Chapter 15
Fifteen
Camden
I wake a bit disoriented the following morning, and it takes a moment to remember I’m not in my bed in Chicago but in Oakley’s New York apartment. It takes another few seconds of blinking away the daze of sleep to realize…I’m not alone either.
Logan’s tucked in against my side, using my shoulder as a pillow—though, tucked in seems a bit tame for the way he’s clinging to me.
His arm rests on my torso, warm and heavy with sleep, while his palm splays out over one of my bare pecs.
He’s got a leg slung over one of mine too, his knee bent and wedged in between my thighs.
My brain struggles for a solid minute to comprehend the sight, and it takes almost ten times longer to get my libido in check after I notice he’s also stripped down to just his underwear.
Truthfully, I was expecting to wake up and find his side of the bed still empty. He stayed out in the living room after the rest of us turned in last night, and while I know he prefers to draw into the quiet early morning hours, part of me assumed he’d use it as an excuse to sleep on the couch.
But he must’ve snuck in while I was asleep, and at some point in his own slumber, wound up like this.
For someone who doesn’t like to touch, he sure appears to be a cuddly little koala.
I notice my lips curving into a small smile as I stare down at his unconscious form plastered against me.
Pieces of light-brown hair stick up haphazardly, the sleep-mussed look quite similar to the way it appears after he takes off the beanie he wears outside.
My fingers itch to smooth them down, or even slip into the silky strands and play with them while he sleeps.
Hell, my entire body craves the thought of pulling him in closer, allowing the heat of his bare skin on mine to seep into my bones.
But I tamp down the desire. The last thing I want is to wake him and effectively ruin this moment.
I can’t stop the hand gently hugging him to me from skimming over his back in slow, gentle circles, though. Memorizing the feel of his skin beneath my fingertips while my gaze traces over his peaceful features.
A soft noise—some mixture of a hum and a sigh—comes from him, freezing my movements instantly. But rather than waking, he burrows his face against my neck, nestling in closer against my ribs while my heart threatens to crack every one of them.
Part of me wishes I could grab my phone and snap a picture, wanting some evidence that seeing him like this, feeling his body molded against mine, isn’t just a figment of my imagination or a dream I’ll wake from.
The muscle in my jaw jumps as my fingers move in tiny circles on his back again.
God, I’m so screwed.
For the life of me, I can’t comprehend how this happened; how the hell I let myself develop a crush this massive on my fake boyfriend.
I mean, I don’t get crushes—haven’t in years.
Emotions never enter the picture, which is sort of par for the course when it comes to the “fuckboy lifestyle,” as Logan so aptly put it.
The how isn’t really important, though. I just need to find a way to stop it, push it down, bury it in the sand. Fucking do something before I wind up screwing this whole goddamn plan to hell.
But for just this moment, I try not to worry about any of that.
Instead, I still my movements and stay just like this, cataloging every inch of skin and out-of-place hair to memory. For who knows how many minutes, possibly even hours. But regardless of how much time truly passes, it’s not nearly long enough before he finally stirs to consciousness.
I can tell the moment it happens too. There’s a sharp but soft intake of breath against the side of my neck, and his arm becomes slightly stiffer where it rests on my chest.
My eyes slide closed, and I pray like hell he thinks I’m still asleep. That my pulse against his forehead remains calm, and my breathing stays steady beneath his palm rather than giving me away.
And silently, I wait.
For him to pull away. To bolt upright and jump from the bed. For the way he’s surely freaking out internally to manifest outwardly.
But none of that happens.
He doesn’t flee, doesn’t push me away.
He whispers a soft “fuck” under his breath, barely loud enough that I wouldn’t have caught it if his lips weren’t mere inches from my ear. And then his body relaxes and sinks into mine, becoming imperceptibly closer, before his thumb begins tracing a slow path over my skin.
I count the seconds we stay like that, each of them ticking by in time with my thundering heartbeat.
Ten pass, then twenty. Thirty.
I’m certain there’s no possible way he thinks I’m still asleep, but he remains in my arms, the pad of his thumb drawing the smallest line back and forth beneath my collarbone.
Forty. Fifty. Sixty.
