Chapter 14 Logan
LOGAN
The sharp ding of the elevator’s arrival pulls my focus from the scuff on my new biker boots.
It took me one night—just one—before I couldn’t stand being in that cabin anymore.
I told myself I could use the time in Tahoe to clear my head, to plan the next steps for the company without the distractions of LA.
But everywhere I turned, I found traces of Rosie—her vanilla perfume lingering in the air, the faint scent of her coconut shampoo on the sheets, and the fuzzy socks she’d left behind—each one a stark reminder of how much I missed her.
There was no way I would’ve been able to concentrate.
Leaning against the wall outside her apartment, my pulse kicks up as the elevator doors slide open, hoping she’s finally back from work.
A jolt of electricity races through me as Rosie steps out, her head bowed slightly while she rummages through her oversized handbag.
I’m already at half-staff as I shamelessly give her a once-over.
I don’t think I’ve seen her in business attire before, and I’m realizing what a shame that is.
The sleek black pencil skirt she’s wearing hugs her curves in all the right places, and the silk of her sleeveless pink blouse showcases her full breasts, the color a perfect contrast to her golden skin.
Her long, dark hair sways as she moves, curling softly over her shoulders, while what appears to be a blazer is folded neatly over her arm.
And those heels—black, sky-high, and utterly devastating—click against the tile with a rhythm that demands attention.
I bite down on my knuckles, barely holding back a groan.
Work Rosie is sexy, yet professional, all no-nonsense confidence and effortless grace. I wonder if she’d be into a little office role play. I’d bet those heels would look even better perched on my shoulders.
Damn, that’s a nice visual.
“Logan?” Rosie says, startling me out of my X-rated daydream.
I grin, stepping forward. “Surprise.”
She tilts her head to the side. “What are you doing here?”
I reach into my pocket and pull out a pair of fuzzy socks, holding them up for her to see. “You left these at the cabin. I thought you might need them.”
Rosie’s lips part, but she seems to be at a loss for words. Her dark eyes meet mine, softening as she realizes why I’m really here. “You couldn’t take being away from me any longer, huh?”
I wrap a hand around her hip, pulling her closer. “Exactly.” I lean into her ear and whisper, “And I bet you missed being woken up by my tongue this morning, didn’t you?”
I can’t resist brushing my lips against hers when Rosie’s cheeks flush the prettiest shade of pink. It’s just a taste, not nearly enough to satisfy the growing need inside of me, but the hallway of her apartment building isn’t the best place to do all the dirty things I’ve been imagining.
She swats my chest, a teasing glint in her eyes and a soft smile playing on her lips. “Wow. You really are a stage-five clinger, aren’t you?”
“Only when it’s something, or should I say someone, I really want.” I grin, watching her blush deepen.
Her brows lift. “You’re awfully sure of yourself, Mr. Edwards.”
“You’re awfully cute when you’re pretending to be so disinterested.” My gaze falls to her lips. They’re painted a dusty shade of pink today, perfectly accentuating her cupid’s bow. “Open the door, Pip.”
Rosie punches in a code on the keypad and pushes the door open.
I’m right behind her, nudging it closed with a soft thud.
Her subtle scent drifts through the air, mingling with a warm hint of jasmine, likely lingering from the jarred candle on the coffee table.
Her new place is small, but the high ceilings and exposed ductwork give it an open, airy feel.
The wall of windows showcasing LA’s skyline adds a sense of grandeur, making the space feel far more expansive than its modest size suggests.
It’s an open floor plan with a neutral base, but Rosie’s personality shines through in the details.
The first thing you notice is an exposed brick wall with a huge canvas of Frida Kahlo wearing a crown of marigolds.
The painting is bold, like its subject. Unapologetic.
Maybe even a little rebellious. I smile to myself, thinking how much it reminds me of Rosie.
Wouldn’t surprise me if she picked it to anchor herself…
to remember who the hell she is every damn day.
Just beneath the painting, nestled into the gallery wall, is a framed photo from Rosie’s graduation trip to Ireland.
The Cliffs of Moher stretch out behind her, mist curling at the edges, while she and Sylvie beam at the camera with frizzy, wind-swept hair.
Their moms stand beside them, equally disheveled and just as fierce.
Four women, locked arm in arm, laughing like they owned the damn world.
“God, I remember how excited you were while on that trip like it was yesterday.”
She smiles softly. “It was a pretty magical week.”
