Chapter 4 Logan #2
Even as I ask, I feel like an ass. She might have a concussion. I’m sending her on a ten-hour drive alone. I almost walk it back—but I want to get to the island, get through this stupid vacation, then get home. A full day in a car with Rose is the last thing either of us needs.
“I’ll be fine.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’ll get you back for the car and the room when we’re in Georgia. I just need to move a few things around first. Thank you for arranging everything.” Her cheeks have gone a little pink.
“Yeah, whatever, that’s fine. You don’t have to—”
“I just need a phone, that’s all, so I can access my bank app. I need to call Easton, too, he’s going to freak out. Can I use your phone?”
Irritation scratches at me. Fucking Easton. Is he her boyfriend again? Are they fucking? She says his name casually, like her relationship with him is no big deal.
When he went pro and signed his contract with New York, number two draft pick, Pearl was inconsolable for weeks.
She called me, barely holding it together.
She’d been at every single game since they were preteens, sat in the cold bleachers, supported his dream.
They researched D1 schools together, mapped out their whole future.
Then he dumped her for her younger sister, and Pearl just…
broke. Watching him go pro brought back all those painful memories.
Rose is still waiting, eyebrows raised. She must know what being with Easton costs Pearl. I wonder if she cares.
“Yeah,” I say, and slide my phone over, opening the call screen first.
She calls instead of texts. He doesn’t pick up.
She turns slightly toward the window and says into the phone, “Hey, it’s me, I’m using Logan’s phone.
There were some… plane troubles—if you hear anything, don’t worry about it.
I’ll explain as soon as I can, but I lost my phone, so.
” A pause. “I’m safe.” Another pause, softer. “Okay. Bye.”
She sets the phone down and stares at it for a second, eyes going wide, before sliding it back. “Pearl’s texting you.”
I keep my face neutral while I scan Pearl’s text—something about a picnic on the beach before the wedding, that she needs to be there in time, she has something important to tell me.
I close it without responding. The Easton thing is still on my mind. I’m irritated it’s bothering me, and more irritated that I can’t seem to let it go, so I’m relieved when she changes the subject.
“Are you close with my dad?”
I look up, tucking my phone into my pocket. “Not exactly. I mean, we’re friendly. When I was in med school, I’d visit with Pearl, and he and I would end up talking about my classes. He’s a good man.”
She nods slowly. “Yeah.”
Her flat tone bothers me. “He always seemed like a good father,” I say, not sure why I’m pushing it.
Another slow nod, no real weight behind it. “Why are you going to the wedding if you aren’t close?” she asks.
“Pearl invited me. Our whole group, actually. We don’t see each other much anymore. Everyone’s busy. This was a good excuse. I’ve always admired Roger, even if we don’t know each other well. And Pearl’s always been really great about finding ways to keep us all together.”
Something flickers in her expression. Barely, but I catch it. Pearl planned this whole wedding, Rose did nothing to help. And yeah, Pearl started her own event planning business, so coordinating a wedding wasn’t a stretch for her, but I am curious why Rose wasn’t more involved.
I ask, “Are you looking forward to being a bridesmaid?”
She snorts. “God no. Pearl picked out the dresses. I have no idea what she chose. Jo said she didn’t care about the whole wedding party to-do, she just wants to marry Dad, but Pearl insisted there be a full lineup. Her, one of Jo’s friends, Jo’s sister, I think even Harlow is a bridesmaid.”
“Pearl roped me into being a groomsman.”
Rose makes a face. “You’re a groomsman?”
“I know, it sounds strange, but Roger didn’t seem to care one way or another, and it made Pearl happy. She insists it’s mostly for pictures, so there’s an even number of people. I’m sure she could have found someone his age, I know your dad has plenty of friends, but whatever.”
She nods slowly, mouth curving. “Maybe she just wanted some young blood up there.”
I laugh.
Rose hugs her mug with both hands, looking down.
“Honestly, I almost didn’t come for the wedding.
My dad and I—our relationship is complicated.
It’s always been complicated, but lately more so.
When my flight got canceled, I thought, okay, maybe this is a sign from the universe telling me not to go.
” She pauses. “But that’s a shitty way to think about your dad’s wedding. ”
“So, if your cancelled flight was a sign to skip it, what does a plane crash signal?”
