Текст книги "She: Part 2"
Автор книги: Annabel Fanning
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
My legs are wrapped tightly around his waist, but as he continues thrusting into me, he reaches around and unhooks them, instead pushing my knees up towards my chest. The result is that I feel him deeper still and I call out loudly and repeatedly as he picks up the pace.
“Logan,” I moan. “Don’t drop me.” If he does I’ll end up with a broken coccyx.
“Never, baby,” he pants, before screwing up his face in primal, carnal enjoyment. “Ah, Gemima,” he cries.
The feel of him, the sight of him, and the sound of him are overwhelming. Anyone of those three things would be enough to bring me to orgasm, but all three of them combined sends me to the edge of the precipice in under a minute. As we both teeter, so close to release, Logan speeds up, thrusting into me so fast, his face buried into my neck, his groans muffled, as I tilt my head back, mewling effusively.
“Baby…baby!” I cry, my voice shrill.
My legs start trembling when I hear it: that fucking ping of the elevator!
Not again, my mind screams.
Logan hears it too, instantly freezing in his actions, which leaves both of our bodies shaking profusely, protesting against the sudden stop in movement. We’re too far around the corner to be seen or to see who the intruders are, but they make themselves known quickly.
“Do you suppose they’re still asleep?” Mary-Gene says.
“They’re probably in the shower,” Rupert replies.
“The shower,” Logan pants. “What a good idea.” He releases his hold on my legs, which I’m quick to wrap around him once more, as he pulls me away from the window and, still joined, we hurry back into the bathroom, me throwing the door closed behind us.
Stopping would be the right thing to do, wouldn’t it, I think. Calling it quits, and going out to say good morning to his parents would be our best option. But we do not, we cannot. Logan turns on the shower, but it’s just for noise, just for distraction. We end up where we started, me nestled on the edge of the vanity, my legs wide and Logan standing between them. There’s just one difference – he’s buried inside of me.
“We should stop,” I say to him, my breathing extremely ragged.
“Of course,” he agrees.
Neither of us makes a move to end our union, neither of us really wants it to end. Logan pulses inside of me, each infinitesimal movement pushing me that little bit closer to orgasm. So close. But my body is so full of tension, far more than yesterday when Mercy nearly sprung me, that I don’t know if I even can come anymore. Logan looks down at me impassively, and all I know is that I want to try.
My hands return to his backside and I squeeze him. Half a second later he thrusts deeper into me and I whimper in ecstasy. OK, this’ll be easier than I thought, I realise quickly.
Logan’s mouth swoops down over mine. “We’ve gotta be quiet, baby,” he breathes, and I nod, silently promising him that I’ll do the best that I can.
I rest back on my hands, letting my head hang back as he starts taking me once more. Oh, fuck! How can I stay silent when I’m feeling this good? My breathing is so erratic and grows even more so as I inch closer to my release. Ah, Logan! Keeping everything so pent up makes me feel like I might pass out, but I don’t, I stay with it until my legs are shaking.
“Logan, hurry up,” his mother calls from the other side of the door.
I’m sure in hindsight I’ll find this funny, I tell myself vaguely, but right now I can’t. I’m too filled with adrenalin.
“Coming,” Logan calls back, as casually as his voice allows him.
“Bad, bad, bad choice of word,” I whisper to him.
He laughs into my mouth, his hips working furiously against mine. “Ladies first, Gemima,” he whispers back.
His words undo me. Inside, I tighten spectacularly around him, causing him to buck forward, his body shaking violently as he’s coaxed into coming. Pleasure surges through every cell of my body as my orgasm claims me, and I let out a silent scream, releasing all of my pent up energy as I quiver on the vanity.
Breathing heavily, Logan leans forward to kiss me, looking supremely satisfied. He then pulls out of me and stands under the shower for all of five seconds, just to give his parents the illusion that that’s what he’s been doing. His body twitches as he washes himself clean, his penis still so sensitive.