It’s not until I hit ninety that his movements cease, and he gingerly extracts his limbs from where they’d tangled with mine. I keep my eyes closed and body still, allowing him the illusion of unconsciousness while he creeps from the bed and crosses the room.
It’s only after I hear the soft snick of the door closing behind him that my lids lift to an empty room.
And I could almost pretend it was all a dream if the bed weren’t still warm beside me.
Much to Logan’s dismay, our first full day in New York starts off with a trip to the arena for Quinton and Oakley’s afternoon game.
He’s on edge the entire time we’re there, his body language the most closed off and reserved I’ve ever seen, even toward me.
I don’t know if it has to do with how he woke up this morning or if it’s more to do with filling our schedule with hockey right off the bat, but regardless, I don’t comment on it. And Logan doesn’t either.
In fact, I don’t think he speaks more than three sentences while we’re on the premises, instead seating himself on the end of our aisle and discreetly popping in an AirPod to watch anime on his phone.
Part of me wants to offer commentary for him, maybe help him understand the game better or, at the very least, make him feel included.
Except, every time I work up the nerve to lean over and ask him if he wants me to explain what’s happening on the ice, his dad ends up snagging my attention instead, usually with hockey talk—be it the game at hand or about my own season.
I indulge him, not wanting to seem rude toward the father of my supposed boyfriend, but every time I do, Logan appears to shrink away and close up even more.
He barely gives me a second glance when I ask if he wants something from the concessions or try to talk to him about what he’s watching, and by the time the game is over, he may as well be locked in his own little bubble.
Every attempt I make to get in there with him just leads to me bouncing off the sides.
When we go with his parents to wait for Quinton and Oakley, planning to ride home with them post-press interview, I’m itching to pull him aside and ask what I did wrong.
Because, fuck, it feels like it has to be my fault.
Be it my conversing with his dad or what happened this morning or… I don’t know.
I just know I hate it. I hate seeing him like this, all shut down and closed off.
It’s not the Logan I know—not anymore.
“You’re as subtle as a brick through a window, you know.”
The statement has me glancing away from where Logan leans against the wall a little bit down the hallway, still engrossed in his phone.
My gaze collides with Quinton’s, who seemingly appeared out of thin air.
His hair is wet from his recent shower, and one brow is arched behind the black frames perched on his nose.
But it’s when I notice his lips tilt up in a knowing smirk that I realize guilt must be written all over my damn face.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. But you played a great game, man.”
It’s my best attempt at nonchalance, but it’s one Quinton sees right through, unfortunately.
“Oh, I know I killed it out there, but we’re not talking about hockey.” He motions toward my face, which has since drawn into a frown. “What? You think I don’t recognize that look?”
“I don’t—”
He laughs lightly and wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Ah, Cam. How easily you forget, I also fell for a Reed. So that look? It’s one I’ve worn many times myself.”
My teeth snag the flesh of my inner cheek, wishing like hell I could deny the insinuation he’s making.
A few weeks ago, I still could have. But the wall between real and fake has slowly been crumbling down ever since the banquet, and if the way it felt to hold him in my arms this morning is any indication, I can hardly tell the difference anymore.
I like Logan. I want Logan.
In a way that’s the furthest thing from fake.
“Damn,” Quinton murmurs, pulling me from my thoughts as he releases me. “You’ve got it worse than I thought.”
Shifting my gaze to Logan again, I murmur, “That obvious, huh?”
“To me? Absolutely. But like I said, I’ve been there.”
Oakley pops out of the locker room then, wordlessly pressing his lips to the side of Quinton’s head before heading over to where his parents are waiting. I track his movements, noting the way his steps slow as he passes his brother—almost as if he wants to stop, but then decides better of it.
Another wave of guilt crashes into me, stealing my breath, before my attention returns to Quinton.
Swallowing roughly, I ask, “Oakley’s not gonna kill me for this, right?”
“For what?”
“Me and Logan.”
Quinton’s brows draw together, and he crosses his arms. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why would you think that?”
“Because Logan’s his little brother. And I’m…me?”
“You are you. Well spotted,” Quinton confirms with a low chuckle. “But I fail to see why that’d make Oakley upset. You know he loves you, despite your…antics, at times.”