“Golden Boy’s looking good tonight,” Bethany says in an undertone. “And Amber’s obviously hoping to get lucky.”
I follow her gaze toward the stern of the boat, where Logan McKinley is leaning against the railing with one hand in the pocket of his dark suit slacks and a drink in the other. He’s chatting with Amber Sargent, a small and perky paralegal with hair an unnaturally bright shade of ginger, and he’s flashing her his million-watt smile while she’s looking flushed and flirtatious, standing so close her bulging boobs have to be grazing his arm.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure she thinks tonight’s the night,” I reply, annoyed by how much effort it takes to sound like I don’t care.
While in a bathroom stall at work yesterday, I overheard Amber tell two other colleagues that she didn’t want to share a cab with them after the party because she wasn’t planning on going home alone. The dismay that twisted through me was maddening.
What’s it to me if Logan McKinley screws his way through the entire office? We’ve barely exchanged more than a couple of words per week since the day I first met him five months ago. He never asked me out again. Never said anything to suggest he was interested in me as more than a professional acquaintance.
And when I’ve occasionally caught him looking at me, he’s been doing it with such an aloof expression that there’s no doubt in my mind he doesn’t like me. Hitting on me that day was apparently just a game, one that he got bored with almost instantly.
Which is a relief.
Really, it is.
“I don’t get the appeal,” Bethany comments. “No way that man’s not a slut. Bet you could catch VD just by standing too close to him.” She squints at me, pursing her lips. “He’s been staying away from you, though. Which is weird after that conversation you had.”
I shrug. “I just wounded his pride. He got over it.”
“Hmm.” Her forehead wrinkling, she seems unconvinced.
Derek returns with her drink, and just as he hands it to her, the opening synthesizer chords to “Last Christmas” by Wham! begins, and Bethany lets out a little squeal that proves she’s getting tipsy, because sober Beth never makes that noise. “I love this song! Let’s dance, baby.”
She drags her fiancé to the middle of the deck, where a handful of other couples are already swaying along to the music, and forehead to forehead, they start slow dancing while Beth is still holding on to her margarita glass. Wistfully, I watch them for a while—until I start to feel self-conscious about it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the looming shape of Charlton Hammerness heading in my general direction. A mild panic sets in, because I’ve been told some horror stories of how he doesn’t seem to think sexual harassment counts as such when it happens at a party and he’s had a couple of drinks.
Without waiting to find out if it’s true, I pivot and walk inside, into the small lounge, where there are mostly people I don’t really know—and some that I do but definitely don’t want to socialize with—so I head straight to the stairs. Since Beth and I already explored the swanky interior deck downstairs, I take the narrow spiral staircase upward instead.
It’s much quieter up here, though there must be speakers mounted somewhere nearby, because the music is just as loud, George Michael’s sexy voice following me down the short hallway. At the end there’s a double door that looks promising, and I try the handle, surprised when it moves. Well, if it’s not locked, that must mean the room’s not off-limits, right?
Holy. Crap.
My mouth slightly agape, I step inside, the door clicking softly shut behind me. It’s a huge bedroom, decorated in understated splendor, a feast for the eyes in white and beige and dark wood. The focal point is, of course, the large bed, raised on a low podium up against the far wall, looking smooth and sumptuous and inviting.
I can’t help it. The temptation is too much. Sauntering up to the bed, I set my drink and my clutch on the nightstand, and then I sit down, placing my palms on the comforter as I sink into the plush material. This is definitely my kind of bed.
After kicking off my heels, I lie down, finding the throw pillows so soft they feel like resting my head on a cloud—and as I settle into it, I notice the ceiling.
It’s made of glass, a wide and transparent window to the clear, star-sprinkled sky above. I can even see the moon, a nearly full circle edged in a hazy glow that makes it look like it’s covered in gauze, slightly out of focus.