I watch him in awe, as my breathing slowly regulates. I’m exactly where he left me, legs spread and leaning back. Logan looks through the water rushing down his face and smiles at the sight of me. I love that we have exactly the same reactions to one another, we really are just as bad as each other.
Stepping out of the shower, Logan kisses me again, smiling, “Thank you for climaxing quietly in front of my parents.”
I crack up, bursting into laughter, ridding my body of even more tension. “You’re…you’re so welcome,” I stammer.
“Take your time, baby,” he says, walking towards the door and pulling a bathrobe from the back of it.
Before stepping outside he waits for me to leave my station and step into the shower, just in case someone is lingering on the other side of the door and might see me. Fortunately, no one’s there. Logan disappears to play host, and I stand, fully sated, under a torrent of warm water.
* * *
Five minutes later I walk into the living room fully dressed. Despite Logan’s words, I’ve never showered and dressed so quickly in my life. My manners won’t let me keep his parents waiting, though it’s not just his parents who are here.
Around the dining table with a steaming cup of coffee apiece, sits Logan, his parents, and his brother. Suddenly nerves fill me. The infamous Taylor George is in the building. I hurry through the living room, comically dodging the sofas and the chimney flume, and stumbling over the length of my pantsuit, whose legs are too long for me when I don’t have my heels on, in order to reach them quickly.
All three men stand when I approach the table, taking me by surprise, though the look on Mary-Gene’s face tells me that this is normal behaviour. They’re southern gentlemen, I remind myself.
“Good morning,” I smile at his parents.
“Gemima,” Rupert nods in greeting.
“G’morning darlin’,” Mary-Gene beams at me.
Any minor suspicions lurking in the back of my head that Logan and I were overheard are eradicated as I take in her joy at seeing me. However, I immediately note that I don’t like housing this sort of suspicion, it’s embarrassing, and yet there have been three incidences in the last twenty-four hours to cause it. We should cool our fire, I think, turning to face Logan and his brother, but taking in the sight of him in that bathrobe I know instantly that that will be a lost cause. I can’t cool the flames of desire that I constantly feel for him, nor do I want to.
I instinctively take ahold of Logan’s hand as he steps to the side slightly, so that I can access Taylor. It’s remarkable how similar they look, despite their age difference. They have the same colour hair, the same shape of face, and the same tall, broad structure, but regardless of these similar features there is something quite great that sets them poles apart: their eyes. It’s not their colour – Taylor’s are a very dark, forest green – but the way they stare out of them that makes the brothers different. Just like Logan told me, Taylor looks dissatisfied, pissed off, like he’d really rather be somewhere else. He surveys me with a mixture of disdain and curiosity, as if both wondering who his brother’s new girlfriend is, while also looking like he doesn’t give a fuck. I abruptly realise that I could be royalty and Taylor would still look down on me, like he is right now, simply because I choose to be with Logan.
Buddy’s words ring through my head about he and I being allies against Taylor and his lack of respect of Logan. I haven’t even said a word to him, and yet I already feel like Buddy will be right.
“Hello, Taylor,” I force myself to say, holding out my hand, a polite smile slapped across my face.
“Gemima,” he nods like his father, smiling back, though his smile doesn’t reach his eyes; not like Logan’s does. He shakes my hand, “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too. How’re your family? Where are your family?” I add.
“Still asleep, we got in very late,” he reminds me.
Everyone sits down, Logan pulling me naturally onto his lap. It doesn’t escape my attention that he shifts me to rest on the knee that’s furthest away from Taylor. He’s not aware of doing it; at least, not consciously.
“You look nice,” Logan mutters into my ear, his chin on my shoulder, his eyes roving my outfit, my favourite pantsuit.
“Thanks, baby,” I say, kissing his cheek. “How’re you this morning?” I ask his parents, taking a sip of Logan’s coffee.
