Chapter 11 Logan
I’m thirty-two years old, I’ve been working since I was practically a kid. Fastest tracked CT surgeon in my hospital’s history—yes, my father’s name opened doors, but I was the one who did the work, studied until my eyes bled, outworked every last person in my class. I know where I’m headed.
So it’s saying something that when I woke up this morning, work was the last thing on my mind. Not emails, not cases or patients, or classes, not even the storm rattling the windows.
It was Rose.
The perfect weight of her in my arms. The warmth of her naked skin against mine. Her fucking curves which I cannot get enough of. I can’t stop touching, squeezing, needing.
The second thing I thought was how much I wanted to fuck her again.
Whatever sent her running last night, she’d let go of it by the time we woke up in the middle of the night, and gave herself over to me.
I need to find out what went wrong at the bar, because I want more of her. I want to spend the rest of this trip exploring each other.
A branch drags against the window, waking Rose.
She yawns, makes a cute little mewling sound, stretching her body.
I kiss her forehead, then hop out of bed and peer out the window.
The beach chairs, which they’d carelessly left out, are scattered across the lot, some in the pool.
It’s dark and gray, and aside from the cars, there’s not a soul in sight.
I’d wanted to keep her in bed a little longer, but we need to get out of here.
Grabbing my phone, I pull up the weather app.
My shoulders drop in relief. “Storm’s shifting. Still coming, but the worst of it is south of the island. Rainy and windy, but we’ve only got a few hours of driving left—we’ll make it in time. The ceremony tomorrow will have to move inside, though.”
I look down at Rose, grinning. She stares back at me with open suspicion, like she’s bracing for something to go wrong between us, as it usually does.
She pulls the blanket up to cover her chest, and I frown.
“Everything okay?”
She nods slowly, still eyeing me, then says carefully, “Yes. You?”
“I’m great.” And I mean it. I’m not stressed or pissed off. I’m not irritated or dreading the day ahead.
Maybe I just needed to get laid. But then I look at her—braids half-undone, loose tendrils falling across her face, olive skin still flushed, lips full. She’s a fucking knockout. No. I needed her specifically, needed this.
I crawl back onto the bed and bracket her with my arms. She squeaks and shoves at my chest. “What is wrong with you?”
I didn’t kiss her last night. The second she sank down on me, I lost all cognitive function. It was late, and the whole thing came as a surprise. One I’d wanted, but hadn’t thought I’d ever get with her. I wasn’t thinking straight.
Now, my lips find hers, and she exhales a little in surprise. I work the seam of her mouth open with my tongue.
“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” she murmurs, trying to keep closed.
“I don’t care. Kiss me.” She shakes her head, but I can see the corner of her mouth pulling up in a smile, but her eyes are still suspicious. I tilt my head.
“Everything okay?” I ask again.
She nods, then lets out a breath. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be...”
“Oh. I see. You’re used to fuckboys who play games.”
“I mean, you’re not wrong.”
I lean back and pull her up to a seat. The blanket falls from her chest, and I don’t look away.
I didn’t get to ravage her gorgeous tits like I’ve wanted to for years, but there’s time for that later.
I keep staring at them, the perfect weight of them.
Round and full, tipped in dusty rose nipples, hardened against the cool air.
My mouth is watering, train of thought derailing completely.
I’m still staring when I catch her eyebrow arching at me, and I clear my throat. Fucking lizard brain.
“We’ve got a few more days together. I’d like to spend them with you. Like this.”
She smiles shyly and bites her lip. Her lashes flutter, and she looks down, shaking her head slowly. “You… want to keep having sex with me?”
I find it odd she’s even asking after last night, but nod patiently. “Yes, Rose. I would like to keep fucking you.”
Her eyes sparkle, cheeks burning into a smile. She opens her mouth, eyes working as she arranges her words. But then something shifts. A shadow falls across her face, and it’s like I can see her retreating, just like last night. Her eyes go distant.
A gust of wind drags the tree against the building, a long scraping sound that fills the silence between us. She pulls the covers back without a word, climbs out of bed, and walks stark naked across the room. The bathroom door clicks shut.
I sit there for a moment. Okay. Maybe I was too forward.
