Chapter 33
“It’s my house, Logan. I miss my space, my stuff.” We’ve been arguing for the last ten minutes, and I’m digging my heels in.
His knuckles bloom with white as he grips the steering wheel.
“I love being with you, but it’s been so long since I’ve been home. If I keep hiding at your place, I’m going to lose my mind.”
He exhales slowly through his nose. “And what about your stalker? Your ex? Just going to leave the welcome mat out for them too?”
I cross my arms over my chest and angle my body in my seat. “I need my own space.”
“I need you to be safe.”
I roll my eyes. I’ll be safe at my house too. “You’ve been hovering since this started, and I get it—you promised Dad you’d watch out for me. But it’s my life. I need to have some semblance of control here.”
The silence fills the truck cab. He doesn’t look at me.
I can’t tell if he’s considering it or has closed the door on the idea altogether.
My gaze stays locked on him, trying to gauge if we’re going to have a bigger fight about this, because there’s no way I’m backing down. I need him to respect my wishes.
“Fine,” he mutters. Though his tone tells me he’s not at all happy about it. “You can stay at your place. For tonight.” He glances over at me briefly. “You take Odin with you. Don’t go anywhere without him. Keep the doors locked and answer my calls—if you don’t, I’ll come over and drag you back.”
This was supposed to feel like solitude, but here I am side-eyeing every creaky floorboard and having staring contests with the shadow behind a door. All because I “value my space.”
I hold my breath while opening my Instagram app and clicking my DM requests to see if any new messages have sprung up. “Please be nothing, please be nothing,” I whisper while fully expecting another fake account giving me the same recycled, creepy line.
Odin snores soundly next to me, taking up half the bed.
Being home alone adds to my unease. Every groaning pipe and settling beam has me jumping.
I’ve double-checked the locks twice and closed all my blinds, something I never used to care much about.
It took me far too long to decide whether to keep the lights on.
It might make people think I’m awake, but it will also let someone know I’m home.
It’s a double-edged sword. I shimmy deeper under my covers.
There are five new messages, all of them asking about my rates and when I’m opening my books again.
I breathe a sigh of relief. I used to be able to ignore those messages so much easier.
Ever since that physical note, it’s been on my mind, taking up space and infiltrating my thoughts.
I’m suspicious of every person who walks into the shop or past my house.
Any one of them could be my stalker. It’s a shitty way to live.
I half hope it is Jason, at least then I know who to watch out for.
I tap out replies to each of the messages and commence my doomscroll, and then a new story pops up from Logan.
It’s not often he posts, so I click on it.
It’s a photo of him setting up his canvas to begin painting, and I can’t help but smile.
I wish I were there right now. I wouldn’t be scared at his house.
Sleep evades me, trapping me with my paranoid thoughts and pounding pulse. Branches blow in the breeze outside my window, casting shadows onto my walls that resemble outstretched arms—reaching for me.
I considered taking a sleeping pill, but I don’t want to sleep so soundly that I don’t hear an intruder.
It’s the same reason I’m too afraid to turn on music or my TV.
I need to be aware of my surroundings. Unfortunately, it makes all the ambient noises seem more threatening.
I double-check that the baseball bat under my pillow is still there.
I told Logan we should spend a couple nights apart so we don’t get sick of each other. There were some things I had to take care of around my house, like mowing the backyard, collecting my mail, and bringing home all the clothes he washed and folded for me.
After spending the weekend with him in Bozeman and another night at his place, I didn’t want either of us to feel smothered. Our friendship and our work situation make our circumstance unique since we already spend a lot of time together. I don’t want to overstep any boundaries.
However, I’ve gotten used to his company at nighttime, but now the darkness feeds into my anxiety and worry.
Suddenly, I don’t like being home alone.
Maybe I could just stop by his place and watch him paint for a little while.
I won’t stay the night. When I’m tired, I’ll come back here and fall asleep.
I’ll maintain that boundary, I convince myself while typing out a text message.
How is the painting going?
After a couple minutes, my phone dings with a reply. I’m filled with a sense of relief and instantly feel less vulnerable in my house.
Logan
Good evening, Chaos. Miss me already?