“Ready and raring to go,” Mary-Gene tells me. “We’ve just popped in to say happy birthday. We can’t stay long,” she adds hastily, “I want to be at the Louvre when it opens.”
“For your fifth visit?” Logan teases her.
“Our ninth,” Rupert sighs, less than enthused by the idea.
“It’s only for a few hours, Rupey,” she tuts, “then we’re meeting you for lunch, right, sweetheart?” she checks with Logan.
“Yes, twelve-thirty. Are you joining us?” he asks Taylor.
“Sure,” he nods again. “They should be awake by then,” he says, throwing a look across the road at the hotel, where he’d obviously rather be.
“Gemima, you’ll be there?” Rupert assumes.
“I’d love to be, but I have to work this lunchtime,” I say regretfully. And spying the clock in the kitchen, I realise that I have to leave immediately to avoid being late.
I say a rueful goodbye to Logan and his family. This is the only flip side of our impassioned morning – running late for work is fast becoming my daily routine, though I tell myself if I’m going to get fired, there’s literally no better way to go about it.
Today more than other days, however, I have other cause for being in trouble with Amélie given that I didn’t complete the project report last night, which I’m sure she’ll be anticipating I hand in first thing.
This results in me spending the entire morning trying to blend in with the office furniture in case Amélie should walk by, and whenever I get that distinct feeling of her presence nearby I pick up the phone and pretend to be listening to a client speak. My fear of her legendary tantrums is sad, I know, but it’s also very real. At lunchtime, I rush out of the building with my laptop underarm, feeling so preoccupied that I nearly get rundown by a bevy of tourists on Segways.
I hide myself away in the back corner of a nearby cafe to finish the report. After about ten minutes of minimal progress, I spot Rosita, Amélie’s personal assistant, standing at the service counter and it’s only after I’ve ducked low in my corner booth that I realise how completely ridiculous I am being. Stop it, I chide myself, straightening back up. Nobody likes a scaredy-cat, Gemima.
Pushing my fear of Amélie to one side, the next ten minutes are very productive, and I’m almost finished when my phone vibrates on the table, distracting me. It’s a photo message from Logan. I tap it and impatiently wait for it to load.
Underneath it reads:
*Lunch with my family.*
The photo becomes clear and I can’t help cooing, “Aww!”
The six of them – Logan, Mary-Gene, Rupert, Taylor, and his family are seated around a table in what looks like a lovely courtyard cafe, smiling for the camera. I study them as a whole. Jeez, they’re a good-looking family. My eyes linger on Taylor for a moment; the only person whose smile, again, looks insincere, which sends a flicker of annoyance through me. Then Logan steals my attention, his eyes shining as he conveys absolute delight in lunching with his family on his birthday. His smile brings out my own, and I find myself zooming in on the photo to focus solely on him. He’s so gorgeous, so effortlessly sexy, and so genuine in his happiness. This morning he told me that my inhibition is inspiring; well, so too is his free-flowing charisma. The joy he exudes, at all times, is contagious, infectious, and I’ve never been happier to be contaminated.
Another photo arrives, this time of him and his niece. Oh my! For some inexplicable reason his sexiness increases tenfold. The accompanying message reads:
*This is Abby. She says she’s the most excited to meet you.*
Then another message comes in, saying:
*Mom told me to send the pic of my niece and I. She’d seemed to think you’d enjoy it, saying something about women liking pictures of “men and babies”…?*
I laugh out loud. I can definitely get on board with the way his mother thinks. I type back:
*You have such a beautiful family, Logan! Please tell Abby that I can’t wait to meet her as well, and MG is 100% on the money ;)*
*Ha! Really? Men and babies?*
Stealing his line from the other night, I respond:
*It’s just biology, baby.*
Studying the photo of him and his niece again, I notice that his outfit is incomplete.
*There’s one thing missing.*
*Yes. You.*
I smile at his words.
