Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Harper
A nd there it was—the look she always got when people realized who Harper was related to. She pushed down the familiar sting of disappointment. What had she expected? That this man, who rescued her in a storm, really was her knight in shining armor?
She knew better. Life wasn’t a fairy tale. Nobody got to live happily ever after—just look at her parents.
Her dad never got over her mother’s death, throwing himself into managing Isla’s career with single-minded focus bordering on obsession, purely because their mother had wanted to see Isla succeed.
Harper had been fourteen, and Isla sixteen, the year Isla won the biggest TV talent show in the country, rocketing her to stardom.
Stardom on the wings of Harper’s songs.
“How did you ruin her career?” Logan asked, jerking her from her thoughts.
“If I tell you, you have to promise me you won’t tell anyone.”
He narrowed his eyes. “It depends on what you’re telling me. Did you kill someone?”
“What? No!” she said, a surprised laugh escaping. She shook her head.
He grinned. A warm glow spread through her, and she shivered.
Logan frowned as she wrapped her arms around herself. “Come on. We can talk later. You need to get warm and dry.”
He offered her one giant hand. She slid her hand into his, marveling at his size. His hands were like mitts, all muscular and strong with calluses on the palms and his fingers.
“I’ll show you where you can get cleaned up.” He tugged her gently behind him as he walked into his bedroom.
He let her hand go and the warmth of his fingers lingered for a few moments. It felt good to have her hand held. When was the last time someone held her hand just because? Harper couldn’t remember.
Logan showed her to the bathroom and left her with a stack of clean, fluffy towels. She shut the door and wriggled out of her wet clothes, dropping them onto the tiled floor with a sigh, anticipating the hot water in the shower. Steam was just beginning to fill the bathroom when she heard Logan’s voice on the other side of the door.
“I’ve brought your bags up. I’ll clean up downstairs.”
“Alright,” she called through the door.
She took her time in the shower, washing the dirt from her body and hair. She paused when she reached for her shampoo, her hand outstretched. The neatly lined up bottles of his things and hers looking for all the world like they belonged there together.
She snorted. She’d definitely hit her head when she’d gone off the road.
Harper turned towards the water, tilting her head back and letting the hot water beat over her tired muscles, the stress sliding from her with the soap suds.
When she stepped out, she felt ten times better, and much warmer.
She dried off and wrapped a towel around her and another around her hair, thankful that Logan’s towels were fluffy bath sheets that actually wrapped around her comfortably.
She opened the bathroom door to see her bags on a chest at the foot of the big wooden bed. His bed.
She padded softly toward the trunk, pausing to smooth a hand over the covers on the bed. A handmade quilt was folded neatly at the foot, the bright fabric adding a cheery pop of color to the large bed. The wood was a rich brown, the solid frame making a statement in the room. A matching set of drawers and a closet with sliding doors was built into one wall.
The bed suited him, she decided. A big bed for a big man.
A big bed where he slept.
Does he sleep naked?
She jerked her eyes away and busied herself getting into clean underwear. After agonizing over what to wear—and beating herself up over caring—she pulled on a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater she often wore when she wanted to sloth around the house.
“You’re fine,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. She used the towel to squeeze as much water from her hair as she could, then gave up trying to make herself look more presentable.
What was the point anyway?
She might find Logan attractive—oh, who was she kidding, he was hot as hell—but it would be the same old story. Once a guy found out who her sister was, he wouldn’t give Harper a second look. That was just the way things were.
Isla was made for performing and being in the spotlight. She shone with a radiance that brought fans to her like moths to a flame. Harper was quiet and avoided attention whenever she could. The proverbial wallflower.
She sat on the edge of the bed, lost in thought.
The few times she’d tried to perform—and sometimes when she’d just been in large crowds—she’d had a panic attack. The worst was soon after Isla had her first hit single. Harper had gone to a local talent quest intending to perform an original song but had fainted on stage before she’d sung a note. It had been caught on film, and she’d been taken to a hospital in an ambulance.
Talk about embarrassing.
She was the sister of one of the most popular singers in the world. The sister who fainted with fright at the thought of performing. There was no way a man like Logan would want anything to do with a walking disaster zone like her.
And why was she even thinking about him? She had bigger problems. Namely how she was going to fix this mess she’d managed to get herself—and her sister—into.
She pushed the thought aside and stood, making her way out of the bedroom. She trotted down the stairs to the kitchen, skidding to a halt and colliding with a wall of solid muscle.
“Oof!” The air rushed from her lungs, and she almost fell, but warm hands wrapped around her upper arms, steadying her.
“Are you alright?” Logan asked.
She stared up into his green eyes, rimmed with hazel, her hands resting on his bare chest, which was covered in a light smattering of dark hair—surprisingly soft under her fingers.
“I thought your eyes were brown,” she said.
He quirked a brow, and Harper felt her face heat. She shook her head and stepped back, his hands sliding from her upper arms to her elbows before letting go, as if reluctant to stop touching her.
No, that couldn’t be right.
She pulled her hands away from his chest, missing the warmth of his skin almost immediately.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, looking down at her feet.
