Chapter 10
Ten
Sierra
The weeks leading up to the Candlelight Tour pass quickly. The two of us fall into a rhythm that is both familiar and awkward since the night we went wine tasting.
We start our days together on the couch in the living room. Logan lends me a laptop, and I go through his list, line by line, while he plans the next event, typing intensely next to me.
I have no idea when he transformed into part worker bee, part world-domination robot. He certainly never acted that way in school, although in retrospect, that was partly my fault. I skipped class often and frequently convinced him to ditch too.
Once, after Brianna Bernard announced during PE class that she had seen different cars parked outside my house on three separate occasions over the past week and mused out loud if I also serviced the men who stayed over with my mom—and if that was how I afforded my new Converse shoes—I convinced Logan to skip the rest of the day.
We then broke into a recently foreclosed bar off Main Street, got shitfaced on the half-empty tequila bottles left behind, and got picked up by the cops when we tried to stumble home after curfew.
His parents were not amused.
Anyway, he paid moderate attention in school, doing just enough to placate his parents when they gave him a hard time. But his intensity and work ethic have only quadrupled since then. It’s a sight to behold.
And watch him I do. Somehow, I’m always aware of him.
Every small movement draws my attention.
When he rubs the back of his neck, stirs a spoon in his coffee mug, or shifts in his seat.
I glance up every time he sighs, every time his breath changes.
I’m attuned to his rhythm, ready to stand when he does, to start lunch, to lean back when he needs to bounce ideas off me.
It is a relief when he goes in to do his cave tours and leaves me alone—I’d never catch up on work otherwise.
Logan-the-boss is different from Logan-the-high-school-boyfriend.
There are flashes of the same person. Logan always wanted to hear my thoughts about things when we were younger.
We could always talk for hours—with or without tequila—and he was one of the few people in my life growing up who would give me his undivided attention when I spoke.
It was addictive then, and it is addictive now.
Now he listens closely to my ideas, and every time he focuses that quiet intensity on me, my pulse stumbles.
Logan-the-boss is also a lot more patient than Logan-the-boyfriend.
When I messed up an order and paid for overnight shipping instead of ground, I braced myself for the old Logan.
I fully expected him to unleash his temper on me for such a costly mistake.
His jaw tightened, there was a sharp inhale of breath, and then he simply said, “No problem. Mistakes happen. Let’s double-check that next time, okay? ”
And that was that. No yelling. No ranting. No calling me careless or stupid.
He used to be so angry. At the time, I didn’t blame him at all.
I felt the same. Life was frustrating. He struggled to find his place as the youngest son in a family of seven in a deadbeat town that never expected much of him.
He used to call himself a useless runt all the time, even though I begged him not to, which would sometimes trigger fights between us too.
That’s another thing. We haven’t fought.
Maybe it’s because we’re keeping things platonic, mostly professional.
It makes it easy to dodge certain topics and keep things cordial.
But I don’t know how long we can keep pretending the past isn’t sitting between us, polluting the air around us like some heinous, chemical-lavender-scented Dollar Tree candle.
Then again, why would I push it? This friendship feels good. Easy. Familiar. Like we’ve found our way back to something that used to work. Two peas in a freakishly short pod.
And he cooks now. Delicious pasta dishes, marinated pot roasts with creamy mashed potatoes, and crisp, savory stir-fries featuring our—unbeknownst to him—spirit-vegetable, snow pea pods.
“Necessity,” he says when I tease him about it. “I was spoiled by my mom. Can’t live off frozen meals forever.”
I can’t just let him cook for me, so we end up cooking together.
Then eating together. Then I say I need exercise after sitting all day, and he leads me into the converted garage gym.
And then I spend an hour every night trying not to stare at his bulging muscles as he lifts weights next to me. He certainly isn’t a runt anymore.
We’re spending so much time together that I don’t know how to feel. I should feel smothered. I should feel ready to bolt the minute I see a clear exit strategy. I honestly can’t remember the last time I spent so much time around one person and felt…fine. Great, even.
Okay, that’s a lie. I can remember who I spent so much time around and felt this way.
And I’m looking right at him.
I can admit the second lie too—it doesn’t feel the same as it did before.
