Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Amber
B y the time I burst into Willow’s condo, I’m sweaty, out of breath, and dangerously close to having a panic attack.
“Munchies?!”
Silence.
I kick off my shoes, drop my luggage, and run through the place like my life depends on it. “Munchieeeees!”
He finally waddles into view down the hallway, looking exactly how I remembered him from the pictures Willow is always sending me—like a grumpy little warlock who got trapped in a shag carpet.
“Holy Fancy Feast,” I whisper, pressing a hand to my chest. “You’re alive.”
He blinks and then flops onto the floor with a demanding look. If he could talk, I’m sure he would be hissing, ‘ Pet me now, woman .’
I hurry over and drop onto the hardwood floor beside him. My heart is still pounding from all of the panic, but it’s winding down now that I know he’s okay.
Muchies is so odd-looking. I love it. His face is so flat it looks like it was ironed at birth, his fur is unruly, like a haunted mop, and his pungent smell is like a complicated blend of tuna breath and something I can only describe as musty vintage carpet.
“Hi, buddy,” I say as I pet him. “I’m your Auntie Amber.”
He licks his paw. Then coughs.
Right. Meds.
I dig around the kitchen until I find the extensive list Willow left me on the counter, and my jaw drops.
The list goes on for pages . Plural.
I scan the list as I mumble to myself, holding it out at arm’s length like it has personally offended me. “Three pills, two droppers, and a shot? How are you still alive, cat?”
I get everything in order, line it all up, and look at him. He looks at me. We both know this isn’t going to end well.
Ten minutes later, I’ve been clawed a dozen times, drooled on, and hissed at more times than I can count.
He’s got drool on his whiskers. I’ve got blood on my wrist.
This is my life now. For the next two weeks, anyway.
“Okay,” I say with a sigh as I collapse onto the massive sectional in the living room. “We survived. Barely.”
I look around and finally take in the place. Holy. Crap.
It’s stunning .
Glass walls. A full skyline view. A grand piano in the corner, because apparently my tone-deaf sister now plays piano? There are bookshelves taller than my childhood home and an old modernized La Cornue Range oven larger than my car in the kitchen.
I’m exhausted, but I have to see the rest of this place. It takes a while.
There are four bedrooms. Four bathrooms.
“What the hell?” I mutter as I stick my head into another luxurious walk-in shower with a giant rain showerhead mounted from the ceiling and all sorts of jets and nozzles for the perfect steam.
Now, I know why rich people never leave their houses. If Logan’s place is half as nice as this, I understand him more and feel bad for shaming him about never seeing the city. Why would you when you can steam in this thing until you turn into a human prune?
“This is insane,” I whisper as I wander into a guest bedroom that has enough room for a king-sized bed, a bunch of furniture, and has a bathroom and walk-in closet on top of it. “I thought New York apartments were supposed to be the size of a shoebox.”
This one’s a department store.
But even with all the jaw-dropping finishes and the tub in the ensuite bathroom big enough to host a pool party, my mind is somewhere else.
It’s on Logan.
I lean against the doorframe of the guest room and smile to myself. That night… It was perfect .
The pizza. The way he laughed—unrestrained and real. The way his eyes warmed every time I said something weird and he pretended not to like it. The weight of his gaze when I wasn't looking. The intensity when I was.
And how he didn’t even hesitate to follow me into that elevator like I was a new form of gravity he couldn’t quite figure out.
I like him.
And not just the “he’s hot and older and could ruin me in one night” kind of like. Even though... yes, I’ll take a heavy helping of that too.
I mean like-like .
I’m crushing hard on Mr. Cranky Pants. Although, now I’m thinking a more fitting name for him would be Mr. I Want To Get In Your Pants.
I wander around, taking my clothes out of my suitcase and getting settled in, and the whole time, my mind is on him.
I’ve never felt this way about a man before. Hell, I’ve never had this effect on a man before.
Usually, it’s not long before they tell me to go away or pretend to get a call on their phone.
But Logan… He was captivated by me. He was intrigued by me. And it felt good .
He’s twenty years older than me.
But maybe that’s what I need.
Someone grounded. Someone solid. Someone who knows who he is and what he wants.
I’ve spent so much time floating through life, chasing ideas and vibes and feelings. Maybe it’d be nice to have someone who makes the ground feel less like lava and more solid.
Maybe Greg was right. Maybe I am flighty .
And maybe Logan can be my anchor.
I groan and flop onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as Munchies jumps up beside me and curls into my armpit with no shame.
“Oh man,” I whisper as I think about the end of the night.
The guilt creeps in fast.
I hated leaving him like that.
The stunned, shattered look on his face… That’s going to stay with me for a long time.
But when Munchies’ insane medical routine suddenly popped into my head, I panicked. I heard Greg’s voice in my head—judging me, blaming me, hating me—and I bolted. I didn’t even get to say goodbye properly.
I’ll make it up to Mr. Sexy Silver Fox CEO tomorrow.
I’ll think of something good. Something unforgettable.
Because Logan Strickland deserves to be celebrated. And now that I’ve had a taste of him?
I’m not done.
Not even close.