29. Logan
Logan
Idon’t trust her.
That’s the first thing I lock in when we start.
Not because I think she’s lying now.
Because I don’t know what she’ll hold back next.
That doesn’t change just because she walked back in with a drive and a plan.
It just means the stakes got higher.
But—
I don’t walk away either.
That’s the second thing.
The one I don’t say out loud.
We push several bed tables together over his hospital bed, spreading out papers and Luke’s laptop like this is just another business problem we’re solving.
It’s not.
But the structure helps.
Gives it shape.
Keeps it from turning into something else.
Grayson runs point, calm and steady, asking the right questions without pushing too hard. Cole challenges everything, looking for weak spots, gaps, angles that don’t hold.
Luke listens more than he talks, tracking patterns, tying her data to what he’s already been pulling from local reports.
And Quinn—
she doesn’t hesitate.
Doesn’t falter.
Doesn’t look at me unless she has to.
That part shouldn’t bother me.
It does.
Because before—
before she looked at me like I was part of the equation.
Now—
I’m just another variable she’s accounting for.
And I don’t like it.
“This account,” Luke says, tapping the screen. “It loops back into a holding company tied to a development group out of Denver.”
“That’s one layer,” Quinn replies. “Follow the second and it splits again—two directions.”
“Which are?” Grayson asks.
“Land acquisition and political funding,” she says.
Cole swears under his breath. “So he’s not just buying property—he’s buying protection.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
No doubt.
That’s what she brings.
Clarity.
Precision.
Control.
And damn it—
it works.
“That gives us leverage,” Grayson says.
“It gives us pressure,” Quinn corrects. “Leverage comes from how we use it.”
Her tone doesn’t shift.
Doesn’t soften.
But there’s something under it now.
Something less guarded.
Not open.
Not yet.
But closer.
“We push it public?” Cole asks.
“Not yet,” she says. “We need him exposed before we make it visible.”
“And how do you suggest we do that?” I ask.
She finally looks at me.
Really looks.
For the first time since she came back.
And something in my chest tightens.
Not anger.
Not this time.
Something worse.
“By forcing him to make a move he can’t hide,” she says.
“And you know how to do that.”
It’s not a question.
She holds my gaze.
“Yes.”
Silence stretches between us.
Different from before.
Less sharp.
More—
charged.
Grayson breaks it.
“Alright,” he says. “We move tonight.”
That shifts everything.
Focus snaps back.
Plan over tension.
Exactly where it needs to be.
It’s late by the time we get home after visiting hours ended.
I step outside the main house.
Need air.
Space.
Distance from everything that just shifted.
The night’s cooler now, the kind that settles into your bones if you stand still long enough.
Boots crunch on gravel behind me.
I don’t turn.
I know who it is.
“You didn’t have to let me stay,” she says.
Her voice is quieter out here.
Less controlled.
More—
real.
“I know.”
“You still don’t trust me.”
“No.”
No point pretending.
A beat.
Then—
“Fair.”
She doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t push.
That’s new.
I turn then.
She’s standing a few feet away, hands tucked into her jacket, eyes on me but not locked the way they usually are.
Less defensive.
More—
tired.
“You came back anyway,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She exhales slowly.
Not rehearsed.
Not calculated.
“I told you,” she says. “I’m not letting him win like that.”
“That’s not all.”
No.
It’s not.
Silence settles.
Then—
“I didn’t want to leave it like that,” she says.
The words land softer than anything she’s said before.
Because they’re not strategy.
They’re—
honest.
I step closer.
Just enough to shift the space between us.
“That wasn’t my question.”
Her gaze lifts.
Meets mine fully now.
“I know.”
“Then answer it.”
A beat.
Then another.
Because this is the part she doesn’t give easily.
“I didn’t stay because of the plan,” she says.
The same line.
Different now.
Less guarded.
More—
true.
“I know,” I reply.
Her brow tightens slightly.
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
Because I’ve been turning it over since she left.
Because I didn’t want to admit it.
Because I still don’t fully trust it.
But—
I believe it.
That’s the problem.
“Doesn’t change what you did and the lies of omission,” I add.
“No.”
“But it changes what it was.”
She watches me carefully.
Like she’s trying to figure out where I’m going with it.
Like she’s deciding if she can step into it or not.
“You stopped,” she says quietly.
There it is.
The loft.
The barn.
Every moment I pulled back.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Because I didn’t trust you.
Because I didn’t trust myself.
Because I didn’t know what was real.
All of it true.
None of it enough.
“Because I couldn’t separate it,” I say.
“Separate what?”
“You.”
That lands.
Sharp.
Clean.
“And now?” she asks.
I step closer.
Close enough to feel the shift in her breath.
The hesitation she doesn’t show anywhere else.
“I’m not trying to,” I say.
That’s the truth.
The one I’ve been holding back.
The one I don’t fully understand yet.
But I don’t pull away this time.
I don’t stop myself.
My hand comes up, brushing her jaw, slower than before, giving her time to step back.
She doesn’t.
That’s all it takes.
I kiss her.
Not rough.
Not controlled.
Something in between.
Something that builds instead of breaks.
She responds immediately, fingers gripping my shirt, pulling me closer like she’s done pretending too.
The tension’s still there.
The doubt.
The questions.
But underneath it—
something steadier.
Something that doesn’t disappear just because everything else got complicated.
My hand slides to her waist, grounding her, pulling her closer, feeling the way she leans into it instead of resisting.
No hesitation.
No strategy.
Just—
real.
And this time—
I don’t stop.