4. Quinn
Quinn
He doesn’t call.
He doesn’t text.
He waits.
I see Logan the second I step out of Susie’s Diner, like I knew I would.
Leaning against his truck, shoulders set, jaw tight, eyes locked on me like he’s been running this conversation in his head and didn’t like any version of it.
Those mesmerizing cerulean blue eyes.
Too clear.
Too sharp.
And right now—too focused on me.
I don’t stop walking.
If he wants this conversation, he can come get it.
“Quinn.”
My name lands low behind me.
Not loud.
But it still pulls me to a stop.
I turn slowly, meeting his gaze without hesitation.
“Logan.”
He pushes off the truck and closes the distance in a few long strides, boots grinding into gravel, presence hitting before he even reaches me.
Up close, he’s worse.
Stronger.
Closer.
The kind of man who doesn’t ask for space—he takes it.
“You want to tell me why you’re in my town?” he asks.
Direct.
Controlled.
Angry.
“I don’t remember Montana being yours,” I reply evenly.
His jaw flexes. “Don’t.”
So that hits.
Interesting.
I let my gaze move over him instead—dust on his jeans, tension riding his shoulders, the way his hands flex like he’s deciding what to do with them.
“You came alone,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “You expected me not to?”
“I expected you to be smarter.”
That lands harsher than I intended.
His mouth tightens. “Careful.”
I step closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough to shift the air between us.
“You didn’t look surprised this morning,” he says.
No preamble.
No hesitation.
“I wasn’t.”
The truth sits between us.
Clean.
Unavoidable.
His gaze sharpens. “Yeah. I figured that.”
“But that doesn’t mean what you think it does.”
“Then stop talking around it,” he says, stepping closer until there’s barely space left. “Say it straight.”
So I do.
“My brother set it up.”
Silence drops.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
“Evan Mercer,” he says.
“Yes.”
His expression hardens, but there’s no shock in it—just confirmation of something he already suspected.
“Figures,” he mutters.
“It should,” I say. “You already know what he’s capable of.”
His eyes flick over my face, searching.
“Yeah,” he says slowly. “Sabotaging our land. Using Thornton to drive the price down. Trying to get access through Cole’s girlfriend.”
So he knows everything.
Good.
That makes this easier.
“Then you understand the pattern,” I say. “Pressure first. Then access. Then control.”
“And you showing up here is what?” he asks. “Part of it?”
“No,” I say. “It’s how I stop it.”
That shifts something.
Not trust.
But attention.
“Explain,” he says.
I hold his gaze.
This is where most people soften.
I don’t.
“Right now, this story makes you look reckless,” I say. “It makes your family look divided. And it gives my brother exactly what he needs to push harder. He’ll get your investors to question Silver Spur’s long-term viability.”
“And you?” he asks. “Where do you land in that?”
Closer now.
His voice lower.
Quieter.
More dangerous.
“I land on the side that controls what happens next.”
His gaze drops—to my mouth—just for a second. He unconsciously licks his lips while taking a deep breath.
Not subtle.
Not hidden.
My pulse reacts before I can stop it.
I ignore it.
“You don’t fix this by denying it,” I continue. “You fix it by owning it.”
He studies me, longer this time.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“You want to turn this into something,” he says pointing between us.
“I want to decide what it becomes.”
Silence stretches.
Not empty.
Measuring.
“And what exactly does that look like?” he asks.
I don’t hesitate.
“A relationship.”
The word lands between us.
Solid.
Clear.
No room to misinterpret it.
His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“I’m not.”
“You want me to pretend I’m with you,” he says.
“I want the world to think we chose this,” I correct.
“That’s the same thing.”
“No,” I say quietly. “It’s control.”
He exhales slowly; gaze still locked on mine.
“And what do you get out of it?” he questions.
“Time.”
“For what?”
“To stay ahead of him.”
That’s the part I give him.
Not all of it.
Not the part where I need access to the ranch.
Not the part where I need to see what Evan is planning before it’s too late for either of us.
And definitely not the part where—
my attention drifts again.
Down to the hard line of his shoulders. The way his shirt pulls across the breadth of them, fabric straining with the kind of thickness that doesn't come from a gym.
Ranch work. Hours of hauling fence posts and throwing hay bales and wrestling with stubborn livestock.
The cotton stretches when he shifts, and I can see the outline of muscle beneath, the rounded cap of his shoulder, the slope into his chest.
His chest. I remember how it felt under my palms at the barn. Solid. Unyielding. The kind of wall you could push against all night and never move an inch. My fingers itch now with the ghost of that contact, the heat of him bleeding through his shirt even then, even with layers between us.
Logan watches me watching him. That blue gaze tracks the path of my attention like he's reading a map I didn't mean to lay out. His jaw tightens, just slightly, when my focus drops to the V of open buttons at his collar, the honey-toned skin visible there.
"You're somewhere else," he murmurs. Not a question. An observation delivered in that low, unhurried voice of his.
I swallow. "I'm here."
"Your body's here." His thumb strokes along the side of my neck, where his hand still holds me in that gentle, commanding grip. "Your mind's running calculations."
He's not wrong. Even now, even with his mouth still swollen from kissing me and his scent filling every breath I take, I'm cataloging. Analyzing. The strategic part of my brain refuses to power down entirely, and it's pulling files I didn't ask for.
The memory of his touch I haven't quite shaken yet.
It surfaces like something rising from deep water—slow, inevitable, displacing everything else. The balcony. Last night, the Vegas skyline glittering beyond the railing, the distant thrum of bass from the club below us. I'd stepped outside for air and Logan had followed.