*I was going to say your birthday badge. Get. It. On.*
Over the next half an hour I somehow manage to get the terrace report completed while simultaneously texting back and forth with Logan.
Once back at the office I find Amber’s present waiting for me on my desk. After giving it a quick once over, I hide it in my bag and return to work, putting the photographs that Mercy took, and my report, onto a USB stick and triple check that there’s nothing else on there as well. It’s not like I have a stash of nude photos or dirty movies to hide, but paranoia still gets to me. I check once more for good measure and then set off to find Amélie, stumbling across her sooner than I anticipated as she vacates a meeting room.
“Mrs. Clémence?” I get her attention.
She comes to a stop in front of me. I hold out the USB stick, and while most people would automatically reach out and take what is being offered to them, Amélie Clémence does not.
She looks at it, registers what it is, and then wants to know, “What’s on there?”
“The report on the roof terrace I instated yesterday. Logan’s roof terrace,” I add. Please don’t be mad that I didn’t hand it in first thing, I plead in my mind.
Finally she takes the USB from me. “You had a week to hand this in,” she says, looking impressed. I blanch. A week? “Did I forget to tell you that?” she asks innocently.
Yes! Yes, you fucking did! I try to keep my annoyance out of my voice. “Oh well,” I say tightly, “it’s done now.” Dammit, I could’ve had lunch with Logan after all!
“Very good, Miss. Samuels. I will survey this with great interest, and will let you know my thoughts.”
Of course you will, I think, my mood now sour.
Annoyance remains my constant companion throughout the whole afternoon, until I’m called to see Amélie an hour before the end of the day. I assume she wants to give me her feedback, and sure enough when I enter her office I’m quick to notice that my USB stick is sticking out of the side of her computer; she’s looked at what I’ve put together for her.
“Sit, Gemima,” she says, not bothering to introduce me to the only other person in the room, a grey haired man in a matching grey suit, who leans against her desk without saying a word.
My irritation towards her trumps any nerves that are stirring. I know that no matter what she says about my design and execution of it, I’m happy with it and more importantly, Logan loves it.
“What can I do for you, Amélie?” I ask cordially.
She slides three project files across the table towards me. “I’ve personally put together these three project briefs,” she tells me as I pick them up and glance inside each of them. They’re all for landscape design. “You wrote on your resume that you draw in your free time, is that true?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “When I have free time,” I add, hoping that she’ll take the hint that I have no free time these days, now that I’ve got a delicious boyfriend to keep me occupied.
“Good,” she says, not taking the hint at all. “I would like you to study each of these briefs like you would any real project and present to me two designs for each of them.”
OK, that’s standard, I think, except for the fact that the Pierson Group doesn’t do landscape design. And what does she mean like any real project?
“You’ll have two weeks to hand all of them in. And your current workload must not suffer or be neglected in anyway. Understood?”
“Uh… Yes. And no. This company doesn’t do landscape design,” I remind her.
“That’s astute of you to notice,” the stranger in the room pipes up.
I glare at him with attitude. Excuse me? “If you’re going to get sassy with me, at least have the decency to introduce yourself first,” I snap at him.
Amélie’s eyes widen in shock; it’s a look that I’ve never seen on her face before. The man stares back at me, looking amused, which only irritates me further. Who is he? Amélie’s husband, perhaps? Why’s he in here?
My words silence him, and I turn my gaze onto Amélie once more, waiting for her to answer my question.
She doesn’t.
Instead, I ask, “Why would I do this if they aren’t real projects?”
“Because I’m asking you to,” she says curtly.
“Why are you asking me to give up my free time to do this?” I ask as politely as I can.
She surveys me for a moment, and I do not break under her harrowing glare. Somewhere throughout the day I’ve found my backbone, and I find that sitting across from her like this doesn’t intimidate me nearly as much as I previously thought it would. She’s perfectly capable of answering my questions, and I’m perfectly entitled to ask them. I won’t let her make me feel otherwise.
