Chapter 8 #2
Brynlee
Both of you, to your corners.
Liv
I’m not one of your fighters, Brynnie.
Brynlee
Nope. They listen better than you ever have. And they never would have gotten married without telling me. So I repeat – what the actual fuck, Livvy?
Liv
Pot meet kettle. Didn’t you elope with your husband?
Brynlee
That was different. I was doing him a favor. I wasn’t in love with him.
Killian
Yes, you were. But what does that matter now?
Wait. Livvy. You didn’t.
Liv
You should be checked for too many concussions, Killer.
Who told you anyway?
Killian
Brynlee just did.
Liv
OMG. I was asking Brynn.
Brynlee
Mom babysat for me, and when I walked into the house, she and Dad were arguing about it. Loudly.
Killian
Whoa . . . Shit. You got married, Liv?
Brynlee
OMG, Killer. Seriously. Get some sleep.
Liv
Don’t you have a nanny traveling with you guys?
Brynlee
I know they do. I’ve met her.
Liv
Seriously, Kill. Put the nanny on Daisy duty. Rail your wife after tonight’s show and get eight hours of sleep.
Killian
I’m not sure how to respond to that.
Brynlee
Maybe just take our advice because, as your sisters, we’re never wrong.
Killian
Are we talking about me or Liv? Because I’m pretty sure you just told me she got married, right? I mean I’m exhausted, but I’m not the idiot you think I am.
Brynlee
But you’re so pretty, Killer.
Liv
So pretty.
Killian
Fuck you both.
Brynlee
Don’t think because we’re ganging up on him that you’re off the hook, Liv.
Liv
Fine. Yes. I got married in Vegas, but I’d appreciate it if we kept it quiet for a while. Our family has bigger things to deal with for now, and Logan and I are trying to keep this on the down-low while we deal with custody issues.
Brynlee
Logan?
Liv
Yes, my husband. Logan Adler.
Killian
Wait . . . That douche from the New Jersey Nobles who called you an uptight bitch?
Brynlee
It was a bitchy ice queen with a stick up her ass.
God, give me strength.
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, reminding myself that I’m a grown woman and can, in fact, do this and many other things as I take one deep breath—okay, maybe two—before responding.
Liv
Yes. That Logan Adler. And no, he’s not a douche. He’s my husband.
I don’t have the energy for this shit. Not tonight. The towel around my chest loosens, and I curse myself again for leaving my pajamas in my suitcase in Logan’s room.
Liv
Can we please not do this tonight, guys? I’m exhausted. I’ve had real shit to deal with today that had nothing to do with Logan and me and everything to do with keeping our cousin out of jail.
Brynlee
Fine. But Deacon and I will be at dinner at Mom and Dad’s, so this isn’t over.
Liv
Never thought it was.
Killian
What the hell? We won’t even be back on the East Coast for another month. I want to be at dinner.
Liv
Why?
Killian
Because it’s my job to scare the shit out of your boyfriends, and you’ve never brought one home before.
Liv
I swear to God, Killer. This is exactly why. And he’s not my boyfriend. He’s my husband. Now I’m exhausted and going to bed. Kiss the kids for me.
I drop the phone to the vanity and zip my toiletry bag, wanting nothing more than to close my eyes or maybe bang my head against the wall.
I barely recognize the reflection staring back at me at this point.
My hair hangs in long dark, wet strands around my shoulders, brushing the top of the towel that barely covers my very pale ass.
I should have spent some time in the sun this summer because maybe then, I wouldn’t look like a vampire who sleeps during the damn day.
Who am I kidding?
Pale or tan, I refuse to walk into that bedroom dressed like this.
Or more appropriately, undressed like this.
I should have taken the time to unpack, but by the time the dinner plates had been cleared and Logan’s family had stopped raking the two of us over the burning hot coals, a scalding hot shower and a warm bed were all I had in my sights.
Guess I should be proud I remembered to grab my shampoo and conditioner before walking away from my smug ass of a husband, who was enjoying what he called a successful dinner.
Of course, now I’m stuck deciding between walking out there in a towel or throwing on the Nobles t-shirt said ass has hanging on the back of the bathroom door.
Practically naked or in his clothes?
