They’ve been productive enough to create an app together, though. I asked him once what exactly it does. He spent five minutes explaining it to me, and I still had no clue what he was talking about.
“Never too early to start drumming up buzz. I’ll be back tomorrow.” With a devilish grin, he adds, “Even if I don’t sleep tonight. As in, I might go to bed at some point but probably not to sleep.”
Oh, sheesh. He just can’t help himself, can he?
Her eyes bugging out, Mom points a finger at him. “You stop it right there, or I’m going to start describing mine and your dad’s sex life. In graphic detail.”
I watch in horror as a defiant light sparks in my brother’s eyes.
“Cam!” I snarl at him.
Mia warns, “Don’t you dare!”
“So there's this chick I met at the gig we played in the city last weekend,” he says smugly, “and apparently she has a twin sister—”
“Did I ever tell you,” my mom interrupts loudly, “that I'm the one who wanted your dad to grow that beard? It's all about the friction—”
“Ugh!” I exclaim, squeezing my eyes shut while Mia claps her hands over her ears and wails, “Nooooo!”
With a self-satisfied chuckle, my brother wanders off toward the other group.
“Wear a condom!” Mom calls after him, and without looking back, Cam responds with a thumbs-up.
“God,” I say with a sigh. “You people.”
“It’s really not cool, Mom,” my sister complains. “You wouldn’t have joked about sex like that when we were kids. I don’t know why it’s okay now just because we’re adults.”
“Well, two out of three of us are adults,” I comment, and Mia makes a face in agreement.
My mom rolls her eyes at us. “We did make those jokes when you were little. You just didn't get it.”
Mia laughs. I don't. Because my stomach is burning with memories of the suggestive, flirty, teasing exchanges I used to have with Logan in front of our equally clueless kids.
“Someone needs a diaper change.” My father walks up, carrying Elliott like a parcel under his arm, which of course has my boy squealing and squirming and giggling. Despite his graying hair, Dad looks just as fit and—objectively speaking—just as handsome now as a grandfather, vice-president of medical staff at the university hospital, and emeritus professor as he did in the pictures of him from his twenties when he was a new physician, just starting his career in anesthesiology.
A fresh feature is his almost whitish-gray beard, though, which we were all surprised by at Christmas, and which now will start to remind me of my mother’s talk of friction. Thanks a lot, Mom.
“Oh, you go ahead, honey,” my mom says breezily, and then she peers at me. “Diaper bag’s in Paige’s car. Right?”
“Uh-huh.” Straightening, I dig the key out of my shorts pocket and hold it out to him. His lips flattened, Dad looks distinctly unimpressed as he grabs it from me. With a pointed glance at my mom that I’d swear is promising retribution, he shifts his grandson up onto his hip and tramps off toward the parking lot.
“I’m gonna go hang out with your kids some more,” Mia announces, walking away with her bucket, leaving me alone with Mom.
Bending back to the task of picking strawberries, I smile at the thought that the secret to my parents’ thirty-five-year-long happy marriage is probably their passive-aggressive banter. Which I now, as an adult, recognize as a kind of foreplay, and if that isn’t a squick-worthy thought…
But my smile fades and heaviness settles in my stomach as it dawns on me that this was supposed to be me and Logan, too, once we reached their age. Still in love, still playful with each other, and still having an active and amazing sex life. We were also supposed to be looking forward to retiring together, traveling and pursuing hobbies and enjoying spending as much as time as possible with our grandkids.
So, yeah. There’s another plan that has fallen apart.
It’s probably past time that I made a new list.
Mom finally speaks again. “How’s that divorce case you’re working with Logan going?”
“I’m not working with him,” I correct, gritting my teeth. “It’s fine so far. I filed the petition the other day. And I had lunch with Beth last weekend, and she gave some helpful pointers.”
“Like what?”
