Chapter 11
“Dad, I could really use your help right now,” I say into the still air. “Do you want to keep your Blues Traveler albums?”
No answer.
Thumbing through the record sleeves, I admire the variety he collected. Celine Dion . . . Talking Heads . . . King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard. “Your taste is eclectic, that’s for sure,” I mutter.
I raise my voice louder—so he can hear me.
“Okay, I’ll save these for next week, but I want you to think about them until then.
I need an answer by end of day Saturday, got it?
” I should probably check to see what time—oh fuck!
It’s after six o’clock, and I told Logan I would help him with that photo shoot. I open my text thread with Logan.
I’m so sorry! I lost track of time, is it too late for photos?
If he was hoping to shoot using natural light, I won’t get there in time before the sun starts to set. Especially since I still need to clean up before I go since I’m covered in dust.
Logan
Never too late. I’ve got enough lighting.
I’m going to take a quick shower and I’ll head over. Does it matter what I wear?
Logan
Nothing baggy, something comfortable.
My stomach growls. I haven’t eaten since this morning.
Have you eaten yet?
Logan
No, we can order in though.
I’ll pick up dinner. Burgers from Matt’s?
Logan
Sounds great.
A little over an hour later, I’m pressing the buzzer at his loft with a brown bag of greasy food in hand. “It’s me,” I say into the speaker. The door unlocks and I pull it open, then press the 6 to the top floor once I’m in the elevator. The round white button glows as the lift climbs higher.
Once I exit, I make my way to his front door and let myself in. I don’t know when we started just walking into each other’s houses, but we’ve been doing it for years.
Stepping over the threshold, I enter his loft and my gaze rises to the tall elevated ceiling that reaches above both floors.
His place suits him, artsy and rough around the edges, but not in a pretentious kind of way.
Large area rugs sprawl across the aged wooden floorboards, softening up the living spaces.
The interior walls are a mix of concrete and red brick, showcasing a few large pieces from his favorite artists.
On the adjacent wall, gridded windows rise to meet the industrial ceiling.
The older glass is divided by black mullions, and fresh air wafts through a few of the panels that are tilted outward, bringing with it the smell of spring.
His bedroom loft and art studio are accessible by a curved metal staircase that climbs to the second level; the foot of the bed faces the windows and skyline and is just barely visible from where I stand.
Tonight’s sunset is stunning, spilling rays of warm light across the floorboards. It must be incredible to wake up with a panorama of the city every morning. It’s not a huge space, but the open floor stretches it wider, and the view takes care of the rest.
He gives me a quick hug. “Hi.”
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, handing him the food.
“How was your epic quest in the attic?” he asks over his shoulder, heading toward the kitchen.
As usual, time slipped away from me. Logan texted earlier that morning confirming our plans and asking if I needed help with Dad’s collection of vinyl, but I told him I was fine and that I’d catch up with him later.
“Actually . . . really good.” I hooked up his record player and an old banged-up speaker, then danced in circles among the dust and memories, jamming out the way we used to when he was still around. “It was more therapeutic than I expected.”
He smiles, and I toe off my shoes, following him into the kitchen.
I spot the tall studio lights he’s set up for later.
I decided to go with a pair of black leggings and a fitted white tee to ensure that he can easily reference my figure later, when he starts painting.
I skipped the bra in case he’s planning on painting nudes.
Depending on the poses he has in mind, I don’t want it to impact the natural human form.
At least, that’s the professional justification I’m going with.
I posed nude in art school for the extra cash, it’s no big deal.
Padding around the granite island, I open the fridge for something to drink.
“Ooh, you got one of the barrel-aged stouts from Citra?” The brewery only made a limited batch, and it’s sold out everywhere. I’ve been dying to get my hands on one.
“All yours,” he replies, dumping out the signature crispy tater tots onto the plates. “I had one yesterday. They’re pretty good.”
“Rain check. I’m not ready to jump into something that heavy. What are you drinking?”
“Old-fashioned. You want one?” He plucks an orange from the bowl, already knowing my answer.
“If you’re making them, I can’t say no.”
I perch on the wooden barstool across from him, leaning forward with my elbows on the counter, and admire the way he muddles the sugar, citrus, and bitters—the way his forearms tense and tighten is like a performance all on its own.