Finally conceding, Amélie tells me, “Doors are opening. Opportunities are coming. And your skills are being tested.” She smirks, adding, “That’s if you’re not shy of the challenge?”
Ah, the classic tactic of appealing to the ego.
“I’m not,” I tell her quickly, falling headfirst into her tactical trap.
“That’s what I hoped, Miss. Samuels. Two weeks, two designs per project,” she reiterates.
Piece of cake, I think. “Not a problem,” I assure her, ignoring the irritating feeling of the unknown man staring at me.
Does this mean that the Pierson Group is extending their repertoire into landscape design? Maybe I’ll get the opportunity to switch careers without even having to leave the company?
“You can go now,” Amélie tells me, her brusqueness almost making me laugh.
I spy the USB stick once more. Without moving from my seat, I ask, “What do you think?”
“Ah, yes,” she says, pulling it out and handing it back to me. “What do I think?” she asks herself, exchanging a weighted look with the stranger. “You do not have an accurate understanding of your talent, Gemima.”
Uh? Is that a compliment, I wonder.
“Once you realise how good you are, we will be in trouble,” she indicates to the man and herself, “which is why we’re acting now.”
I stare at her nonplussed. “I literally did not understand a word of that,” I say quickly, getting to my feet. Fuck it, I think, I love drawing and this little test will be more like fun than actual work. I’m sure I’ll discover what’s going on eventually. “Two weeks,” I nod at Amélie, leaving her office without acknowledging the man at all.
I bypass my desk and walk straight to reception, to Layla.
She smiles pleasantly. “Que puis-je faire pour vous, Gemima?” she asks. What can I do for you, Gemima?
My phone starts ringing in my pants pocket: it’s Logan. “Hi, Layla,” I smile back, hastily answering his call, “Baby, can you hold on just one moment?”
“Sure,” Logan says quickly.
“Uh, there’s a man currently in Amélie’s office, and I wondered if you know who he is?” I whisper to Layla.
“Oui, naturellement,” she nods. Yes, of course.
“Can you tell me?” I push her.
Her response makes my stomach drop. “That’s Mr. Pierson, the founder and owner of the company. He’s Amélie’s boss,” she tells me.
Oh, fuck!
My face no doubt pale, I thank Layla and start walking back to my desk. “I may not have a job by the time you see me later,” I tell Logan dramatically.
“Why?” he asks, sounding concerned.
“I got slightly mouthy with Amélie’s boss because I didn’t realise who he was.”
Logan starts chuckling, which tells me straightaway that all hope is not lost. “André Pierson?” he questions me.
“I think so.”
“He’s not a very serious man, Gemima. He likes to have fun more than he likes to work, much to Amélie’s disdain. At least, that’s what Buddy told me a few years back, on one of the only occasions that he spoke about her.”
Phew, I think. “I’ve never even seen him here before, but the way Amélie was talking…it’s weird…” Something’s changing within the company, I’m suddenly convinced.
“Maybe you’re getting a promotion?” he considers.
“Already?” I wonder out loud. “I doubt it would be a promotion in the interior design sector, anyway, considering she’s got me drawing up more landscape designs, telling me that it’s a test,” I inform him.
“Really? Then there’s definitely movement in the company,” he confirms my suspicions. “I knew it was weird that she had you do a report on the terrace,” he adds.
“Hmm, time will tell exactly what,” I muse. I sit at my desk and stick my phone between my shoulder and ear, freeing my hands to work. As I progress through a pile of online order forms, I continue talking to Logan and though it’s not comfortable, it’s better than not hearing his voice. “Tell me about your day,” I request.
“It’s been great,” he says happily. “I was wearing my birthday badge…under my suit jacket,” he admits, making me smile. “Though I forgot about it during a meeting with Grace and Michel, and when I took my jacket off they had a good laugh at me, I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear.”