“Like bringing in a big gun. She gave me the name of her investigator, and I already hired her to do some digging into Logan’s client.” I’m pretty confident that’ll pan out. Guys like Stuart Garnett always have a past.
The silence that falls feels loaded, and I look sideways, finding Mom watching me with arched eyebrows.
“What?” I ask defensively. “Look, it’s a lot easier fixing someone else’s mess than your own. Especially when you’re getting paid for it.”
Heaving a sigh, my mom tosses a giant, blood-red strawberry into her bucket. “He won’t budge about letting you move up here?”
“No,” I say, and it feels like a dark cloud of resignation rolls in, fogging my brain.
“Well,” Mom says sourly, “you know my opinion about that.”
Right. She has this theory that Logan’s refusal to even discuss it is not so much about his proximity to the kids as it is about control. She thinks he’s content to leave things as they are right now because I still need him financially, which gives him leverage over me.
It’s not surprising my mom’s thought process would take her there. She never quit working after having kids, never took more than a few weeks’ maternity leave, refusing to give up her career when leaving us in the care of a nanny—and often, Grandma—worked just fine.
Ever since I was old enough to understand, she’s preached to me how important it is for a woman not to give up her financial independence.
And I listened to her. I really did. But I never expected that this particular “just in case” would ever apply to me.
“I just need to get this case settled with a minimum of fuss,” I try to reassure her, because yes, I hate the idea that she might think I’ve made stupid choices—even though she’s probably right. “This client could be my big break.”
The shrill sound of my cell phone ringer interrupts us, and I reach back to pull it out of my shorts’ back pocket. My heart sinks when I see the name on the screen is Caroline’s. Her calling me either means she doesn’t care that I’m on vacation, which is annoying, or that it’s an emergency—which is worse.
“Speak of the devil,” I say to my mom, pushing myself up to my feet before answering, in case I need to walk away for privacy. First rule of practicing law: client-attorney privilege is sacrosanct.
“Sorry to call you on your vacation, Paige,” comes Caroline’s brisk voice through the phone speaker after we’ve swapped greetings. “Do you have time to talk?”
“Of course.”
“I talked to Stu,” she says tightly. “He’s willing to sit down and negotiate—”
“Oh, good—”
“—if I go to Lake Tahoe with him.”
My mind slams on the brakes. Say what? Bewildered, I ask, “Tahoe?”
“There’s this hotel there, the Huntsman,” my client explains. “It’s where we had our honeymoon, and we’ve been going back every summer since.”
“Uh,” I respond, no more enlightened. “Oh-kay…?”
Caroline blows out a sigh before she elaborates. “So he said if I come spend the week with him there, and if I make an honest effort to patch things up again, and if that doesn’t work, then he’ll cooperate.” Bitterly, she adds, “He’ll even be magnanimous. The actual word he used.”
Son of a bitch. I harden my grip on my phone as my whole body goes rigid with anger. “You don’t have to do that,” I say into the phone, speaking with checked calm. “If you can afford to be patient a bit longer, I’ll do everything in my power to force him to sit down with us, and if that doesn't work, our position in a trial would be really good, especially considering you’re not looking
for a big payout from him.”
“This would be quicker and less…public,” Caroline interrupts. “Don’t you think?”
Fury is rolling through me in waves now. God damn Stuart Garnett. And damn Logan, too. Even if he’s not responsible for his client’s ridiculous attempt at manipulation, I can guarantee he didn’t counsel against it.
Why is Caroline going along with Stu’s demands, though? Something is off about her reasoning. She’s hiding something; I can feel it in my gut.
I inhale deeply. “Possibly, but—”
“Well, I told him I’d do it,” she says hurriedly. After a second’s pause, she adds, “But only if you were there with me.”
My heart jumps into my throat, and I just stand there for a while, blinking. “I’m sorry. What?”
In an apologetic and almost pleading tone, Caroline says, “I’m going to do what he wants, Paige, but it won’t work. And when he realizes that, I want you there, because we need to negotiate the settlement right away. Before he changes his mind.”
