, going full macho man on the guy in the bar. Then, looking me dead in the eye and basically telling me I looked like a slut. As if that wasn’t enough, he made it clear I was not getting home without hisinvolvement, then kissed me and dropped a cryptic message in my lap like some half-solved puzzle.
My lips still tingle at the memory, a phantom sensation I wish I could shake. The kiss had that same pull it always did hot, urgent, and impossible to ignore.
The second the front door clicks shut behind me, I press my back against it like I need it to hold me up. My pulse is still racing, the ghost of his mouth on mine making my skin feel too tight.
What the hell just happened?
I came home tonight pissed off, humiliated, and determined to keep him out of my life. Then in the span of about thirty seconds, Logan Pearce had his hand on mine, pulled me in like he still had the right, and kissed me like no time had passed.
And God help me, I kissed him back.
For a moment, I forgot the years. Forgot the night he ripped my heart out and left me standing in the rain, trying to understand why the boy who swore he loved me suddenly didn’t. Forgot the months I spent rebuilding myself, piece by jagged piece.
My hand presses to my lips, still swollen from his. I hate that I can feel the difference between his kisses and anyone else’s. I hate that it still makes my stomach twist in a way that is equal parts want and warning.
I push off the door and drop my purse onto the small table in the hall, my movements sharper than they need to be. My heels click across the hardwood toward the kitchen, the sound too loud in the quiet house.
I pour a glass of water, take a long drink, and try to steady my breathing. He’s not allowed to do that anymore. He’s not allowed to make me feel like this.
And yet, I’m still standing here, tasting him.
“Get it together, Mac,” I whisper to myself, gripping the counter. “He’s not the boy you loved. He’s the man who let you go without an explanation. Remember that.”
But even as I say it, I know I’m lying to myself. Because the truth is, for the first time in ten years, I’m not sure if I want to run away from him or straight back into his arms.
‘Sometimes we do shit cause we have to, not cause we want to.’ What the hell was that even supposed to mean? Was he talking about the kiss? About us? Something else entirely? My brain tries to put the pieces together, but the more I think about it, the more scattered it feels.
I glance at my phone, my thumb hovering over the screen. The urge to text him is stupidly strong, though I have no idea what I would even say. One part of me wants to light him up for last night, for the way he swooped in like some unwanted hero. Another part, the one I don’t want to acknowledge, wants to know what that kiss meant.
Being with Logan Pearce once made me happier than I ever thought I could be. After I left, I tried dating. Tried moving on. But nothing ever felt right. No one made me feel even a fraction of what I felt with him. And that is exactly why I need to keep my distance.
My phone buzzes in my hand. Jena.
Jena:The hangover is real. What do you say to shopping and carb loading?
I laugh out loud, the sound breaking through the fog in my head. I really did miss her.
Me:Yes please! I’ll pick you up in an hour?
Jena:Sounds good!
I drag myself out of bed, into the shower, letting the hot water wash away as much of the tequila aftermath as it can. I focus on the rhythm of it hitting my skin, forcing away thoughts of Logan.
No matter how good that kiss felt, no matter how much my body betrayed me in that moment, I cannot let myself get tangled up with him again. He destroyed me once, and I’m not handing him the power to do it again.
I towel off and am halfway through pulling on jeans when my phone dings again.
I expect it to be Jena, maybe checking if I’m on time. She’s the type to get ready in fifteen minutes and then bounce around impatiently until it’s time to go.
