8. Quinn
Quinn
The front door closes behind the brothers.
Finally.
Silence settles through the house again, thick after fifty straight minutes of tension, negotiations, and Cole Wilder looking at me like he’s calculating how difficult it would be to physically throw me off the ranch.
I stay where I am near the kitchen island, arms folded loosely, watching Logan lock the door.
The click feels heavier than it should.
Because now—
it’s just us.
Again.
And somehow that feels more dangerous than facing all three of his brothers combined.
Logan turns slowly, gaze finding mine immediately.
No distraction this time.
No audience.
No buffer.
Just heat.
Real. Direct. Impossible to ignore.
“Well,” I say evenly, “that went smoothly.”
A low laugh escapes him. “You and I got very different definitions of smooth, sweetheart.”
The nickname lands exactly where it shouldn’t.
I ignore that.
Mostly.
“You agreed faster than I expected,” I say.
“That bother you?”
“No.”
“Yes, it does.”
His mouth curves slightly as he crosses the room toward me, slow and deliberate like he already knows I’m not leaving.
Maybe I do too.
“That’s confidence talking,” I reply.
“No,” he says quietly. “That’s observation.”
The air shifts between us.
Closer.
Warmer.
More dangerous.
I should create distance.
Instead, I stay exactly where I am.
Logan stops directly in front of me, close enough that I catch the clean scent of soap, cedar, and something unmistakably male that immediately drags my brain back to Vegas.
Back to his mouth on mine.
Back to his hands gripping my hips against the hotel wall.
God.
This man is a problem.
“You handled my brothers better than most people do,” he says.
“I noticed one of them looked ready to bury me in Montana’s wilderness.”
“That was Cole being polite.”
I laugh softly before I can stop myself.
The sound surprises both of us.
His expression shifts slightly at that.
Less hard.
Still intense.
But warmer now.
Which somehow feels even more dangerous.
“You really think this works?” I ask quietly.
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
That catches me off guard more than it should.
“You don’t sound thrilled about it.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why agree?”
His eyes lock on mine.
“Because you were right.”
The honesty in that hits harder than expected.
Logan doesn’t strike me as a man who admits things easily.
Especially not to me.
Especially not when I’m tied to everything threatening his ranch.
“And because,” he continues, stepping even closer, “if someone’s getting close enough to mess with my family, I’d rather see them coming.”
There it is.
The truth underneath it.
Not trust.
Control.
Smart.
Predictable.
Safe.
I should appreciate that.
Instead, disappointment flickers low in my stomach before I can stop it.
Ridiculous.
Logan’s gaze sharpens immediately.
He notices everything.
“That wasn’t the answer you wanted?”
Dangerous question.
I straighten slightly. “I didn’t realize I wanted one.”
His eyes darken.
God.
The man looks at me like every conversation turns physical eventually.
Maybe with us, they do.
“You know what your problem is?” he asks quietly.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“You think too much.”
“And you don’t think enough.”
A slow grin appears.
Sharp. Male. Reckless enough to make my pulse shift.
“That’s usually when things get interesting.”
Before I can answer, his hand slides against my waist.
Not rough.
Not hesitant either.
Possessive in a way that instantly tightens every nerve ending in my body.
This shouldn’t affect me anymore.
Not after Vegas.
Not after the headlines.
Not after standing in front of his brothers negotiating terms like a business arrangement.
But the second his thumb brushes lightly against my side through the fabric of my dress—
my breath catches anyway.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth.
Then returns to my eyes.
“You planning to stay in that hotel tonight?” he asks.
There it is.
The real question.
Not logistics.
Not strategy.
Us.
I force my voice steady. “Wouldn’t that make more sense?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if we’re selling this,” he says, “distance kills it.”
Practical.
Logical.
Reasonable.
None of which explains why heat flashes through me anyway.
“You move fast,” I murmur.
“So do you.”
Fair.
He steps closer again until there’s barely space left between us.
My body notices immediately.
The hard line of his chest.
The heat rolling off him.
The way he looks at me like restraint is becoming inconvenient.
“You nervous yet?” he asks softly.
“No.”
“Liar.”
His fingers flex lightly at my waist.
My pulse jumps traitorously.
His mouth curves.
“There she is.”
I should step back.
Instead, my hands flatten against his chest almost instinctively, and the feel of solid muscle beneath my palms sends another dangerous wave of memory crashing through me.
Logan inhales slowly.
Controlled.
Barely.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.
The fact that he asks matters more than it should.
Because men like Evan take.
They pressure. Corner. Manipulate.
But Logan—
Logan waits.
Even when he clearly doesn’t want to.
That realization shifts something inside me before I can stop it.
My fingers tighten slightly against his shirt.
“I think stopping would complicate the story,” I say.
A low sound leaves him.
Half laugh. Half warning.
“Jesus, Quinn.”
Then his mouth crashes into mine.
Hot.
Immediate.
Real enough to wipe every coherent thought from my head.
The kiss deepens instantly, his hand sliding firmly against my back as he pulls me flush against him. Heat rolls through me so fast it almost feels like falling.
No hesitation.
No pretending.
His mouth moves against mine with rough confidence that turns my carefully controlled breathing uneven within seconds.
And God—
he kisses like he means it.
Like every ounce of restraint he’s holding during the day disappears the second he touches me.
My fingers curl into his shirt before I can stop them, holding on as the kiss stretches longer, slower, deeper.
I can feel my nipples pebble as my whole body is practically vibrating for a repeat of Vegas.
It’s the only time someone was able to give me multiple orgasms and my core clenches in hunger for more.
Logan makes a low sound against my mouth when I shift closer.
Approval.
Possession.
Desire.
All three hit at once.
His hand slides upward along my spine, slow enough to make me feel every inch of contact, until his fingers sink lightly into my hair at the base of my neck.
The angle changes.
The kiss turns devastating.
Heat spirals low through my stomach.
Dangerous.
Too real.
I break the kiss first only because breathing becomes necessary.
Barely.
Logan’s forehead rests briefly against mine, both of us breathing harder now.
“That,” he says roughly, “is gonna sell real easy.”
I should say something sharp.
Controlled.
Strategic.
Instead, my gaze drops briefly to his mouth again.
Mistake.
His eyes darken instantly.
“You keep doing that,” he murmurs, “and I’m gonna forget we’re faking this.”
Right.
Because somehow that kiss already felt one step away from disaster.
I force enough space between us to think again.
Barely.
“This is exactly why fake relationships are a terrible idea,” I say quietly.
Logan’s mouth curves slowly.
“Too late now.”
And standing there in his arms, pulse still racing, lips still tingling—
I realize he’s right.
Because nothing about this feels fake anymore.