Feeling discombobulated, I turn to look at my mom, who’s kneeling on the ground still and watching me with rapt attention. There are so many reasons not to do what Caroline Carne is asking right now, and I voice the first argument that comes to mind. “You’re talking a lot of billable hours here.”
“That’s not a problem.” She sounds relieved, obviously expecting something less easy to dismiss. “You got the payment for your retainer, right? Do you need me to increase it?”
“I did get it, and no, I don’t need more, but—” Squeezing my eyes shut, I wage an internal battle between the impossibility of what she’s asking and my urge not to let a client down. Especially not this client.
Keeping my voice professional, I tell her, “I don’t know that I can go to Lake Tahoe with you. Not this week. Can you get him to postpone it a week or two?”
“He’s booked the hotel already, and I’m sure he had to pull some strings, because they’re always full in summer.”
I’m groaning silently, my mind spinning and flailing in search of a solution. Hearing my mom clearing her throat pointedly, I open my eyes again and find her frantically making a time-out gesture at me.
“Can you hold for a minute?” I ask Caroline, and when she agrees, I hit the Mute button on my phone and widen my eyes at Mom. “What?”
“You need to go,” she says, assuming her Stern Mother voice and face.
“How?” I throw up my hand, at a complete loss. “I’ve got the kids, and I’m on vacation, and we’re here to spend time with Mia and Jay before they leave…”
“You need to do it,” Mom states firmly. “Financial independence, Paige.”
My mouth set, I don’t reply.
“Don’t worry about the kids,” my mom goes on. “They’ll have the whole family around to take care of them and spoil them. Mia will understand. She’ll still get to spend time with the kids, and you’ll be back in time to say goodbye, right?”
I nod silently. There’s no way I’d let anything stop me from coming back in time. Still, I grit my teeth against the urge to growl with frustration. Gah. I really, really hate the thought of doing this, but I’ll lose Caroline if I say no. I can feel it in my bones.
It’s do-or-die time.
Keep-fighting-or-let-Logan-win time.
Unmuting my phone, I put it back up to my ear and say, “All right, I guess I can swing it after all. When and where?”
After Caroline’s given me the details and we’ve said goodbye, I stuff the device back in my pocket.
Have I just made a monumental mistake?
Mom is right that Mia will understand, since she’s been on the receiving end of the financial independence lectures as well. And my kids won’t care if I’m gone for a few days, since that means more fun and fewer rules.
No, this apprehension is about something else entirely. Caroline bringing her attorney on this trip means Stuart most likely will, too.
Logan being there doesn’t mean I’ll be spending a lot of time around him…right? It’s possible I won’t even see him if something goes awry with my client’s plan, which I’m guessing is just as likely as not.
Being in a hotel with Logan, though… I have good reason to feel apprehensive about that. There’s a history of shit going wrong between us in hotels.
Like that weekend in Las Vegas, when my life plans officially derailed. It was about eight months after New Year’s Eve, the night I realized I was losing the fight to resist him. And about seven and a half months after I did lose it—except it didn’t feel like a loss at the time.
If I’d had any idea back then of the part of himself he was hiding from me, things would’ve gone very differently.
Chapter 10
Paige
Nine years ago
The sound of running water tears me from my slumber. My limbs paralyzed with fatigue, I force my eyelids apart just enough to take in my surroundings. Sunlight streams in through gauzy, translucent curtains. Starched, white sheets. Not my pillow, not my blanket, not my bed. I'm in a hotel room, and someone’s in the shower in the bathroom.
I know who, of course. I can smell him on the sheets. And on the T-shirt I’m wearing, his shirt, that I appropriated the night before I left on this trip and have been wearing to bed all week. If anyone had told me eight months ago, before the holiday season when he started to pursue me, that one day I’d want to wrap myself in Logan McKinley’s scent, I would’ve laughed hysterically.