“No, I should have been watching where I was going.”
Logan’s deep voice was like honey as it slid over her skin.
Oh god. He was only wearing a towel!
Her cheeks heated further as she tried to look anywhere but at the expanse of bronzed skin on display. He must spend summers working outdoors with his shirt off.
“I’ll just grab some clothes and be down in a minute. I didn’t know how long you’d be, so I figured I’d clean up down here,” he said.
She nodded and stepped aside, unable to stop herself from watching him climb the stairs, his heavily muscled calves bunching as he took them two at a time. The towel clung tight across an ass that had no right to look that good, and Harper dragged her eyes away with effort.
Hot, kind, not a serial killer, and he likes to read?
Too good to be true, girl. No way is he single.
She sighed and went into the kitchen, perching nervously on a stool. It wasn’t long before Logan joined her, this time dressed in worn jeans with a tear at one knee and an old college sweater that looked like it had seen better days.
“Football?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “I played a little in college.”
So she hadn’t been too far off the mark to think of him as a linebacker. “What did you study?”
Logan got a faraway look on his face. “Business. I wanted to study literature but thought I should be practical. It ended up being a good idea.” He headed to the fridge, opening the door and stared at what looked to be the well-stocked contents. “You hungry?”
Her stomach rumbled.
“Um, yeah. I haven’t eaten since…” She thought of the candy bar she’d had at a truck stop before reaching Cape Wilde, the only thing she’d eaten since breakfast. “I haven’t eaten much today.”
“How does a bacon and egg sandwich sound?” he asked, pulling a carton of eggs and a paper-wrapped package she assumed was bacon from the fridge.
“Amazing. That sounds amazing,” she said, smiling.
She watched him move about the kitchen with the ease of someone accustomed to looking after himself. There was an efficiency to his movements that suggested he’d done this countless times, and she couldn’t help but wonder how often he cooked for women who stayed over.
He might have a girlfriend, for all she knew.
Who was she kidding? Of course he did.
She chewed on her thumbnail. Why did the thought twist her stomach? It didn’t take long to figure out—she liked Logan, maybe a little too much.
You’re just thankful he saved you from sitting in your busted car in the rain. Remember why you’re here.
And just like that, the thought sobered her.
Logan slid a plate in front of her and pulled up a stool next to her at the island. She picked up one half of the sandwich, which he’d cut into triangles, and took a bite.
“Mmm. This is good,” she said after swallowing.
Logan smiled. “My grandmother was English. She always insisted on bacon and egg sandwiches when we stayed with her on weekends.”
“That sounds nice. I wish I’d known my grandparents,” Harper said, a wistful note in her voice. She wondered how life might have been different if either set of grandparents had been alive when she and Isla were born. Maybe their dad wouldn’t have been so fixated on Isla’s career.
“So, you mentioned ruining your sister’s career?” Logan asked.
Hearing the words from someone else made them sound dramatic, and Harper flushed with embarrassment.
“Well, maybe not completely ruined… but definitely dented,” she admitted.
Logan nodded and took another bite of his sandwich. He didn’t press for details, just waited patiently for her to speak.
Harper relaxed and told him about how she had admitted something damaging about Isla to a reporter.
“Sounds like she tricked you,” Logan said simply.
She’d thought the same thing, but what difference did it make? In the hands of the tabloid press, the story would be damning. People would share the supposedly salacious details. The damage would still be done.
Harper shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”
He nodded again, finishing his food. Harper realized she hadn’t even eaten half of hers yet. They sat in comfortable silence as she finished eating, and then Logan took their plates and loaded the dishwasher.
She watched him, thinking about how she couldn’t recall her father ever stacking the dishwasher or cooking. After their mother’s death, Isla had taken on that responsibility, followed by Harper. And when Isla started earning money, they hired a cleaner and eventually a cook, too.
Despite Logan doing what her father would have dismissed as “women’s work,” there was nothing feminine about him.
She admired the way his sweater pulled taut over his broad shoulders as he moved. When he bent over, her mouth dropped open as the soft fabric of his worn jeans clung to his legs, and suddenly, she felt uncomfortably warm. He had to have the thickest pair of thighs she had ever seen on a man.
Dragging her gaze away, she searched for something else to focus on. Anything else.
“Seems like a shitty move to me.” Logan closed the dishwasher. A quiet beep followed, and then the gentle whoosh of water started.
The familiar domesticity of the moment eased the knot in Harper’s stomach slightly.
“Whether she tricked me or not doesn’t matter,” Harper murmured. “What matters is that I confirmed she was right. Isla doesn’t write her songs.”
Logan turned, leaning against the counter with one foot crossed over the other. His hands rested on the bench beside him, and Harper couldn’t help but notice the fabric of his sweater pulled across the thick muscles of his arms and shoulders.
And those thighs. Dear lord, the man had thighs to worship!
Down girl.
“Who writes her songs?” Logan asked.
Harper studied him carefully as she admitted—for the second time in two days—a secret she never thought she’d reveal.
“I write Isla’s songs. Every one of them.”
Logan nodded slowly, his expression steady. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the lights flickered—and the house plunged into darkness.