Chapter Twelve #2
He takes a white trainer, simple but trendy, and slips it on my foot. I bite my lip, trying to act like it’s no big deal, but when he looks up, a grin tugging at his mouth, my heart flips.
“Fits,” he says simply.
The shop assistant sways a little, like she might faint. I want to laugh, but instead, I clear my throat. “Thank you, Logan,” I murmur, just to test it on my tongue again.
The way his smile sharpens, slow and deliberate, makes my cheeks burn hotter than the fluorescent lights overhead.
He hands the trainer box back to the assistant. “Heels next,” he says, voice low but firm. She nods quickly, tapping a stack of boxes.
He rifles through them, discarding pair after pair until he finds a red set with a wicked little shine.
I eye them warily as he crouches before me again. “Why do I need heels?”
The look in his eyes as he slips them onto my feet tells me everything I need to know. They burn with hunger, possessive and unashamed.
When I wobble upright, he steadies me, one big hand sliding to the small of my back then lower. He pulls me close enough that my breath catches.
“These,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear, “are for my eyes only. Got it?”
I nod, too breathless to manage words.
He presses against me, hard enough that I feel exactly what those heels are doing to him. “Now, get them off before I embarrass us both.”
A startled laugh escapes me, and I slip them off, setting them carefully back in the box. He snatches it up without hesitation and hands it to the assistant, whose face matches the colour of the shoes.
We leave the shop with three bags swinging from his hand. Trainers, boots, and heels. I’d argued for flats over the wedged boots, practicality winning out, but he still looks smug about the heels he chose.
“You have no idea how uncomfortable heels are,” I say.
He chuckles, that deep, dangerous sound that curls heat in my stomach, and squeezes my hand as we stroll through the centre. People still stare, but with his fingers laced through mine and him carrying my bags, I feel less exposed, almost proud.
“Clothes,” he declares suddenly, steering us towards another shop.
I groan. “Really? You’ve already spent too much.”
His palm swats my backside, playful but firm. “I’m enjoying myself. Don’t ruin it.”
Shadow
Shopping shouldn’t be this fun. I’m not built for crowded shops and racks of overpriced clothes, but watching Remi roll her eyes and laugh at the stuff I shove into her arms is worth every second.
“This one,” I say, holding up a tiny black dress that looks like it’d barely cover her thighs.
Her brows shoot up. “That’s a napkin, not a dress.”
I grin. “You’d look good in it.”
She snorts, shoving it back on the rack. “Next.”
I grab a soft jumper, holding it against her chest. “Better?”
She runs her hands over it, thoughtful. “I actually like this one.”
Progress.
“This?” I ask, holding up a band tee. She nods, and I add it to the pile. “Why don’t you choose something?” I ask.
Her eyes widen as she scans the shop like a rabbit caught in headlights. “I, erm, I don’t really know what to choose.”
“Anything you like. Price isn’t a problem.”
She picks up a pair of jeans. “These?” she asks, her voice unsure.
“Perfect,” I tell her, taking them.
“Now, we need something to match the heels,” I say thoughtfully.
She giggles, rolling her eyes. “I don’t think anything will match those.”
I laugh, tugging her against me and kissing her hard enough to steal her breath. “You’re right. Naked’s better.”
She shoves me playfully and disappears into the changing room, the curtain swishing shut. I lean back against the wall, smirking to myself.
“Logan?” The voice cuts sharp, and I glance over. A sales assistant stands a few feet away, arms folded, smile stretched too tight. Familiar. Too familiar. But I can’t place her.
“Uh, hey,” I say carefully.
Her eyes narrow, that smile faltering. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
My stomach sinks. Shit. That tone. That look. It means one thing—I’ve fucked her. She steps closer, her perfume thick and choking. “Figures. You never called.”
I clench my jaw, inwardly groaning just as Remi yanks the curtain back in one swift movement.
“Okay,” her voice is bright, hopeful, “I reckon this is perfect for the heels.”
The smile she flashes me freezes when she sees the woman standing too close.
And I freeze too, because Remi looks . . . Christ. The white lace clings to her curves, shorter than short, spilling cleavage I want to bury my face in. She’s radiant, glowing . . . until the assistant opens her mouth.
“Wow,” she sneers, eyes raking over Remi from head to toe. “You need to size up. And honestly, you should cover that pasty skin. It’s making me want to vomit.”
Remi’s sharp inhale cuts me in half. I watch her shoulders fold in on themselves, all the confidence she’d clawed back today crumbling in an instant.
“You’re out of order,” I snap, moving fast to put myself between them before Remi can retreat. I cup her head, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Ignore her,” I murmur, loud enough for the assistant to hear. “She hates me, not you.”
“I found the dress in the changing room,” she whispers. “It was just a joke.”
“You look like a joke,” spits the sales assistant. “Christ, Logan, is she the reason you didn’t call? Because, seriously, you downgraded.”
“Logan?” Remi repeats, pulling out of my arms and glaring at me like I’ve physically wounded her.
“Darlin’, if he’s your man, you should know he had me screaming his name while he fucked me all night long. He’s not loyal.” She spins on her heel and marches away.
“Rem—” I try to close the gap, but she shoves me hard. I roll my eyes. “Come on, I don’t even know her name.”
“Well, she sure as shit knows yours, Logan.” She spits it out like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth.
“You’re gonna let some random bitch who I don’t remember ruin our day?” It was the wrong thing to say because she starts shoving her trainers back on in anger. “Remi, please.”
“First of all,” she snaps, looking me dead in the eye, “I haven’t ruined our day, so don’t try to pull that narcissistic shit on me.” I groan. “And secondly, you not remembering her is a huge turn-off, just so you know.”
She marches out, still wearing the dress. “Fuck,” I hiss, grabbing all the bags plus the pile of clothes. I head for the counter, where my unimpressed one-nighter is waiting with an arched brow.
“That’ll teach you,” she mutters as I slam the pile on the counter. “And you’ll have to pay for the one she’s wearing, or I’ll report her for theft.”
“I intend to,” I snap. “Hurry the fuck up.”
She rings the clothes, taking extra time to carefully fold each item. I tap my fingers against the counter, my eyes scanning outside the shop in the hope she’s waiting for me.
When I finally step out, she’s nowhere to be seen, and I groan, pulling out my mobile. I call her number, looking around, trying to listen for the distinctive sound of the stupid rap song she has set as the ringtone. Nothing.
Her voicemail kicks in. “Rem, please come back so we can talk. I’m sorry, okay. Just . . . don’t go off on your own.”