“What kind of whiskey are we drinking tonight?”
He smirks, pulling the stopper from the glass decanter. “The good stuff.”
After pouring, Logan grips the orange in one hand while slicing the paring knife through the peel, forming a slow, precise spiral. He twists it over the glass, releasing the oils and dropping it into the smoky amber liquor.
“Beautiful.”
He slides the cocktail in front of me. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” I bring the drink to my lips, letting the warmth of the whiskey coat my tongue, savoring it as it rolls down my throat. It’s delicious. He seems satisfied by my appreciative sigh.
Setting my glass down, I arrange our food on the plates he laid out for us while he finishes wiping down the counter. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”
He raises a brow. “Forget to eat lunch again?”
“Hey, you’re guilty of it too.” It’s not uncommon for us to become caught up in our work once we begin. One of the many similarities we share.
We catch up on our days while devouring our burgers. His gaze seems to track my mouth between bites. It’s the same easy, casual conversation we’ve had a hundred times before, but now there’s a hum beneath it that quickens my pulse.
After dinner, I find myself staring at Logan as he preps the space, all six feet, four inches of quiet dominance.
He adjusts one of the lights, dimming it to create a softer ambiance.
He’s focused and controlled as he works.
His calculating eyes are framed by those goddamn glasses that drive women wild—and I’m no exception.
While he sets up his camera and tests the lighting, I wander toward the giant windows, drawn to the towering buildings silhouetted by a technicolor sky.
The cocktail in my hand expertly balances the ratio of smoke and citrus—the flavors lingering on my taste buds.
With each sip, I grow more relaxed. As darkness falls over the city, it’s transformed into something magical, sparkling like a night sky.
He brushes up behind me, and I almost lean back into his broad chest. My cheeks heat with embarrassment when I realize he’s reaching for the open windows—not me. The temperature has dipped since the sun melted below the horizon.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm,” I answer, lowering my chin. I recall the other night when, for a split second, I thought he might kiss me.
Between the wine and the breakup, I probably wouldn’t have stopped him; my emotions were all over the place.
I shake away the intrusive thoughts and remind myself what I’m here to do.
“Where should I be?” Waiting for direction, I peel off my socks and toss them toward my shoes at the front door.
“First, I want you on the sofa,” he instructs, moving the coffee table out of the way.
“Lay on your back.” His voice takes a deeper tone.
I’ve teased him in the past that he should use his bossy voice around women more, it’s sexy.
But at this moment, I’m glad he’s using it with me and not someone else.
I point to the left side of the firm leather sofa. “My head at this end?”
He nods while I get settled.
“So, what kind of mood are we going for?” I ask, letting down my hair from the ponytail. “Something somber? Some bleak chic?”
“Seductive.”
I swallow.
“Just you,” he adds.
Damn.
When it comes to men, there’s not many who can compete with Logan. He’s a terrific friend and probably an even better partner—if he were to give love half a chance. He watches out for the ones he cares about, protective with an edge of danger.
Does he take women home? Despite how often I joke about him being celibate, I can’t imagine that’s actually true. He’s far too attractive. His sex life isn’t any of my business, but that doesn’t stop it from slipping into my thoughts anyway. It steals my attention more than I’d like to admit.
He snaps a few quick shots, then tweaks the settings on his camera before crouching on his knees. “Turn your head toward me a little more,” he says, then adjusts the lens. The shutter clicks a few times.
“Arch your back for me.”
I chuckle. “For you, huh?”
“Kelly . . .” He draws out my name like a warning.
“Yes, sir,” I purr, flashing him my best sex eyes in an attempt to fluster him.
His tone sharpens. “Do that again.”
So commanding.
“What? Call you sir?”
He tilts his chin. “You know what. Give me that look again.”
I swallow, the charged air settling as I meet his suggestive gaze once more.
Warmth washes over my cheeks and I don’t shy away—I bathe in it.
I’ve posed before, but never has it felt so .
. . intoxicating. The way I’m able to hold his attention is like wielding a powerful weapon I didn’t know I possessed. It’s addicting and I like it.
Maybe it’s the warm cocktail in my veins or the soft lighting, but this time, I don’t bother pretending. I drop my guard and give him a good look at the temptation I’ve kept buried for too long.