She laughs, and it’s quick and real, her hand coming up to cover it. High cheekbones, thick dark brows. Everything about her face is dramatic, more so when she smiles. Like something painted on a museum wall. I never let myself look at her long enough to enjoy it, but I do now.
“Good question. At this point, I’m taking it as the universe telling me to get my shit together. I suppose it’s time.”
I want to ask what she means by that, but Marielle drops off our plates, and Rose digs right in before I can.
All day I’ve watched her scowl, screech, snap, laugh sarcastically—since the moment this entire journey to hell began, we’ve been at each other’s throats.
Now, her eyes close briefly, and a serene smile crosses her face, and I can’t stop staring as she stuffs a slice of waffle and whipped cream in her mouth.
She shoves a fresh strawberry in before she’s even swallowed, and says, mouth still full, “Dis is soo good, oh my god, oo haf to try it.”
Her dark, expressive brows lift as she nudges her plate toward me.
It’s such an easy gesture, something you do with people you’re comfortable or intimate with, and it catches me off guard.
I’m even more surprised when I reach my fork across the table and cut into her waffle.
I haven’t done that in years—eat waffles, I mean.
I don’t think I’ve ever eaten off a woman’s plate. Doubt I’ve wanted to.
My life is a series of organized routines.
Egg-white omelets for breakfast. Same lunch every day on rotation.
Chicken, turkey, fish, vegetarian. Always heart healthy.
Five days a week in the gym, cardio and weights, each session ends with twenty minutes of stretching.
I date women from my social circle who fit into the narrow margins of my schedule, show up to events on my arm, and don’t make my life complicated. It works.
Everything in my life is careful.
Nothing about this trip fits into my carefully constructed life.
Rose steals my fork—apparently I’m moving too slowly for her—loads it with waffle, cream and strawberry, and holds it out to me. I take it from her and take a bite. Her cheeks go a shade darker as she watches me.
God, it’s good.
I nod once, dismissively, sip my coffee, and break into my burger—another thing I haven’t touched in almost a year. It’s good. Better than good. This place is not what I expected. None of this is.
“How are you feeling, really?” I ask between bites, wanting to take advantage of the temporary peace between us.
“Better. I took a nap. The food is helping. My headache is gone.”
I pause mid-bite. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a headache?”
She waves a hand. “It started before the crash. It’s fine.” She tilts her head. “What about you? You walked away without a scratch.”
She’s the one with the bruise, the headache, the concussion risk, and she’s asking about me. “I’m fine,” I say. She’s still watching me, waiting, like she actually wants to know. “Really,” I emphasize.
“So, is that diner near the hospital as good as this?” Her voice has gone light, almost teasing. It takes me a second. Then I remember what I said about her getting a job at a topless diner. Something about her only skill set is having a nice rack.
“The food isn’t nearly as good. Though I suspect that’s not the reason the place stays busy.”
She snorts and takes another bite.
“I’m sorry about that,” I say honestly. “It was a shitty thing to say.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “I’ve heard worse.”
I almost ask who, but stop myself. I’ve probably said worse. But she doesn’t seem distressed, so I let it go. There’s something almost unsettling about that—the ease with which she shrugs it off, like she’s had so much practice being insulted.
Then she adds, “Now, if that place makes waffles as good as these, I’d work there in a heartbeat.”
I glance up from my burger. She’s licking whipped cream off her thumb, her tongue moving slow and unselfconscious.
The image hits me hard. Rosaria Lopes at a topless diner, apron strings tied at the back of her waist, wearing nothing else.
Just tits and ass and smooth skin. A tray of waffles piled high with whipped cream balanced on one hand.
A stream of need crawls down my spine, stiffening my cock.
I set down my burger and take a sip of coffee, so my voice doesn’t come out as hoarse as it feels. “If the waffles were as good as these, you might get to keep your shirt on.” Though that would be a fucking tragedy.
She spears another strawberry, smirking. “Bold of you to assume I’d want to.”
The imagery is a little too much. I’m not sure how we got to discussing her topless for the better part of five minutes, but I focus on my burger to get myself back under control. The woman is a siren.
Rose finishes her meal mostly in silence, except for the occasional exaggerated moan, which I do my best to ignore. But her color is coming back, and I can tell she’s feeling better, and something in me uncoils at that.