Ugh, I have a terrible headache. Why? I didn’t even drink last night, when his flight arrived early enough that we had dinner together before going back to my room. Our room, now.
When I found out about this work trip three weeks ago, I suggested that we take a personal day so he could join me for a long weekend in Sin City. I hadn’t seen him since last Friday, which is the longest we’ve been apart since I-don’t-remember-when—an advantage of being romantically involved with a colleague, I suppose.
I missed him, though, and he clearly felt the same. Heat floods me at the memory of all the ways we played catch-up last night. A week’s separation from him seemed to have heightened my senses, intensified every look and every touch. And increased our appetite for the rough games, the pain and the battle of wills. He has the scratches and bite marks to prove it, and I have the soreness and the bruises. Despite my fatigue and the pounding in my head, my cheeks flame, and I clench my thighs against the twinges of arousal between them.
I’m not surprised that I’ve pined for him this past week. What I didn’t expect was how not seeing his golden-haired and suit-clad shape from across the office every day could affect my mood even more than going without my morning cup of coffee. Just the sight of him will brighten my day, put a bounce in my step, and make the most tedious of tasks—even doc review—far more bearable.
Not that we spend much time together at work. But those smiles and few words in passing have become the lighthouse that helps me navigate the almost nonstop grind of my job without wrecking and sinking. And then there’s the occasional lunch date, with the even more occasional quickie at my apartment, which is closer to work. Or in the parking garage, in the back seat of his car, with its darkly tinted windows…
We’ve remained professional, though. We’ve stayed away from the supply closet. So far.
There’s definitely a contingency of women in the office, led by Amber—duh—whose attitudes have cooled toward me. I can’t bring myself to resent them too hard. If Logan were seeing another woman from work, I’d be battling jealousy, too. Obviously.
What is getting old, though, are coworkers eagle-eyeing me for signs that I’m getting special treatment for being the girlfriend of the boss’s favorite. Which is just ridiculous.
Girlfriend.
A part of my mind still balks at that title, thinking it feels like an overstatement of our relationship. Which makes no sense, really. We have mutual friends now—he’s even made a convincing effort to get along with Beth—and th
ey all refer to us as one word, PaigeAndLogan, the way you do with couples you’ve started thinking of as a single entity.
We spend the majority of what little spare time we have together. He even convinced me to go camping with him, and I…tolerated it. Mostly because we could be cast adrift in a rowboat in the middle of the Pacific, and he’d still find a way to light up my world.
So I guess if I’m not his girlfriend, I don’t know what else you’d call me at this point.
A stabbing ache behind my eyes has me burying my head in my pillow and curling up into a ball under the sheet and blanket. While dozing, I’m vaguely aware of the sound of water in the shower stopping. A short while later, there’s the click of the bathroom door, the padding of feet on the carpet, and then the bed sinks behind me under his weight.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.” He presses a kiss on my neck, and my body responds, my spine curling. “It’s nine thirty already.”
Parting my lips, I try to push out a reply, but this exhaustion, it's like a five-hundred-pound boulder crushing me and pinning me to the mattress.
“I’m so tired,” I manage to mumble, forcing my eyes open again.
A large, warm hand skims from my shoulder and down my bare arm. I roll over onto my back, blinking blearily—and find my Golden Boy braced on his elbow above me, wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs and smelling fresh from the shower, his hair damp and disheveled.
Crap. I can’t believe I lay here awake the past ten minutes and didn’t even realize.
“Did you go to the gym without me?”
“Yeah.” He brushes a lock of hair away from my face, sending another shock prickling through me.
Of course, being tired doesn’t make me immune to him. Pretty sure I could be spitting furious at him, and all he’d have to do is touch me—anywhere, everywhere—and I’d be disarmed. My defenses against him are tissue-paper thin.
“Sorry.” I grimace. Because I flaked out on him, not because I’m upset about missing out on the early a.m. visit to the fitness center downstairs. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
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