Perfect, I think. “Very happy to hear that,” I grin into my phone. Hearing Michel’s name reminds me of something, “Have you started your speech for Saturday night yet?”
“Yes, but it’s awful. Speaking of Saturday, though, my mom wants to hang out with you during the day,” he tells me. “I think I’m allowed to come as well,” he jokes.
An idea springing to mind, I suggest, “What if I book us all on a Segway tour of the city? That way we’ll all be together and they’ll also get to see touristy things.”
He’s silent for a moment. “I’m googling it,” he reveals.
“OK, let me know and I’ll book it,” I press, making him chuckling. “How was it seeing your whole family again?” I then ask.
“It was…the same as always; Karen and Abigail are wonderful, and Taylor’s still cold and distant.”
Pulling a face, I say, “I got a bit of that vibe this morning.”
“Was he rude to you?” Logan asks curtly.
“No, baby,” I say hastily. “It was just a vibe,” I say again.
Logan sighs. “That vibe is called asshole-mode. Buddy joined us for a coffee towards the end of lunch which prompted Taylor to enter full asshole-mode. It’s kind of like he has a condition, you know? Like some people have a limp or a stoop; Taylor has asshole-mode,” he tells me. “Each time I see him I’m hopeful that he’s gotten over what happened nearly two decades ago, but as soon as I saw him this morning it was clear that he still hasn’t.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Logan. It must be really disappointing.”
“I’m used to it by now,” he says, seemingly unaffected.
“You shouldn’t have to be, though,” I say, getting rattled. “You deserve to be treated kindly.”
“Thank you, baby, but it’s not worth getting upset over, I promise you,” he tells me. “I’m a nice guy; I know that, the people who matter to me know that, so fuck what Taylor thinks,” he says cooly.
I smile at his words. “So long as you realise,” I begin, “that if he does say something nasty about you in front of me, I cannot be held responsible for whatever comes out of my mouth, OK?” I tell him theatrically.
Laughing, Logan assures me, “Understood. I actually can’t wait for you to meet his whole family.”
“Tomorrow, maybe?”
“No, he and Karen are taking Abigail to Disneyland, and staying late to watch the nighttime parade.”
Saturday, then, I think. “Are they going with your parents and Buddy to the Moulin Rouge tonight?”
“Apparently they wanted to, but Abigail’s too young to be allowed into the theatre. So Taylor suggested that I look after her tonight.”
Seriously? Babysitting on his birthday? “Um, are we?” I ask. But before he can answer, I blurt out, “Isn’t it a bit of a dick-move to even ask you?”
“I think so,” he agrees. “Especially to ask me in front of Abby, making it much harder to say no, which I did. That’s the first time that he’s really used her to get at me.”
“He can’t know about your run-in with Jerry, then,” I point out, remembering that Logan said Taylor wouldn’t trust him around his daughter after learning about Logan’s punch last week.
“No, I guess not.”
“So, you said no? How did you get out of it?”
“I told him I had plans. He said doing what? To which Buddy responded doing Gemima,” Logan laughs.
Thanks, Bud, I think sarcastically.
“I don’t know what they’ll end up doing tonight, but the only thing I’m contemplating is you in those bows and all of the wonderful ways that I can eat cake off of you.”
Oh, Logan!
I’m silent as I replay Tuesday night, when I was Logan’s personal candy store, over in my mind. Ah, his lips caressing every inch of my skin felt so damn good! But something niggles at the back of mind spoiling my erotic flashback; something apparently called asshole-mode.
Why, I ask myself. Why does Taylor still make Logan pay for something that happened nineteen years ago? I understand that Taylor must have been scarred, physically and emotionally, but hasn’t he figured out by now that being an asshole doesn’t heal anything? And why, I ask myself again, doesn’t Logan say something? Perhaps I just don’t have his same level of zen, because I’d go ballistic if I had someone griping at me all the time.
“Logan, can I, uh, ask you something potentially annoying?” I say tentatively.
