Chapter 7
Reese
Logan’s building rises like a gleaming spire against the Chicago skyline. The doorman greets me by name—“Good evening, Miss Thompson”—which means Logan’s called ahead, and something about that small courtesy makes me feel seen and slightly onstage.
I clutch my overnight bag tighter as I cross the marble lobby, heels clicking against the polished floor.
The private elevator requires a key card, which Logan texted me would be waiting at the front desk.
It’s all so calculated, so smooth. He’s done this before, I think, and immediately try to banish the thought.
“Penthouse,” the concierge says with a knowing smile as he hands me the card. Not helping my anxiety.
I step into the elevator—all mirrors and brushed metal—and swipe the card.
The doors slide shut with a soft whisper, and my reflection stares back at me from every angle.
I smooth down my favorite jeans, wondering if the casual-but-nice sweater was the right call.
It's off-shoulder on one side—showing just enough skin to feel a little daring without trying too hard.
First time at his place, and I didn't want to look like I was overthinking it.
The elevator begins its ascent, and my stomach lurches with it.
Thirty-eight floors. Plenty of time to second-guess every decision that led me here, from saying yes to dinner last week to packing an overnight bag tonight.
What if this is just a hookup for him? What if all those texts and calls and FaceTimes were just his way of getting me into bed?
No. I shake my head at my anxious reflection. The connection we’ve built over the past week feels real. The way he listened when I talked about my students, the way he shared stories about his childhood in Minnesota—that wasn’t fake. Was it?
The elevator slows, then stops with a gentle ping. The doors slide open, and there he is.
Logan stands in the entrance to his penthouse, barefoot in dark jeans and a soft-looking gray henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair is slightly damp, like he’s just showered, and the smile that spreads across his face when he sees me makes my knees weak.
“Hi,” he says, stepping forward to take my overnight bag. “You look incredible.”
Before I can respond, his hand touches my face, thumb brushing my cheek.
His intense hazel eyes lock with mine—and I forget how to breathe.
He pulls me against him and kisses me softly, deliberately, his lips warm and insistent.
The scent of him floods my senses—clean skin and gentle cologne—making my knees weak as he finally breaks away.
“Hi yourself,” I whisper, dizzy from the kiss, steadying myself with my hand against his broad chest.
“Come in,” he says, as his hand slides to my waist, sending a shiver through me as he guides me forward. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
There’s nothing humble about it. The penthouse opens into a vast living space with floor-to-ceiling windows that frame Chicago’s skyline like living art.
The furniture is sleek and modern—low leather couches, glass coffee tables, abstract paintings on the walls—but there are surprising touches of warmth, too.
A well-worn hockey jersey framed above the fireplace.
Family photos on a bookshelf. A plush throw tossed casually over the arm of a chair.
“This is…” I trail off, taking it all in. “Wow.”
“Too much?” he asks, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.
I turn to look at him, surprised. “No, it’s beautiful. Just not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” He sets my bag down by the door and moves to a built-in bar in the corner.
“I don’t know. Something more…” I search for the right word. “Impersonal? Like a hotel suite.”
He laughs, the sound rich and warm. “I used to have a place like that. All show, no substance.” He pulls out two crystal tumblers. “Drink? I’ve got wine, whiskey, or I can make you something.”
“Wine would be great.” I wander toward the windows, drawn by the glittering expanse of city lights below us. “This view is incredible.”
“Best part of the place,” he agrees, coming up behind me with two glasses of red wine. I feel his warm chest against my back as he hands me a glass from behind so we can both enjoy the view. “Wait until you see it from the balcony.”
He leads me through glass doors to an outdoor space that makes me gasp.
The balcony wraps around the corner of the building, furnished with comfortable-looking outdoor sofas and a small dining table.
String lights are draped overhead, casting a warm glow over everything.
A fire pit glows in the center, flames dancing in the evening breeze.
“You did all this for tonight?” I ask, gesturing to the lights, the fire.
He shrugs, but I can tell he’s pleased by my reaction. “Thought it would be nice. It gets chilly up here.”
