31. Quinn
Quinn
It’s quieter now.
Not the ranch.
That never really quiets.
There’s always something—boots on gravel, horses shifting in the distance, wind pushing through open land like it owns it.
But inside—
inside me—
it’s different.
For the first time in my life…
nothing is pulling me in a direction I didn’t choose.
I stand at the edge of the fence line, watching the sun dip low over Silver Spur, painting everything in gold and shadow, and I don’t feel like I’m waiting for something to happen.
I feel like I’m already where I’m supposed to be.
That’s new.
Dangerously new.
And still—
I don’t walk away from it.
“You planning on standing out here all night?”
Logan’s voice comes from behind me.
Low.
Familiar.
Steady in a way that settles something in my chest before I even turn.
I don’t answer right away.
Just take a breath.
Then—
“No,” I say. “Just making sure it’s real.”
His boots crunch softly as he steps up beside me.
Close.
Not crowding.
Never forcing.
“That a problem?” he asks.
I glance at him.
Really look this time.
At the cerulean blue eyes that don’t waver anymore.
At the strength in him that doesn’t feel like control—
just presence.
“It used to be,” I admit.
“And now?”
I let the question sit for a second.
Because this answer—
this one matters.
“Now I think I’d regret walking away more.”
His mouth shifts slightly.
Not quite a smile.
But close.
“Good,” he says.
Simple.
Certain.
No pressure.
No expectation.
Just—
there.
That’s the difference.
That’s always been the difference.
I turn fully toward him.
Close the space myself.
Because that’s the choice now.
Not reaction.
Not strategy.
Choice.
“You didn’t try to stop me,” I say.
“When?”
“When I left.”
His gaze holds mine.
“I wanted to,” he says.
Honest.
No hesitation.
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He exhales slowly.
Not frustrated.
Not guarded.
Just… real.
“Because I needed to know if you’d come back on your own.”
That lands deeper than anything else he could’ve said.
Because he didn’t chase.
Didn’t control.
Didn’t force.
He gave me the one thing I’ve never had.
Space to choose.
“And if I didn’t?” I ask.
His eyes don’t leave mine.
“Then I would’ve come after you,” he says.
The corner of my mouth lifts.
“Contradictory.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “Get used to it.”
A soft laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.
And it feels—
easy.
Not forced.
Not measured.
Just… mine.
Steam curls against the cool tiles, fogging the glass, turning the bright utilitarian bathroom into something hazy and private.
The water runs hot now—I'd adjusted it after that first shock of cold, after the ranch dust and sweat needed to melt off my skin.
I tip my head back, letting the stream soak through my beach-waved brown hair, weighing it down against my shoulders.
My muscles ache. Today took everything out of me, and this shower is the first moment I've had to simply exist without strategizing my next move.
The bathroom door opens.
I don't startle. The steam shifts, cooler air slipping through the gap before the door clicks shut again.
Through the fogged glass, a shape moves—broad shoulders, that unmistakable confident stride.
Logan. He doesn't announce himself, doesn't call out.
He simply steps into the bathroom like he belongs here, like this is exactly where he's meant to be.
I watch him through the distorted glass.
He's pulling his shirt over his head, revealing that honey-toned chest, the defined muscles carved from actual work rather than a gym membership.
Ranch work. Fencing and hay bales and horses.
The kind of strength that comes from living in the world instead of observing it from a corner office.
He strips. I don't look away.
The shower door opens. Cool air rushes in again, raising goosebumps across my fair skin before the steam swallows the chill.
Logan steps under the spray with me, and the shower that felt spacious a moment ago now seems impossibly small.
Water streams down his dark blonde hair, those tousled waves flattening against his forehead.
Blue eyes meet mine, and something passes between us—acknowledgment, intention, a silent understanding.
He holds out his hand.
Palm up, fingers relaxed. He doesn't speak. Doesn't grab or demand or take. He simply waits, his hand extended toward me, asking. The bar of soap sits in the small alcove built into the tile wall, within my reach. He's giving me the choice. Giving me control.
My strategist's mind recognizes the maneuver even as my body responds to it.