It doesn’t help that I kind of hate the Nobles. They’re the Revolution’s biggest rivals, and although I have to act like I don’t have a favorite team, it would be a literal sacrilege, possibly punishable by death or maiming by any number of my family members, for me to root for this team.
I stare at the baby-blue tee and growl. It’s not a bad color, just a bad team.
Or more accurately, a good team I’ve been bred to hate.
Depending on how long the charade goes on, I may have to go to a game or two and act like I’m a doting wife and—a chill chases down my spine—my God, I’ll probably have to wear his jersey.
Is it better to just rip the Band-Aid off and start now with the tee?
I remind myself that Brynlee’s husband is the head coach of the Revolution, and Serena’s dad is the GM and President as I pull the soft cotton from the hook. But it’s not like either of them will see this. And if they don’t see it, did it really happen?
Right?
A shirt is better than a towel.
I drop the towel and grab the shirt, too pissed off to notice how soft the material is or just how much it smells like Logan. And I definitely don’t notice how much I like that smell.
Bed.
I just want to go to bed.
I can do this.
I have to do this.
Slowly, I crack the door open and peer through the opening.
Son of a bitch.
Logan lies on top of the dark duvet, his long legs covered in black-jersey pajama bottoms stretched in front of him as he sits propped against the tufted headboard, shirtless, and with a book in his hands. He looks good. Too good.
Hell no. I refuse to think that way. Instead, I focus on the book.
“Oh, come on . . .” I grumble as I walk into the room.
Some women have a thing for athletes. I have a thing for men with brains. And seeing this one, shirtless, and with a book in his hands is a prettier picture than I want it to be.
His head whips my way, and his eyes grow hot before he blinks the heat away. “Nice shirt, Olive.”
“Sorry.” My cheeks flame involuntarily. “I left my pajamas in here, and this was hanging on the door.” I cross the room and toss my toiletry bag into the suitcase.
“I made room for you in the closet.” He closes his book and climbs out of bed, getting close.
Too close. His arm reaches around me, somehow skimming my damp skin without actually touching me and yet still raising goosebumps in his wake as he pulls open the top drawer of the wheat-toned wooden dresser.
“This side of the dresser too. If we’re doing this, you can’t live out of two bags and a suitcase for months. ”
“Thanks.” I look from the open, empty drawer back to the man behind me . . . crowding me. “That was—” The words die on my tongue.
He’s too close.
“Nice, Olive. The word you’re looking for is nice,” he finishes for me, and my blood boils because he’s right. That was nice.
We have to be nice to each other.
Easier said than done.
“How’s your cousin anyway? Did you get it all taken care of?” Logan doesn’t back up as I root through my bag for my brush, and I’m all too aware of every single inch of space separating us and how none of that seems to matter as the heat from his body warms mine.
“He’ll be okay, but it’s far from over. I have to go back to Philadelphia tomorrow for a meeting with the Kings, but I’ll stop and file our motions first.” I spin around, expecting him to back up, but the ass stands there, sucking all the damn oxygen from the room, his massively muscular arms crossed over his broad, bare, golden chest. There’s no way he doesn’t know what he’s doing.
I poke my finger against his chest. “We might be married, Adler, but I’m not sleeping with you. ”
“I thought we talked about this last night, wife. You can sleep wherever you want, but I’m not giving you my bed.”
I muster every last ounce of strength I’ve got left and lean into him, leaving barely a breath of space between our mouths.
“I’ll be right there, next to you in your bed, husband.
Sleeping. So try to remember, if we want this to work, not to get any ideas of straying from your side to mine. Got it?”
His lips tilt up, and a hint of his dimple appears just as quickly as it vanishes.
Why do I like that dimple when I don’t even like him?
Slowly, as if giving me time to move, Logan tucks the wet strands of my hair behind my shoulder, and his grin grows. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Olive. I’ll keep to my side. The question is . . . do you think you can keep to yours?”
I’d like to wipe that stupid, sexy smirk right off his face with my fist, but words are so much more acceptable outside of my father’s gym.
“Absolutely.” I agree as my heart pounds in my head, and Logan’s eyes dilate.
This is not happening.
“Good,” he whispers. Close. Too close. “Then we’ll both keep our hands to ourselves.”
There’s no way this is going to end well.
“Deal?” He nods as if answering himself.
I lick my suddenly dry lips and hold out my hand. “Deal.”