We settle on one of the sofas, closer than strictly necessary. Logan’s arm stretches along the back behind me, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
“So,” he says, taking a sip of his wine. “How were the monsters today?”
Just like that, we fall into conversation as easily as we have all week.
I tell him about Sophie’s missing tooth and the ensuing class-wide debate about the Tooth Fairy’s going rate.
He shares stories from practice, about how Peterson taped Kovy’s street clothes to the ceiling as payback for some earlier prank.
His hand finds its way to my bare shoulder, fingers absently playing with a low hanging curl.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, emboldened by the wine and the intimacy of the setting.
“Anything.” His eyes catch the firelight, turning them almost golden.
“Why me?” The question slips out before I can second-guess it. “I mean, you could be with anyone. Models, actresses… why go out with a kindergarten teacher who literally doused you with hot coffee?”
He studies me for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. Then he takes my wine glass and sets it on the table beside his. His hands find mine, warm and strong.
“Because you’re real,” he says simply. “Do you know how rare that is in my world? Everyone wants something—a story, a connection to the team, a night with a hockey player they can brag about to their friends.” His thumb traces circles on my palm. “You didn’t even recognize me at first.”
“I did so,” I protest weakly.
His smile turns knowing. “Not right away. And even when you did, you were embarrassed about the spill, not star-struck. You talked to me like a person, not a celebrity.”
“Well, you are a person,” I say, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “A person with an admittedly impressive job, but still just a person.”
He laughs, the sound vibrating through me where our legs are touching. “See? That. Right there. That’s why.”
His hand releases mine to cup my cheek, thumb brushing my lower lip. The touch sends heat spiraling through me, releasing butterflies in my belly. We’re so close now that I can see the flecks of amber in his eyes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice dropped to a rumble that I feel more than hear.
“I might explode if you make me wait any longer.”
And then his lips are on mine. The kiss starts gentle, almost tentative, but quickly deepens as I respond.
His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open to him with a soft sound that would embarrass me if I had the capacity for embarrassment right now.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, angling my head to deepen the kiss further.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, trading increasingly hungry kisses as the fire crackles beside us and the city glitters below.
My hands find their way under his shirt, exploring the ridges of muscle across his abdomen.
I’ve never felt anything like it. His mouth moves to my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below my ear that makes me gasp.
“Inside,” he murmurs against my skin. “Bedroom.”
He stands, pulling me up with him, and I’m momentarily dizzy from the wine and arousal and the height we’re at.
Logan steadies me, his arm around my waist as he guides me back through the glass doors.
We don’t make it far—as soon as we’re inside, he presses me against the wall, his body a solid wall of heat against mine.
His kiss turns demanding, one hand behind my neck while the other finds my thigh.
“Is this okay?” he asks, fingers tracing the edge of my underwear.
“Yes,” I breathe, beyond caring about anything but the need building inside me. “Please.”
He lifts me suddenly, hands gripping my thighs, and I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively. The hard length of him presses against me through our clothes, and I roll my hips without thinking, seeking friction.
“Fuck, Reese” he growls against my neck.
He carries me down a hallway—I catch glimpses of more rooms, more windows, more skyline—to a bedroom that’s dominated by a massive bed with beautiful gray sheets. He sets me down beside it.
“Can I?” he asks, and I nod, he pulls my sweater over my head, unbuttons my jeans and pushes them down to my feet, leaving me in nothing but a black lace bra and panties. Logan’s eyes darken as he takes me in, his Adam’s apple momentarily stuck in his throat as he swallows hard.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he says, voice rough.
I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but the hunger in his eyes makes me feel powerful instead. I reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward. “Your turn.”
He pulls the shirt off in one fluid motion, and I have to stop myself from gasping.
I’ve seen athletes before—I dated a college baseball player once—but Logan’s body is on another level.
Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist, every inch defined by muscle earned through years of training.
And there are scars—one at the bottom of his abs, another near his collarbone, souvenirs from a violent sport.