This is Logan's version of power—offering it to me, letting me decide, knowing full well that whatever I choose, he'll still end up exactly where he wants to be.
It should irritate me. I've spent years surrounded by men who play games with control, who mask manipulation behind gestures of generosity.
But this doesn't feel like manipulation. This feels like trust.
I reach for the soap. The bar slides against my wet palm, slick and warm from the water.
I turn to face him fully, and a smirk curves my lips—genuine, unguarded, the kind I rarely let anyone see.
I place the bar in his outstretched hand, my fingers brushing against his palm for just a moment longer than necessary.
"You better do a thorough job," I tell him. My voice comes out steadier than I expect, though there's a slight edge beneath the words. A challenge. A dare.
Logan's mouth twitches. That almost-smile that makes my chest tighten in ways I refuse to examine. He accepts the soap, his blue eyes holding mine, and something shifts in his expression—focus, intensity, the look of a man who's been given a task he intends to complete with absolute precision.
He works the soap between his hands, building lather.
The water continues its steady rush, filling the small space with white noise, drowning out anything beyond these tiled walls.
Beyond this moment. His eyes travel over my body—not leering, not hurried, but studying.
Learning. The kind of attention that makes me acutely aware of every inch of my skin.
I'm slender but strong. I know this about myself. My body is built for endurance, for long hours and hard decisions. But under Logan's gaze, I feel something different. Exposed in a way that has nothing to do with nudity and everything to do with being truly seen.
He steps closer. His hands find my back.
The first touch is simple—just his palms sliding across my shoulder blades, spreading the soap in broad strokes.
The lather is slick and warm, and his hands are surprisingly gentle for someone who spends his days wrestling with the physical world.
I close my eyes, focusing on the sensation.
The pressure. The way his fingers trace the line of my spine before returning to the tight muscles at the base of my neck.
He finds the knots there. The tension I've been carrying for weeks—months—localized in the hard bundle of muscle between my shoulder and neck. His thumbs press in, working circles against the resistance.
A sound escapes me. Not quite a moan, but close enough. My head tips forward, granting him better access, and I feel my carefully maintained composure begin to crack at the edges.
Logan's hands continue their massage, working down from my shoulders to the center of my back. Each stroke is deliberate, thorough, exactly what I demanded. He's not rushing. He's not teasing—not yet. He's simply doing what I asked, with a level of attention that makes my throat tight.
His palms reach my lower back. The curve where my spine dips, the sensitive skin above my hips. His fingers follow the natural line of my body, tracing the indentations, the shape of me. The massage shifts into something else—still thorough, still methodical, but slower now. More intentional.
He reaches the cleft of my cheeks.
His soapy fingers slip through—not lingering, not pushing, just passing through with the same thoroughness he's shown everywhere else. But the touch sends electricity straight up my spine, and my breath catches audibly in the steam-filled space.
Logan's chest presses against my back. I feel the solid warmth of him, the water streaming between our bodies, and his lips find the curve of my neck. He doesn't kiss—he nibbles. Small, sharp bites that send shivers cascading down my arms despite the heat of the shower.
"Don't want to be accused of doing a poor job," he murmurs against my skin. His voice is low, rough at the edges, and the vibration of it travels through me like a second touch.
I don't respond. Can't respond. My usual quick wit has abandoned me, leaving only sensation—the slide of his soapy hands, the scrape of his teeth against my neck, the hard press of his body behind me.
I'm used to being the one with the sharp comeback, the deflecting quip.
But Logan has a way of stripping that away, leaving me with nothing but honest reaction.
He pulls back. The loss of contact makes me sway slightly, and I press my palm flat against the cool tile wall to steady myself.
When I glance over my shoulder, he's reaching for the washcloth hanging on the hook outside the shower.
He brings it under the spray, works the soap across the fabric until it's thick with lather.
Logan turns me around.
His hands settle on my waist, guiding me gently but firmly until my back is to the spray. Water runs down my front now, over my collarbones, between my breasts, down my stomach. He watches the path of it for a moment, that focused intensity returning to his expression.
The washcloth touches my chest.