So this is the view a filthy-rich person can enjoy before going to sleep. Maybe I should forget about a career and instead try to find myself a sugar daddy? The thought has me smiling and rolling my eyes—though, lying here among all this luxury, I’m suffering a prickling awareness, imagining what it’d be like to share all of this, and especially this bed, with a man. To have someone who knows what he’s doing set my whole world on fire right here, under the twinkling sky. I curl my toes, clenching my thighs together.
There are buttons built into the side of the nightstand that look like they might control the lights. Pressing one, I only manage to turn down the music, but that's okay. The lower volume is like a balm to my ears. I try a couple other buttons until I find the right one, and then the room is completely dimmed, leaving me lying there in the soft light from the moon and the stars. The song ends, and the next one on the DJ’s lineup starts streaming out of the speakers, a slow and soulful one I don’t recognize.
There’s a small click, and I suck in a breath as the door opens and light from the hallway spills in.
“See? Told you we’d be able to go in here and check it out.”
Oh, God. It’s Amber. I’d recognize that pitch anywhere. She kind of sounds like a chipmunk, though I’m pretty sure she exaggerates that squeaky voice. Probably because she assumes guys think it’s cute.
And what do I know? Maybe she’s right. Logan sure didn’t seem to mind.
“There’s even a lock on the door,” she says in what is probably meant to be a sultry tone, and the door closes with a snap.
Well, this is going to be awkward. Their dark shadows by the door are so close they look melded into one shape.
“And why would we need a lock?” comes the rumbling and darkly teasing voice of a man who’s unmistakably Logan McKinley, and I’m pretty sure I can see him bending his head toward her.
My insides do a flip. Dammit. I should’ve used that lock.
“Because I’m such a private person,” Amber singsongs with a breathy giggle. “Duh.”
Grimacing, I close my eyes and swallow a groan. Well, there’s no way to avoid discovery, so I might as well get it over with.
“Then you’re definitely in the wrong place,” I say, clearing my throat.
“Oh, my God!” Amber yelps.
There’s a flurry of shuffling and fumbling over by the door, and then I’m squinting and reaching up to shade my eyes as bright light floods the room.
“Paige?” With her hand still on the wall switch, Amber is gaping at me. At her side, Logan is leaning against the door and watching me with hooded eyes. “You scared the shit out of me! What are you doing here?”
“Getting a better idea of how the one percent lives?” I do my best to ignore the sudden urge to sit up, put my shoes back on, and get the hell out of here. Because I refuse to show them that they’ve made me uncomfortable.
“Well…” Amber glances back and forth between me and Logan a few times. “Do you mind?”
“Do I mind what? Staying here, since I got here first?” Crossing my legs at the ankles, I give her a tight-lipped smile. “Not at all.”
“Fine. Enjoy yourself.” Linking her arm with Logan’s, she gives him a look that I’m assuming is meant to be seductive, except she’s obviously too pissed to really pull it off. “Let’s go.”
“Actually,” he says, extricating his arm so that hers falls back to hang sadly at her side, “I’m good. You go ahead.”
Alarm bells go off in my head.
“What?” Amber’s face mirro
rs my confusion—but clearly for a different reason.
“I need to talk to Paige about something.” Logan doesn’t smile or offer any kind of friendly gesture as he says this, and I actually feel a stab of pity for her. A minute ago he didn’t seem to mind her company.
Her color high and her eyes glittering with hurt, the paralegal lets out a huff and storms out of the room, the door slamming behind her.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Logan remains where he is, just watching me.
Goose bumps skitter across my skin. Those cool, blue eyes. The silent appraisal. They’re making me want to squirm, but again, I will not let him see that he has any effect on me.
“Sorry for ruining your hookup,” I tell him casually, which is possibly the most insincere apology of my life.
His lips curve. “Want to make it up to me?”
Heat flares up low in my abdomen. “In your dreams, McKinley.”
“Yeah,” he says, his smile fading, his voice dropping half an octave, “but in my dreams you’re a lot nicer to me.”