Rosie and I communicated often while she was gone.
I was constantly on alert because she flooded my phone with daily photos while I was hanging out with her brother.
I didn’t want to explain to Ry why I was talking to his sister so much, but I also didn’t want her to stop, so I encouraged her to send as many pictures as she could.
I spent more hours than I’d care to admit scrolling through those snapshots of her trip while I was at Stanford.
If I was feeling particularly homesick, they were guaranteed to make me feel a little less so.
Rosie and Sylvie standing in front of castles or houses with oddly short colorful doors.
The numerous traffic jams—aka sheep walking along the road—they encountered while driving through the countryside.
Celtic cross headstones, beautiful cathedrals, rolling green hills, random ruins, jagged cliffs, you name it.
I even got the occasional dirty souvenir item she found hilarious.
I felt like I was right there with her sometimes.
I desperately wished I was there with her the entire time.
Shaking out of the memory, my eyes continue to scan the room, catching on a turquoise coffee cart with hand-painted mugs hanging from a rack, then a Talavera plate brightening the corner of the white kitchen counter.
Next to the plate is a small silver dish I swear I’ve seen before, but I can’t quite place it.
I step closer, narrowing my eyes as the overhead light catches on four faint etchings around the rim.
“Why does this seem familiar?” I ask.
Rosie glances over and smiles. “It sat on my dresser when we were kids. You probably saw it a million times without realizing.”
I nod slowly. “Okay, now I remember. You used to keep your lip balm and loose change in it.”
“And hair ties. So many hair ties.”
I chuckle, running my thumb along the worn edge. “What do the symbols represent?”
“They’re the four treasures of the Tuatha Dé. The sword, the spear, the cauldron, and the stone. My Nana Mór was very into ancestral magic. Her stories about the Irish warrior gods are what spawned my obsession with romantasy, so can’t say I’m mad about it.”
I laugh. “Any excuse to read fairy smut with you.”
Rosie’s eyes roll. “Nobody needs an excuse to read fairy smut. They just do it because it’s awesome.”
She snort-laughs, coaxing me to grin like a fool. I give the dish one last glance before continuing my slow sweep of the apartment.
Velvety eggplant-colored drapes frame the windows, their rich hue softened by the glow of retro brass lamps. The dark gray couch is understated, but the lime green crocheted blanket tossed over the back adds just the right hit of playful contrast.
“This place really suits you, Rosie.”
She glances around, as if she’s trying to see it through my eyes. “You think so?”
“I do,” I say with a nod. “It’s warm. Feminine.” My eyes are drawn back to the eclectic gallery wall. The varying sizes and styles of art create a perfect balance of whimsy and charm. Grinning, I hold my thumb and forefinger an inch apart and add, “A little chaotic.”
Rosie’s eyes glimmer with amusement. “That tracks.”
A pile of paperbacks sits on the side table. They’re stacked on top of one another like a game of Tetris gone wrong, each with a bookmark protruding from the pages. I cross the room, inspecting the covers, confirming my suspicions.
“Ooh, what do we have here?” I flip to the marked page in one of the books, landing on a particularly spicy scene between a woman and two…no, wait, three men. “You dirty, dirty girl. I knew you liked reading romance, but I had no idea you were into the extra smutty stuff.”
“Don’t judge me,” Rosie huffs, swiping the book from my hand and smacking my arm with it.
“I’m not judging,” I say with a chuckle, catching her wrist and pulling her toward me. “I like it.” I brush some hair away from her face and add, “I like you, Rosie. I don’t think there’s a damn thing about you that I don’t like.”
She lifts her chin, meeting my eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I confirm.
Rosie smiles bashfully, and her cheeks flush.
“So fucking beautiful,” I murmur, pressing a soft kiss to her temple and breathing in her sweet, familiar scent before pulling back slightly.
My hands cradle her face, my thumbs tracing the delicate curve of her jaw.
Rosie’s pupils darken, her breaths quicken, and I know she feels the same fevered energy crackling between us.
I’d love nothing more than to get lost in her curves all night, but I don’t want her thinking I flew back early just for sex.
Don’t get me wrong—the sex is incredible, and I wouldn’t say no if she’s game—but honestly, I’d be just as happy cuddling on the couch while she reads one of her dirty books. I just want to be in her orbit.
With a deep breath, I let my hands fall to my sides and take a step back, giving us both a moment to clear the lust-infused haze.