Chapter 17 Logan
“It was an accident,” Pearl hisses for the fourth time, and, like all the other times, I ignore her and sip my drink.
Dash and I keep looking toward the employee entrance. I try not to notice Reign rubbing hand sanitizer on his hands for the third time since we sat down. He’s particular, and we do our best not to draw attention to his idiosyncrasies.
“The ceremony backdrop was just stunning,” Harlow says to Pearl, trying to lighten the mood that’s settled over our table like a wet blanket. “Those florals. It’s going to be incredible tomorrow, you’ve really outdone yourself.”
“Thank you, I spent months on those calls—” Pearl explains about the florist, then the caterer, then something about the resort’s lighting that she requested be adjusted. I watch her hands move as she talks.
“Don’t you think, Logan?”
I look up. Pearl is watching me, waiting.
Her eyes soften. One second she’s shooting me these anxious glances, the next she’s looking at me like we’re the only two people at the table.
I feel so off-kilter by my friendship with her, it’s fucking with my head.
I’m also too pissed to indulge her, so I snap, “What are you asking me?”
She sits up a little straighter. “That this was the perfect venue for a wedding.” There’s something behind her eyes when she says it. Griffin, across the table, lets out a groan and drags a hand down his face. “We all get it, Pearl.” Then he mumbles into his whiskey glass, “Subtle as a fucking ox.”
“Excuse me?” She turns to him, sharp. I stay out of it. Pearl and Griffin have always been a little testy with each other, not unlike me and Rose, except Pearl at least keeps it civil. Griffin less so.
Dash fills the silence talking about work—a merger that’s been in motion since his father’s heart attack, when Dash stepped up to CEO. It’s why he flew down early. One last break before returning and likely working himself into the ground for the next three-to-five years.
When his posture shifts, eyes lasering in on something behind me, I spin in my seat. Sunshine is weaving through the tables toward us, alone. I’m on my feet before she reaches us.
“Where is she?”
She grins, waving breezily. “She went back to her room. She’s—”
I don’t let her finish. I’m already moving toward the door. The flash of annoyance that Rose left without telling me dissolves almost immediately—why would she stay? Why would she come back to that table after what Pearl just did to her?
It was more than spilled red wine on a beautiful dress. I know that now.
The subtle jabs I’d written off because I thought Rose deserved to be put in her place.
The way Pearl never had a single good thing to say about Rose—not one—and I’d nodded along, let it form my opinion of someone I barely knew.
The way Pearl would dissolve into tears the second I pushed back on anything, redirecting the entire conversation until I forgot what I’d even asked.
I’d watched her do it to other people. I’d let her do it to me.
Rose tried to tell me that first night, and I wouldn’t hear it. I’d written it off as drama between sisters.
I feel like such an asshole.
I’m moving faster now, nearly jogging by the time I reach her door and knock hard.
It swings open after only a few seconds. She’s clearly exhausted—her long dark hair hangs loose and tangled, mascara smudged.
“Hey—” she starts, but I push into the room and wrap her up in my arms.
She stands there for a moment, stiff. After a few seconds she finally softens, arms coming around my waist, and she rests her head against my chest. I feel her exhale.
“I’m sorry about what happened.”
She shrugs against me, then pulls back to look up. “Not your fault.”
“I didn’t listen. You tried to tell me what Pearl was like, and I didn’t want to hear it.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “You believe me?”
“I should have believed you the first time.”
“Logan, we barely know each other. We’ve met, what, like five times?”
“Five times at events or parties where we were stuck in the same room for hours. I watched you two interact. I just—” I shake my head. “I didn’t want to see it.”
She’s quiet for a moment, looking down at the floor. Then she mumbles, “It’s just wine.”
I tip her chin up. “It’s not just wine, and we both know that. I’m sorry.”
Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and she blinks several times before looking away. “I’m pretty tired. I just want to veg out and sleep. All the traveling is catching up to me. It’s been a really long day.”
She isn’t kidding. Hard to believe we were still in that motel on the edge of the storm just this morning.
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” I’m already moving across the room, loosening my tie. She watches me with something between surprise and wariness, which makes me feel like even more of a dick. We’re still new—brand new—but did she really think I just came here for sex?
“I thought we agreed this was more than just a fling,” I challenge, working the buttons of my shirt. She watches my hands for a half-second before catching herself. That’s when I actually look at what she’s wearing. “What is on your shirt?”
She glances down at the peach next to the resort’s logo—which looks remarkably like an ass—then lets out a short laugh and shakes her head. “Georgia peach.”
“Sure it is.” Baggy and ridiculous as it is on her, she could wear a potato sack, and I’d still think she’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. She catches the heated look on my face, laughs again, and disappears into the bathroom.
When she comes back out, she’s watching me carefully.
I take my turn in the bathroom, washing my face, giving us both a minute.
When I come back out, she’s already in bed, sheets pulled back on my side, still observing me with that same cautious look.
Despite what she said when I asked her, she doesn’t trust me. Not yet. I’m going to have to earn it.
“This feels weird.”
I crawl in behind her and reach over to kill the light, pulling her against me, burying my nose in the small space by her neck. She smells like that weird herbal medicinal blend she uses, and underneath it something warmer, cinnamon and sugar. “What feels weird?” I ask obtusely.
“We’re not fighting. Or fucking. And you’re crawling into bed with me.”
“We could do both if that would help you relax.”
She chuckles. “I’m pretty tired. But… I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too. I don’t want to be anywhere else.” I mean it more than it sounds.
It’s not even ten, so she grabs the TV remote, flipping the channels around, then settles on some home renovation show. She’s out before the first commercial break.
Inside, the quiet hum of the reality show fills the room as Rose’s breathing smooths into a steady rhythm. Outside, the faint sounds of the storm, which has become the soundtrack to our budding relationship.
I reach past her and turn off the TV. The room goes dark and quiet. I have Rose in my arms, her back against my chest, and I think about how different this is from anything I would have expected when I got on the plane a few days ago.
I think about the way Pearl was acting at the table, and this afternoon in my room when I got pissed at her for sending that picture.
I think about Rose saying it’s just wine, like she’s used to not being believed and brushing off her sister’s cruelty.
I think about how wrong I was and for how long.
Then I stop thinking, because Rose shifts in her sleep and pulls my arm tighter around her. I press my mouth briefly against the back of her head. Then, finally, I sleep.