13. Ellie
ELLIE
Typically, a date with a new guy would stir up nerves, summon butterflies, and send my pulse skittering. But tonight? I felt calm. No fluttering in my stomach, no sweaty palms—just steady confidence as I stared at my reflection in the mirror.
My blond hair fell in soft curls down my back. My brown eyes were rimmed with liner and smoked out with eyeshadow, giving them just enough drama. Miles had told me to dress up, and since I rarely had a reason to, I’d gone all in.
The emerald dress I’d pulled from the back of my closet clung to every dip and curve like it was tailored for me.
The fabric pooled and shimmered when I moved, hugging my waist and flaring just enough to feel feminine and bold.
I hadn’t been sold on it at first, probably would’ve donated it if Logan hadn’t been there to adjust the straps and sing his praises.
I paired it with nude heels—nothing too dramatic, just enough to add a touch of polish. As I finished my makeup, I heard the familiar creak of my front door opening and closing.
My apartment was finally coming together.
Most of the boxes were unpacked, thanks in large part to Logan.
He’d spent move-in day with me, making sure everything was exactly where I wanted it, doing the heavy lifting without ever needing to be asked.
Miles had shown up too, despite my saying I didn’t need help, which was sweet, even if unexpected.
He’d carried a few boxes, moved my bed frame into the room, and tried to play it cool, but the tension between him and Logan had been palpable.
And while Miles had definitely been on edge about Logan’s presence, I didn’t owe him an explanation. Logan had always been part of my life. Miles would have to accept that if he wanted any part of me.
I peeked into the hallway and caught a glimpse of blond curls and a cowboy hat and knew immediately who was here.
“I’m down here!” I called out, turning back into my room to find a necklace that would finish the look.
Boots echoed down the hall, and Logan appeared in my doorway. When I turned to face him, his jaw locked tight, and his eyes raked over me—slowly, deliberately—from head to toe, then back again.
“How do I look?” I asked, lifting my arms and giving a playful sway.
He hesitated. Like a thousand thoughts were scrambling for first place in his head but not one made it to his lips.
“Absolutely stunning,” he said at last. Logan’s voice was soft, reserved. He swallowed hard, a faint blush creeping over his cheeks.
I held up a delicate gold chain between my fingers. “Could you help me put this on?”
He nodded once, stepping inside.
I turned to face the mirror, and Logan moved behind me, his presence pressing against my back.
“I’m guessing tonight’s date night with Miles,” he said, voice lower than usual, edged with something rougher.
“Yeah,” I replied, watching our reflections. “He’s taking me into the city. He even rented a limo.” I raised my brows teasingly.
Logan scoffed, quiet and unimpressed, as he took the necklace from my hand. He draped it across my collarbone and brought the clasp around the back of my neck. His scent—earthy and masculine—wrapped around me, and before I could stop it, my heart skipped. Just a little.
His calloused fingers brushed against my skin as he fastened the clasp. The roughness sent a shiver rippling across my spine. Goosebumps bloomed along my arms, and I drew in a breath that caught before it could fully settle.
In the mirror, his eyes were on me, his stare intense—unreadable.
“You look…” he started, then cleared his throat, gaze dropping. “Breathtaking.”
Logan pulled back slowly, the necklace now resting lightly at my collarbone. The space between us filled with everything he wasn’t saying.
“Thank you,” I replied softly, still feeling the residual warmth of his hands near my skin. “What are you doing here anyway?”
That sensation in my chest—tight and low, like something soft was unfurling—was unfamiliar with Logan, and I refused to let it root itself because the idea of allowing this temptation to happen could end in disaster.
He was my best friend, my only friend for the majority of my life, and keeping that was worth far more than whatever this was I was experiencing.
Logan shifted, placing his hands into his front pockets. “Just dropping off a casserole. Your mom made it for you. I stuck it in your fridge.”
I shook my head, laughing as I turned toward the closet and rummaged for a purse that matched my dress. “Her and the damn casseroles.”
Logan grinned. “I saw the other two stacked in the fridge.”
“You’re going to have to come over and help me get through them,” I said, stepping back out and facing him, one hand planted firmly on my hip.
“Anything you need, Ace,” he said quietly, glancing toward the front door.
“Oh, how’s the ankle holding up?” I asked, pointing to the one he’d twisted the other day.
Logan lifted it slightly, rotating in a full circle, and said, “Good as new.”