Of course he'd followed.
I'd felt him before I saw him. That particular shift in the atmosphere, the way the night air suddenly carried cedar and leather instead of perfume and vodka.
He'd come to stand beside me, not too close, giving me the illusion of space while systematically removing my ability to think about anything except him.
The heat of his hands at my waist.
My breath catches now, just as it caught then.
He'd touched me like he had every right to.
No hesitation. No tentative exploration.
Just his palms settling against the curve of my waist, fingers spreading wide, pulling me back against his chest in one smooth motion that made my spine arch and my head fall against his shoulder.
I hadn't pulled away. Not immediately. Not for three full heartbeats, during which I'd felt every inch of him pressed against me—the hard plane of his chest, the solid ridge of his thighs, the unmistakable proof that my proximity affected him as much as his affected me.
And then his mouth had found the curve of my neck, and I'd stopped thinking about pulling away at all.
The way he kissed like he didn't hesitate.
Logan kisses the way he does everything—like control isn't something he's afraid of losing.
Like surrender is a choice he makes deliberately, not a weakness that catches him off guard.
On that balcony, he'd kissed my neck, my jaw, the corner of my mouth, each press of his lips unhurried and thorough, as if he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it.
I'd been the one to hesitate. The one who'd turned in his arms and kissed him properly, desperately, trying to match his pace and failing because my pace was panic and strategy and don't let him see how much you want this.
He'd seen anyway. He always sees.
"You're thinking about the balcony," Logan says now, and his voice pulls me back to the present like a rope around my waist. His eyes hold mine, blue and knowing, and one corner of his mouth curves in something that isn't quite a smile. "Aren't you?"
My lips part. Denial rises automatically, but it dies before it reaches my tongue because what's the point? He already knows. He could probably feel the change in my pulse under his thumb, the way my breathing shifted when the memory hit.
"I'm thinking about how you kissed me," I admit, and the words come out rougher than I intended. Raw.
Something flickers in his expression. Satisfaction, maybe. Or hunger. "How did I kiss you?"
"You know how."
"Tell me." His grip on my neck tightens fractionally, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me who's holding whom. "Say it."
I lick my lips. His gaze drops to track the movement, and I watch his composure crack—just a hairline fracture, barely visible, but there. "Like you didn't care about losing control."
The way he kissed like he didn’t hesitate, like control wasn’t something he cared about losing.
His voice cuts through my memory bubble.
“And the part where I want you?” he asks.
There’s no edge to it.
No joke.
Just truth.
Finally.
I don’t look away.
“That’s inconvenient,” I say as I shake my head to clear it.
His mouth curves, slow and dangerous. “That’s not what it felt like last night.”
No.
It didn’t.
“You didn’t stop it,” he adds.
“Neither did you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
He steps closer again.
Now there’s no space.
Not really.
His hand comes up, bracing against the truck just beside my shoulder, boxing me in without touching.
Not accidental.
Never accidental.
“You’re asking me to trust you,” he says.
“No,” I reply. “I’m asking you to use me.”
His gaze sharpens.
“And what’s stopping you from using me back?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
The honesty hits between us like a spark.
His hand shifts.
Not to the truck this time.
To me.
Fingers brushing my wrist.
Light.
Deliberate.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
His eyes flick down—he notices.
Of course he does.
“There it is,” he murmurs.
I don’t pull away.
That’s the problem.
“You feel it too,” he says.
“I’m aware of it.”
His laugh is low, rough. “You keep saying things like that like it changes anything.”
“It doesn’t,” I say.
“Yeah,” he agrees softly. “It really doesn’t.”
His thumb shifts slightly against my wrist.
Barely there.
Enough.
Too much.
The memory hits again—his mouth on mine, the way I leaned into it instead of pulling away, the way I didn’t stop when I should have.
“You’re dangerous,” he says quietly.
“So are you.”
His gaze drops to my mouth again.
Slower this time.
More deliberate.
The tension snaps tight between us.
Not vague.
Not imagined.
Real.
“If I do this,” he says, voice lower now, “this fake relationship—”
“It’s not fake if it works,” I cut in.
His eyes lift, sharp. “Don’t blur the lines.”
“You already did that last night.”
That lands.
His jaw tightens.
“Answer the question,” he says. “Why would you agree to this?”
Because I need access.
Because I don’t trust my brother.
Because I want to know what you’d do if I didn’t stop you this time.
Because I haven’t stopped thinking about your hands on me.
I don’t say any of it.
“Because it protects the ranch,” I say instead.
Not a lie.
Not the full truth.
“And you care about it?” he presses.
I hold his gaze.
“You’re part of it,” I say.
That’s as close as he gets.
Silence stretches again.
He’s thinking.
Really thinking.
And that’s what I needed.
His hand tightens slightly on my wrist.
Not pulling.
Not letting go.
A choice.
Just like this.
“Still a bad idea,” he says.
“Definitely.”
Neither of us moves.
Which is the problem.
Because we both know exactly what this is now.
A deal.
A risk.
And something neither of us is pretending doesn’t exist anymore.
His phone buzzes.
The moment fractures.
Barely.
He glances down.
His expression shifts instantly.
“What?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
Just turns the screen toward me.
A message.
Unknown number.
If you want answers, cowboy, come alone.
And beneath it—
a photo.
Of me.
Standing right here.
Seconds ago.
I go still.
Not fear.
Confirmation.
Logan’s eyes lift to mine.
Dark now.
Focused.
“Guess we’re already part of the plan, but I need time to think,” he says.