It feels better. Not once has he made a move on me or indicated that he feels entitled to physical compensation from me.
I’ve never felt so safe. He’s treating me with so much respect and care and… it’s almost dizzying. And arousing.
I know these feelings are dangerous, but I find myself making more and more excuses to extend our time together.
Late Friday night, we finally cross the last task off our daily list. Logan slumps back against the couch with a groan. His curly hair is mussed, his shorts are slung low on his hips, and he looks incredibly relaxed in a way that makes me swallow hard.
“Pizza?” he asks.
I look away. “Pizza,” I agree quickly. “Skip the pineapple.”
He orders while I jump up, unable to stay still.
It’s been over a week since my last rock-climbing adventure.
Working out in Logan and Seth’s home gym has been helping me get some of my energy out, but no matter how many times I increase the weight, barbells don’t give me the same rush that climbing does.
I peruse the bookshelf in the corner. A few fantasy novels—Seth’s, no doubt—and one slim volume catches my eye: Billy Blackstone’s Love Letters. Ah, the infamous erotic poems to one Lula Maude.
“Have you read this?” I ask when Logan sets down his phone.
“It’s been a few years.”
I flip through the pages. “Oh my god. This guy’s horny.”
Logan laughs at my scandalized tone. “Not what you expect from the prim and proper 1800s, huh?”
I bite my lip. It would be wildly inappropriate, but adrenaline rushes through me at the thought of reading this out loud to my boss-slash-ex-boyfriend.
I clear my throat dramatically. “Don’t deny this parched man a drink from your sweet waters.
A sip from your lips, a taste of salty skin.
My thirst swells and swells.” I skip a few lines.
“Sate me, let me drink deep from the gushing spring…” I smother the instinct to fan my reddening face. “Your turn.” I toss him the book.
“I don’t want to read this.”
“You’ve always been such a prude,” I goad him.
Logan presses his lips together. “I’m not.”
“Prove it, then,” I say, my heart beating fast.
He cracks open the book and begins to recite, spinning and weaving line after line of sensual imagery.
What starts as teasing me back soon melts into something else, and the laughing look in his eyes disappears.
His tone deepens; his eyes darken. He cradles the book in his hands, licking his finger to turn each page.
Goosebumps blossom over my arms with every soft rasp of a page turn.
“Is it only poetry?” I ask, my voice low.
“Yes, and one last letter,” he murmurs. “He wrote this to Lula Maude the day before he died. Got shot by the sheriff in nearby Cottonwood while trying to purchase stuff with the stolen gold. When I found the cave, there was a bundle of letters on the cot in the hideout. The historian thinks Lula Maude may have ended their relationship and returned his poems.”
He flips to the back of the book and begins to read. “Dearest, without you, I taste bitter agony day after day. Without you, I am fractured, splintered. Lost. No hope, my heart as porous and ravaged as tattered linen.”
I let out a slow, low breath when Logan’s gaze meets mine.
“My love, come back to me. Remember what we are to each other, what we are together; one bright flame in the undulating dark.”
“What are you guys doing?” Seth’s voice makes me jump.
My hand flies to my chest as my heart stutters back to a normal pace.
Seth’s head swivels back and forth between us, assessing the charged mood and taking in the book in Logan’s hands. “You’re reading erotic poetry? Together? In the living room?”
I snatch the book from Logan, covering the title with my shaking hand. Energy throbs through my veins at being caught, of pushing Logan to do something a little naughty. My skin feels warm, and everything looks brighter.
“It’s history,” I exclaim. “And literature! We’re being classy, Seth. Refined. Look, Logan’s even twirling his mustache.”
Logan raises a brow. I feel high, and I think my voice gives it away.
“Pretty sure mustache-twirling’s for villains about to tie a fainting woman to a train track,” Logan says.
“Fine. Twirl your cane then. Or your cigar. Every refined man has at least one of those. Don’t tell me you don’t?”
“Of course I do. But I’m not sure how you decided twirling epitomizes refinement.”
“It does.” I twirl a strand of hair around my trembling fingers. His eyes track the movement, and suddenly, this feels too intimate. I release my hair and clear my throat. “See? Can’t get more elegant than that.”