“Must have been the hot shower and the cold-compress intervals,” I replied with a wink.
He nodded, lips tight, and cleared his throat.
“I should head out before your date shows up and sees me.”
I scoffed, brushing it off with a wave. “Who cares? You’re always going to be in my life. If he’s got a problem with that, he better figure it out real quick.”
Logan gave me a tight-lipped smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Then he nodded and took a slow step back. “Have a good time,” he said, voice low. “Call me if you need anything.”
There it was again, that fleeting expression passing across his face. Something soft and heavy that didn’t belong to the Logan I knew. Sadness? Regret? Uncertainty? I couldn’t pin it down, but it was there, flickering just long enough for me to feel it.
I chose not to ask. Not to read too much into it. I just nodded, and he turned, walking out of my bedroom and then out of my apartment altogether.
And yet… I didn’t move.
I stood rooted in place, my fingers curling lightly around my purse strap, my heart no longer calm. For the first time since I’d started getting ready, the butterflies came alive—and they had nothing to do with my date.
It was the look Logan had given me.
And the way it made everything else suddenly feel a little less certain.
The limo ride with Miles passed quickly, full of flirty banter and easy conversation that made the trip from Faircloud to the city pleasant.
That was the thing about Miles—talking to him came naturally.
We could volley back and forth about everything from favorite foods to worst movies without missing a beat.
He told me he’d lived in the city most of his life, but after years of the hustle, he needed a change. Faircloud ended up on his radar thanks to a friend who’d visited The Tequila Cowboy, Mac’s bar, and couldn’t stop raving about it.
Faircloud had that effect on people. It pulled them in, made them stay.
Now we sat in a fancy restaurant where I felt like a kid playing dress-up. Crisp white linens, polished silverware lined up like soldiers, napkins folded with precision. Hell, I’d watched one woman delicately dab the corner of her mouth, even though there was nothing there.
It had seemed like a fun idea when Miles suggested it—a night out, fancy dinner. But now, with a waiter pouring wine from a bottle wrapped in a white towel like it was some sacred relic, I felt completely out of my depth.
I was used to small-town restaurants in my sweatpants while eating hot wings, burgers, fries with way too much salt. Not… this.
Miles had chosen to sit beside me instead of across the table, something about it being more intimate. It felt intrusive, honestly. But what did I know? I hadn’t been on a real date in… well, ever.
A giant salad sat in front of me, perfectly arranged, the kind of plate that made me feel like I shouldn’t touch it.
I stared down at the two forks—one big, one small—unsure where to start. I waited and followed Miles’s lead.
“Everything okay?” he asked, draping his arm over the back of my chair and tugging me a little closer.
“Oh yeah,” I said quickly, forcing a bright smile. “I’m just admiring this salad. It’s beautiful.”
Miles let out a low, gravelly laugh. He was dressed in a light khaki suit, the top buttons of his white shirt undone, showing off a surprisingly defined chest.
“You don’t know which fork is which,” he murmured, leaning in close to my ear.
There was no judgment in his tone, and his playful edge helped me relax a little.
Biting my lip, I turned toward him. His face was close, and I took the moment to stare into his eyes.
I should’ve felt something. Longing. Desire. Happiness. Hell, a butterfly or two.
A hot chef sat beside me in a suit that should’ve sent my insides fluttering. Not to mention, it’d been far too long since I had attention like this.
But there was nothing. Was there something wrong with me?
I shook my head. “No clue.”
He chuckled and pulled back slightly, reaching down and tapping the smaller fork. “Start with that one, the salad fork. Then work your way in as the courses go.”
He went on, helpfully pointing out each utensil and what it was for. I actually appreciated that.
My stomach was practically growling by the time I figured it out, and once I knew what I was doing, I dove into the salad.
The dressing was creamy, earthy, and unlike anything I’d tasted before.
A low moan escaped my lips as I rolled my eyes at how delicious the flavors were.
I went in for another bite. Then another.
Then I noticed Miles setting down his fork, pushing the plate away like it offended him. I looked at him sideways, suddenly self-conscious.
Was I doing something wrong?
Trying to be polite, I dabbed my mouth with my napkin.
“You ate that like a starved animal,” he said. I couldn’t tell if it was a joke or if he’d been embarrassed by my display of hunger.
I froze. My smile faltered.
“I was hungry?” I offered, more question than statement. “Did you… not like the salad?”