“Always,” he says and I can practically hear him grinning.
Feeling spurred on by what he said last night about still being able to recall the look on Taylor’s face when he beat him up, I ask, “Have you ever considered that maybe you let Taylor’s behaviour slide because you feel guilty?”
“That’s not annoying, it’s insightful.” He sighs heavily.
“Sorry,” I mumble, “you don’t have to answer.”
“Yes, I do. If there’s one person I want to answer to, it’s you,” he says, meaningfully. “I haven’t always been so passive with Taylor,” he begins. “When my parents and I started talking again after I moved here, Taylor was furious with them. I guess he felt betrayed that they would want anything to do with me after the trouble I’d caused. I think he’d grown used to being their only son,” he tells me and I remember that Logan had no contact with his family for four years. Taylor must’ve assumed him gone forever. “When I came back into their lives, I was grown up, successful, I’d made my parents proud, and Taylor hated it. Back then I did everything I could to appease him, because I felt guilty,” he admits. “Really guilty. I apologised more times than I can count, but he never forgave me. He was rude and belittling, and I let him be because I was certain that I deserved it.
“You don’t deserve it,” I say quietly.
“I know that now, baby. When I was twenty-five I was awarded Best Newcomer at some business function,” he says offhand, “and Taylor told me over the phone that I did not deserve to be appreciated for anything. Not one single thing. And that’s when I realised that I had to stop trying so hard; I had to let him be mad and I couldn’t allow his anger to hold me back. I told him one last time that I was sorry for putting him in hospital, but that I wasn’t going to take anymore shit from him. He tested my resolve, the way any sibling would,” Logan chuckles, “but I never let him get under my skin again.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I’ll never escape the fact that it was my actions that caused this rift. That’s OK, I’ve accepted that. And of course, if I could go back in time, I’d do things differently. But I don’t feel guilty anymore.” He’s silent for another moment, before telling me, “Gemima, I don’t let his behaviour slide, I choose to ignore it. Because I’ll be damned if someone is going to tell me what I do and do not deserve. That’s my call to make. Taylor’s wasted most of his life holding a grudge against me; I’m not going to do the same.”
Pride swells in me as I take in his words. Gracious, mature, humble are just some of the compliments circulating around my mind. Not only has he fought to overcome his own demons, but he’s also managed to do what most people never can – to be unaffected by the opinions of others. Logan is his own man, entirely, and that makes him so much more powerful than Taylor – with his grudge and his bitterness – will ever be.
“Baby? Are you there?” Logan asks.
“Yes, I’m…I just wish that I was with you right now,” I say, wholeheartedly.
“Why? What would you do?”
“I would hug you for a long time,” I tell him and he chuckles, “and I’d tell you that I’m proud of you for everything you did long before we met.”
“Thank you,” he says affectionately.
Unable to hold it back, despite the fact I’d rather say it to his face, I blurt out, “My mom told me that my father used to have a saying: when you own your own story, no one can use it against you. It reminds me of you. You’re the best man that I’ve ever known, Logan. I really mean that.”
He makes the sound that he makes when he’s happy. Very happy.
“I bet your dimples are showing,” I grin and he laughs loudly. Jeez, he’s the only one who could do this to me, who could have my heart hammering and my body yearning to be near him, whilst I sit idly in my work cubicle. I check the clock; I can leave here in half an hour, which means I’ll be at the apartment shortly after, I don’t want to wait another unnecessary minute to hold him in my arms. Then it’ll be just me, Logan, and the birthday cake.
* * *
An hour later I twiddle my thumbs, waiting for the elevator in Logan’s apartment to collect me from the basement. When it arrives I step inside before the doors have even fully opened. I’m impatient. Incredibly so. The stagnant evening traffic did nothing to help my impatience, it only made me tense and agitated. The doors close and I curse the elevator to move faster. It’s been a tense day, I note, starting with Logan’s mother nearly catching us in the act.
