Chapter 10
“I need your help. It’s life or death,” I plead as soon as the facetime call connects. There’s no time for pleasantries. I’ve spent the last few hours showering, pampering and painting my face. Now I’m standing in my new room, in my best black bra and panty set, hair in rollers as I pace back and forth.
“Babe, take a breath. What’s wrong?” Cora asks as she nurses April in one corner of my phone screen. A pang of longing makes me ache. She is the most adorable baby I have ever seen, even if she’s oblivious to anything that isn’t milk or sleep.
“You look hot as shit girl. What’s going on?” Lily chimes in from her dorm room, looking every inch the frazzled student.
“Logan, my new mafia boss husband , has decided he’s taking me on a dinner date in less than an hour and I have nothing to wear!” I throw my arms up in dismay as I survey the mess that is my room. It honestly looks like a hurricane has whipped through here and left a scattered mess of satin and lace in its wake.
“Okay, that’s a boldface lie, and you know it. What about the black silk maxi dress you got the other week?”
“Or how about the red mini dress if you want to heat things up?” Lily tosses out.
“Lily, you might just be a genius. I knew there was a reason I corrupted you,” I exclaim, pointing at her before finding the dress she’s talking about. I get a round of encouragement from them as I wiggle it on.
It's short without being too short, and the shade of red works brilliantly with my hair. The diamond cutout under my breasts is small enough not to be considered risqué but is instead enticing. With a final spin and a round of "yeses" from my friends, I say my goodbyes, blow them a kiss, and slip on a pair of black heels. Shaking out my curls, I grab a matching black bag and head down to meet Logan, only to nearly fall flat on my face as I spot him at the bottom of the stairs, clutching a bouquet of pink lilies and wearing an indescribable expression.
At this point, I've seen him in a suit for our wedding and in light jeans with a tight T-shirt earlier today, but seeing him now in dark jeans, biker boots, and a black silk shirt—with the top few buttons undone and sleeves rolled up to showcase his tantalizing arm veins and tattoos—makes me bite back a whimper.
“You look...stunning,” he growls as I get to the bottom, extending his free hand to help me with the last step before placing said hand on my hip and tugging me close to him.
Our faces are so close I can feel his breath on my face, and my pulse skips a beat. It should be illegal for a man to be this hot.
Before I can get lost in his eyes, he clears his throat and holds the bouquet out to me.
“How did you know lilies are my favourite?” I ask him, inhaling the sweet floral scent.
“I have my sources.” That husky tone makes me meet his gaze again and fight the blush that wants to give me away.
“Well, whoever they are deserves a raise. These are stunning, thank you,” I mummer.
With a tip of his head, he helps me put the flowers in a vase, then slides his arm around my waist and leads me out to where a car is waiting. He opens the passenger door for me, helps me in, and then heads to the driver's side.
“I have to say, you pull off this whole Viking look.” I tell him as he puts the car in gear and pulls away from the house. The breeze from his rolled down window messes his shoulder-length hair in a way that has me dying to dig my hands into it as he makes me see stars.
“Glad you think so. If I had known you were going to pull out all the stops, however, I would have levelled the look up for you,” he retorts with a smirk as we clear the gates.
“Now, you’ll have me dying to know what that would entail.”
The drive passes in a comfortable, if heated, silence, and before long, we’re pulling up in front of a fancy Italian restaurant. Before I have a chance to get out of the car, Logan is already there holding the door open for me, placing his hand on my waist, and guiding me into the restaurant.
“Good evening, Mr Graham, if you’ll follow me, your usual table is ready for you,” the middle-aged hostess says with a pleasant smile as she leads us through the busy restaurant. As we pass the tables, heading towards an isolated table tucked into the back corner, it becomes glaringly obvious this place is full of rich businessmen either on dates or business meetings—considering the thousand-pound bottles of champagne, dimmed lighting, and blacked out windows creating a private bubble. Don’t get me started on how they know Logan by name, and he apparently has a usual table.
I never expected to be impressed by wealth or power but something about the whole situation is incredibly stimulating to me and as he pulls my chair out for me; it’s all I can do not to melt in a puddle at his feet. Taking his seat, he fixes his searing gaze on me before commenting, “Not to sound cliché, but red is your colour.”
“I used to hate being a redhead when I was younger and all the stereotypes that come along with it. But I grew into it,” I say before taking a sip of the water while Logan helps himself to some bread from the basket.
“Pass me your plate.” Intrigued by what he's up to, I hand him my side plate and watch as he swaps our plates, giving me the warm, buttered plate of heaven.