She comes out a minute later, then kneels by her bag and gets dressed.
She pulls on a different white t-shirt that’s tight to her frame, and the same pair of painted-on jeans she’s been wearing for two days.
I get dressed too, watching her from the corner of my eye, waiting for something—a word, a look—but she gives me nothing.
We check out of the motel in silence. I reach for her hand in the parking lot, and she not only lets me take it but squeezes back, and that small pressure is somehow worse than if she’d pulled away.
The mixed signals are fucking with my head.
We get on the road. I keep stealing glances. Her jaw is set, eyes fixed on the window, watching the hurricane batter the landscape as if she’s looking for answers in it.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I’m not sure how to do this, Logan.”
“Do what?”
She looks over at me, direct for once. “I’ve always…” Her eyes move across my face, then she swallows whatever she was going to say and turns back to the window.
“Always what?” I ask, frustration creeping into my tone.
“Been more careful than this,” she says quietly, almost to herself.
I turn that over. Does she mean the condom? I ask her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. She just keeps staring out the window, hands fidgeting in her lap.
We drive another thirty miles before a Starbucks sign appears on the overpass, and I pull off without asking.
I need a minute. She’s shut down on me again, worse than last night because this time, I thought we were getting somewhere.
That we’d got past our constant, simmering hostility.
Apparently not. She is genuinely terrible at this—communication, honesty—and it’s starting to piss me off in a way I don’t entirely know what to do with.
In the past, I’d have just snapped at her.
We’d bicker, toss insults at each other.
It’s what we do. What we’ve always done. But I don’t want to go back to that.
I genuinely like Rose. She’s smart and beautiful.
Easy-going until she isn’t, passionate about the things she cares about, funny and interesting to talk to when she actually lets herself talk.
And the sex—I can’t stop replaying last night on a loop, the way it felt being inside her.
But it’s more than that. Our chemistry is unlike anything I’ve ever felt, this pull toward her that doesn’t quit, that has me wanting to reach across the center console just to put my hand on her leg.
I’m so overwhelmed by thoughts of her, physically needing her, that I’d forget all the bullshit in our past just to have another taste.
But she can’t be bothered just to tell me what’s wrong.
“Want anything?” I ask tightly, after pulling into the lot.
“I’ll come in with you.”
“Wonderful,” I mutter, and we head inside.
She shoulders past me to pay for our coffee before I can get my wallet out.
When they call our order, she takes both cups, and I expect her to make for the door, but she drifts toward a table near the window and sets them down and takes a seat. I drop into the chair across from her.
“Last night was fun,” she says cautiously.
“Yeah,” I let out a short laugh. “It was.”
She lifts the cap and blows on the steaming coffee.
I brace myself for whatever’s coming. Rejection, possibly.
An explanation, hopefully. Finally, she says, “I’m okay with…
I mean, I’d like to keep going. With this.
” Her eyes come up to make sure I’ve caught her meaning.
I keep my face neutral and let her finish.
She lets go of her cup, then tears a strip from her napkin and works it between her fingers.
“But I saw your phone. The message. The picture of Pearl.”
And just like that, it all clicks into place. Why she ran off last night, why she clammed up in the car. I look at her—really look at her—but she’s focused hard on the napkin. I’m kind of flattered it bothered her so much. Confirmation I’m not the only one feeling this twisted over us.
“Were you jealous?” I tease.
“No, fuckwad,” she throws the napkin scrap at me. “But if you’re sleeping with her—”
“Woah,” I hold my hands up. “I’m not sleeping with Pearl.
The jealous comment was stupid. I’m sorry.
” She’s still looking at me with distrust, but the open hostility seems to be waning.
I never thought I’d be this invested in a woman who calls me fuckwad, but I really want her to hear me.
“Look—she’s never sent me anything like that before.
I didn’t respond, I was going to deal with it in person.
She has a boyfriend. I don’t know what that was about. ”
“You have no idea what that was about? I can’t tell if you’re gaslighting yourself, or me.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” I say, and it comes out harsher than I mean it to.
Rose crosses her arms, pushing her tits together, drawing my attention down. Bad lizard brain. I drag my gaze back up to meet her amused glare.