God. My pulse stutters.
With a clenched fist, he raises his arm and punches the wall switch, and then darkness envelops me again. A split second later, I hear the click of the door’s lock.
Shit. My heartbeat kicks into a gallop. Have I underestimated him? Maybe he’s not just a harmless kind of douchebag.
My eyes start adjusting in time to see him advancing on the bed.
“What are you doing?” My voice doesn’t sound as shaken as I feel. Not to my own ears, anyway.
His dark shape rounds the bed, stopping on the opposite side. “Joining you.”
My mind starts flailing. I own pepper spray—in a cute little canister that looks like lipstick—but it’s in my purse at my apartment, not here with me in my clutch. Leaving it behind tonight was pretty dumb, now that I think about it.
But even if I did have it, would I need to use it? Would I want to?
As Logan throws himself down next to me, I instinctively cross my arms, but otherwise I hold myself still. I even stop breathing, bracing myself. For what, I’m not sure.
“Wow,” he says after a short pause. “This view would be even more amazing out on the open water, away from all the lights.”
Oookay, then. His casual observation has me frowning and blinking…and breathing again.
“I could definitely get used to it.” I keep my gaze on the night sky above and not on him. I have no idea how much of his face I’d be able to see in this near-darkness, and I don’t want to know.
“Reminds me of going camping,” he goes on, because apparently we’re just going to lie here making small talk? “Ever slept under the stars, Waters?”
I can’t help the shudder that goes through me. “I prefer not to sleep with bugs crawling all over me, thanks.”
“Is there anything you do like to have crawling all over you?” He speaks in a murmur that I’d swear is tinged with humor.
“Seriously?” I puff out a breath. “Bethany told me you’re such a smooth talker, and that’s the best you’ve got?”
Logan is quiet for a few seconds, and he doesn’t sound amused anymore when he says, “Wang needs to stop gossiping about me.”
“Or what? You’ll complain to Daddy Hammerness?”
“No.” I can feel him shifting on the bed. “I’ll seduce her friend away from her. She’ll hate that.”
My heart gives a little jump and starts pounding. Turning my head toward him, I find that the glow from outside reveals enough to tell me that his eyes are still on the glass ceiling above.
I’m lying on a bed next to Logan McKinley, and as if that’s not surreal enough, I’m pretty sure he just threatened to seduce me.
Which forces me to reconsider the impression that he doesn’t like me.
Another holiday song starts playing over the speakers, “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” by Band Aid. Seriously? Does the DJ think this is an 80s-themed party or something?
“Got any big plans for the holidays?” I find myself asking, making a U-turn back to mundane topics. Because I’m apprehensive of what’ll happen if I don’t.
“Plans, yeah, but I don’t know if they qualify as big. My dad and I are renting a cabin at Big Bear. We’ve been doing that since I was a kid.”
“That sounds nice.” I want to ask, What about your mom? But, aside from it being way too personal a question, it might give him the wrong idea. Like, I’m interested in his family, hence I’m interested in him.
“What about you, NorCal girl?”
I frown across the bed at him. In all of our brief and infrequent conversations, I’ve never told him where I’m from. “Now who’s listening to gossip?”
“Hammer lets me look at personnel files,” is his nonchalant response.
“No, he doesn’t.” Hammerness is a jackass, but he’s not a moron.
“You’re right,” Logan admits readily. “He doesn’t.”
A puff of frustration escapes me. What was the point in that lie? He’s so annoying.
“Guess I’ve just made it my business to find out everything about you,” he explains. “Because, unlike some people, I like to have some facts to back up my assumptions.”
Well. If I were wondering if he was going to reference our first meeting at all, I guess that answers it.
“Assumptions,” I fire back, “like thinking a guy is the kind of self-centered jerk who’d spend an entire evening flirting with a woman, who’d go with her someplace private, and then ditch her without a second thought?”
That shuts him up…for a short while.