Why is him making sure I’m fed before he is so fucking hot?
Just as I start to panic about not having looked at the menu yet, a waiter comes over. Logan quickly rattles off a few different dishes and orders a bottle of Dom Perignon before I can say a word.
“Order enough food there or?” I ask after the waiter leaves us.
“I figured we could try a bit of everything and take any leftovers with us. That way, you get to sample all their best dishes, and I get to learn what you like,” he says, leaning back in his seat, spreading out like the mafioso he is. Having grown up around powerful men, his aura is familiar to me, but the effect it has on me is not. It's far too soon to be craving him in the carnal ways that I am, but between his old-world manners, take-charge attitude, and his determination to wine and dine me despite being deeply embroiled in drama, I find myself falling for him a little more. But still. It’s far too early to be feeling any type of way towards him, so in an effort to ignore my feelings for now, I keep us conversing. When asking him to tell me about himself dries up almost as soon as I’ve asked the question, I switch tactics.
If he won’t or can’t talk about himself outright, then quizzing him on his history with Owen and Alex might give me some insight on him.
“Care to share how you and Owen are so close?”
“I wouldn’t call us close, per se.”
“Considering he has your phone number and had a hand in setting our marriage up, I beg to differ.” I take a sip of the champagne, savouring the way it seems to seep into my bones as I wait for his answer.
“Touché. Did you know we were in the same rugby league? We ended up at the same summer camps most years," he says. At my nod, he continues, "Owen was never one for taking hints. After we got paired up for a team-building exercise, he decided he should keep trying to 'win me over' outside of that class. Imagine a golden retriever following me around—that was Owen." His words could sound harsh, but the fond expression on his face softens them.
The four different pasta dishes are delivered to our table, and we eat in comfortable silence. Except for my moans because that truffle pasta is to die for.
It’s only when I’ve sat back, far too full, on a carb high and maybe a little tipsy, thanks to the champagne, I bite the bullet. “Why me?”
“What?” he asks, sitting back and dabbing at his mouth before giving me his full attention again. I could get used to being pinned under his gaze. Or other body parts.
“Why marry me?”
"History has shown that people trust family men more than single twenty-something bachelors. And with my father claiming my whole life that I'm not fit for this, an arranged marriage was inevitable. As for why you, if I'm being honest, I don’t have a neat answer. I needed a connection to the Four Points, and Owen mentioned you. He vouched for you as a good fit to be my wife. But now, having met you and gotten the privilege to know you, I’m glad it was you. I’m glad we have the chance to explore this obvious connection between us," he explains. His voice is steady, but the sudden tension in his shoulders and the way he taps his knuckles on the table suggest he’s more affected by his words than he lets on. Little does he know, seeing this glimpse behind his mask settles my nerves more than any smooth talk ever could.
“Thank you for not trying to bullshit me. I won’t say I’m not curious about where this could lead, but I will warn you, I do plan to make you work for it. After all, you went back on your word to meet me before we got married.”
I’m so over that by now. Stepping foot in the compound made it clear just how much shit he was dealing with day in, day out.
However, what would life be without a little fun and games?
"I’d expect nothing less. And let the record show that if I could have convinced them to let you come to me, even for something as simple as a walk around the grounds, I would have. In a heartbeat."
With that, he lets me shift the conversation back to lighter topics, such as telling him all about my tendency to hide from potential suitors as a kid and how I glued myself to Cora on our first day at St Theresa’s, claiming her as my best friend within our first week.
Even as we take our to-go bags of leftover food and the unfinished bottle of Dom Perignon with us to the car, he listens to my stories, smiling gently and laughing at all the right moments. His hand rests on my thigh as he drives us back to the compound.
It’s only as we're pulling up in front of the main house that our conversation winds down, and the tension that’s been held at bay all evening envelops us like a weighted blanket. He walks me to my room, his hand firmly on my lower back.
When we reach my door, I turn to bid him goodnight, only to find myself frozen as I meet his gaze. The intense heat in his eyes is unlike anything I’ve ever felt, and I'm unsure how to respond. But before I can overthink it, he pins me against the door. With one hand beside my head and his body pressing lightly against mine, he uses his other hand to tilt my chin up.
“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he murmurs before closing the gap between us. Heat floods my body as his lips meet mine, and with a hungry groan, he grasps my waist and deepens the kiss for a moment before pulling back. “Sweet dreams, Princess.” He kisses my forehead and gives my waist a final squeeze, leaving me breathless and dizzy from the champagne and his kiss.