“Okay, you weirdos,” mutters Seth. “I’m going to go to bed.” He runs his hands through his hair and gives Logan a look that makes him squirm a little.
Seth gives me a quick once-over before turning away, his expression unreadable except for the faint tightening around his jaw.
This, in turn, makes me squirm a little.
He’s been cool in that quiet, polite way that’s somehow worse than outright anger.
No amount of charm on my part seems to thaw him.
It’s clear that Seth is not thrilled that I am back.
I can’t blame him. From the outside, it must look like history repeating itself—the infamous seductress of yore, back to her old tricks.
The doorbell rings. Pizza’s here.
“Let’s watch that show we started last night,” I say quickly. I don’t trust myself to sit through another poem.
We settle into companionable silence as we devour the pizza and addictive show.
But then he doesn’t rush away after we clean up, and I can’t bring myself to hurry either. Is it my imagination, or do his eyes linger more than usual? My eyes do. His very presence seems to draw my gaze, as if a subtle luminescence has lit up his skin.
Then we are standing in the hallway outside our bedrooms. I can’t tell who escorted whom. I look up at him, licking my lips and parting them in a way that I know drives guys crazy.
“Sierra,” he says in his deep voice.
My breath hitches. Is he going to demand sex since I provoked him earlier? I lose my nerve and take a small step back.
His brow furrows, but he doesn’t close the gap. “Sleep well,” he says. Then he steps into his bedroom and closes the door.
I step inside and force myself to close the door behind me. On the other side of the wall, I imagine him undressing, the cotton shirt sliding up over her chest, the jeans skimming down his legs. His boxers dropping.
I press my head against the cool, painted wood of my door, trying not to spiral.
I loved him so much when we were kids.
I was lost from the beginning. He gave me all the attention and affection I couldn’t find elsewhere, looking at me as if he could truly see me and rescuing me from both my bad home life and myself. The rest of the world was gray and uncomfortable; he was clear light and warmth.
After I hit puberty, it left me senseless with desires I couldn’t control.
As soon as Logan noticed me as more than just a friend, I handed him every one of my firsts without a moment of hesitation—first kiss, first romantic relationship, first sexual experience.
I would have offered him my soul if I thought he wanted it even a little.
Scraped it out and presented it without any fanfare. Take it, take it, take it. I’m yours.
I liked it when he was a little mean. He treated me like he was entitled to anything he wanted from me, and I was more than willing to give him everything. I wanted him to chase me and punish me with rough sex and cruel words. It felt like love. I craved it, then resented it when he hurt me.
And he hurt me a lot.
But the last time was the worst. It wasn’t dramatic or explosive—it was cold. So cold. Nothing like the hot-tempered flare-ups we’d had before.
It was stupid teenage stuff—the kind of behavior that adults exchange glances over and shake their heads at. What were you thinking? they would ask, as if logic and self-awareness were possible while drowning in hormones and with half-formed brains.
It was after a long week of escalating bickering, followed by angry, punishing sex.
My mom had a new boyfriend, who locked me out of the house a few times, and fighting with Logan always felt like a safe escape.
We were at a party, and Logan was distracted by his friends.
I thought that if I started another fight with him, he would pay attention to me.
Turn his eyes on me in that addicting way that no one else did.
But instead, he told me he was sick of me embarrassing him in front of his friends. That we were over.
I knew I’d pushed too far. But when I tried to talk to him, he shut me out completely. I pleaded, begged, humiliated myself without a second thought. Pride meant nothing when he was the only thing that mattered. My own personal savior.
But it didn’t work.
And now he’s become more than I could ever imagine. A real shining hero to everyone, not just me. He’s the goddamn Golden Boy of Sagebrush now.
If only Rick Dawson hadn’t become the town marshal, the head of Sagebrush law enforcement. If only there weren’t that goddamn tape, could I even for a minute entertain a second chance with him?
No, I’m asking the wrong questions. If only I weren’t me. I’m still the girl who leaves tarnish on everything I touch, tempting him because…I don’t even know why.
He’ll make someone incredibly happy someday. Someone good, like he’s become. I try to find solace in that, but it’s like a punch to the gut.