Is your studio open to spectators tonight?
Logan
Depends.
On?
Logan
If you plan on distracting me.
Never. I was thinking I’d come over . . . sit real quiet . . . watch you paint . . . I won’t disturb your work.
Logan
Aww. We both know you’re not quiet.
I promise to behave. I’ll sit on my hands.
Logan
You’ll sit on whatever I tell you to.
Now that sounds like a distraction. You won’t get any painting done.
Logan
Maybe not on my canvas.
I bite my lip while texting him back. Texting him is a good distraction for me.
Between all the palm prints and teeth marks you left last time, I’m not sure there’s any room left on this canvas for any of your “paint.”
Logan
Some of my best work.
You’re making me blush.
Logan
Looks like there was room for pink.
The house settles, causing a shelf in my closet to pop, and I jump. Odin jerks to attention, releasing a loud threatening bark. My pulse climbs higher and my fingers fly across the screen.
I just want to watch you paint. Please?
Logan
If you come over, you’re not just watching.
I jump out of bed and stuff clothes into an overnight bag. Just in case. The sounds of this empty house are making me paranoid, and I’m not keen on returning. Fuck those boundaries, at least for tonight. I keep up the flirty banter, partially to keep my thoughts occupied.
I can pose for you. Put me in whatever position you like.
Logan
Careful.
Or what?
Logan
Or you’ll end up more purple than pink tonight, sweetheart.
I’ve always thought purple brought out my eyes.
Logan
Pack a bag.
I don’t need to stay the night.
I have to at least pretend that’s not my objective.
Logan
Pack a bag.
As soon as I enter his house and lock the door behind me, all the tension and dread slips away. I’m finally safe. I sag against the door and exhale, taking a few steadying breaths. Nothing can get me here.
The lamps in the loft studio cast a warm glow on the floorboards, lighting my path toward the staircase where Odin starts climbing, eager to greet his owner.
“Hi,” I murmur, toeing off my shoes and feeling humbled for showing up here after I put up such a fight earlier.
“Hey.” The dry scrape of his palette knife carries from the loft as he mixes paint to the shade of his liking, blending with the aroma of linseed oil and just a hint of turpentine.
I take the stairs quietly, feeling the need to whisper, the way people do in places that feel holy.
Logan isn’t religious, but there’s something sacred about the space where he creates.
This is his sanctuary. A violin instrumental drifts from speakers above, it’s slowed down, giving it an edginess that’s dark and seductive—very apropos.
At the top, his open-air bedroom sits to the left, while his small studio for painting is to the right.
He stands behind the canvas, barefoot and shirtless.
The faded blue jeans slung low around his waist are well-worn with a hole in the right knee and splattered with paint from previous masterpieces.
This is the hottest version of him, when he’s in his element, creating and consumed in his work—but the thing that always gets me are those fucking glasses and the focused eyes behind them. Sexy doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.
“No,” I reply, landing on the top step.
“Come here.”
I step closer, peeking around the easel to see what he’s accomplished thus far. He has his backdrop completed; dark, moody navy blues fill every corner of the oil painting. A loose human silhouette has begun to take shape.
He quirks a half smile and wraps his arms around me in a hug. “I can’t guarantee my bed will be much better.”
When he release me, I glance down at the small table beside him, littered with tools, paint, a glass of what I assume is Foxx Bourbon, and photographs of me, the ones from our photo shoot. It seems so long ago that he took them, so much has changed since then, so much changed that night.
“Wow.” This is the first time I’m seeing the photos from our shoot. “These are kinda . . .”
“Hot?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah,” I say, my voice a little breathless. This is a side of myself I’ve never seen captured on film—until now. I remember the arousal I felt that night from his words but didn’t realize it was reflected in my eyes and worn on my face so brazenly.
“This is what you’re painting?” I ask, peering up at him, still holding the images in my hands.
I flip through a couple more. Jesus Christ. Is this how he sees me? My confidence skyrockets when I see myself through his lens. I drop the stack of photos back on the table. “You’re painting a nude, right?” I ask, peeling off my socks and sweatshirt.
“Yes.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side, watching me.