“You’re feeling sorry for Amber?” He turns over on his side, bends his elbow, and rests his head on his hand—though his eyes are still just glassy pits in the darkness. “Don’t waste your energy. She’s a leech. I came in here with her because I didn’t want to humiliate her by telling her in front of everyone that I’m not interested.”
“Right.” I deepen my voice, imitating his suggestive drawl as I say, “And why would we need a lock?”
“I definitely didn’t say it like that,” he replies.
I roll my eyes. “Why did you say it at all?”
“So that she’d tell me what she thought was going to happen and I could tell her that it definitely wasn’t going to.”
That pulls a humorless laugh from deep in my throat. “Don’t have a lot of experience turning women down, do you?”
“There you go again, Judgey McJudges-a-lot.” There’s an undercurrent of exasperation in his tone.
“Give me a break,” I grind out.
Since he’s avoiding the question, I feel free to assume that means I’m right.
And why wouldn’t I be? The only thing I can’t figure out is why he wanted to get rid of Amber. I’m guessing most guys would think she’s hot. As long as they’re into short, curvy women with big boobs and chipmunk voices.
“So did you learn anything interesting while you were watching and not judging me?” I ask even though I shouldn't be continuing this conversation. In fact, I shouldn’t even be lying here on a bed in the dark with Logan McKinley. That’s just a no-brainer, really.
“Yup,” he says. “I’ve pretty much got you pegged by now.”
Oh, this should be good. “Enlighten me.”
“You’re borderline OCD,” he answers without hesitation. “You’re tireless. As in, I’m pretty sure you work harder than half of the firm combined. Which means you’re ambitious. And you have a hard time accepting failure.”
A snort rises in my throat. The high school kid who bags my groceries every week probably could’ve guessed that much about me.
I don’t hold back on the sarcasm as I bite out, “Wow. You got all of that from just watching me? Have you considered if you might be clairvoyant or something?”
“That was just a warm-up,” he says, and I start to get irritated with how my barbs seem to bounce right off him. “Next is where I start slipping into conjecture territory. But I bet yo
u were the teacher’s pet…right? Were you valedictorian? You don’t seem like the type to let anyone beat you to that honor. And you would never do anything risky or rebellious, like get an unusual piercing or a tattoo, right?”
I make a sound in my throat, unable to deny anything he’s saying. How is it he can see me so clearly? Am I that transparent?
“And you never did anything to piss off your parents,” he goes on, “at least not on purpose.”
“Actually,” I say, scraping my nails on the seams in the comforter, “they got mad at me plenty of times. Like when my mom caught me smoking weed in my bedroom with a couple of friends my senior year.”
He lets out a brief mocking chuckle. “Was it your weed?”
I press my lips together. “Well, no—”
“Did your friends talk you into it?”
I’m starting to feel sorry for anyone who’s ever been on a witness stand, having to answer his questions. “Yeah, I suppose so, but—”
“Did you inhale? Did you ever smoke again?”
Now I’m definitely glad for the cover of darkness, because my cheeks turn hot.
My silence must tell him enough, since instead of waiting for a response, he says in an amused tone, “Doesn’t count, Waters.”
I’m not a violent person, but I’m having visions of punching him in the mouth, and I know that it’d be extremely satisfying.
“Anyway,” he goes on, “I’m also pretty sure that all your life people have been putting you in charge of things. And whenever you have to work in a group, you do everything yourself, to make sure it’s done right. You know, so that other people’s laziness and ineptitude don’t drag you down?”
Ugh. His words send me back to twelfth grade Government class and how stressed I was at the idea of getting a B on our Create a Country’s Government project—or worse—because I’d been grouped with classmates who just could not care less. What was I supposed to do? Accept my fate? No, thanks.
Still, it’s unnerving to have Logan McKinley guess this about me.
“Should I start calling you Sherlock?” I ask coolly.
“I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet.”
Mend (Waters Book 2) Page 8