by Lexi Whitlow
“Bryn, please open up. Please talk to me,” I call through the door.
She doesn’t respond.
Okay.
Back in my suite, I pour another whiskey, go out on the balcony, have a seat, and think.
One idea occurs to me. No one gets that angry, that defensive, that quickly, unless a nerve is touched. There’s an element of truth to what she believes she heard, and it’s rattled her. At least part of her did give me a shot because of my change in circumstance. I’m not offended by that, but maybe it upsets her belief that she’s beyond being swayed by such mean considerations as wealth.
She thinks I bought her. The only thing purchased was confidence. The money bought me enough guts to take the risk and make the play.
That’s what I need her to understand, but she won’t talk to me.
She has email, and I know she checks it every thirty minutes, just like every other attorney in the world.
I fire up my laptop. I’m a terrible typist and no wordsmith, so it goes slowly, trying to find the right words.
Dear Bryn,
As you know, I didn’t quite finish college, so I’m not sure how much sense I’m going to make, but here I go.
First, I’m sorry.
I was so happy in that moment that I wasn’t sure what I was saying, but I think you heard something different than what I meant to say.
I’m not much of a writer, but I think my whole speaking words thing is way worse than my writing. So hopefully I can get my point across here. I’m going to try.
I think the money gave us a chance to get together, finally, after so many years. I was trying to tell you that, but I think you heard, “You’re with me for the money.”
What I meant was this—for me, this money means security. It means not choosing lotto tickets over pizza. It means getting in-home care for my brother and helping him get independent, like he deserves to be. It means taking care of my mom as she gets older, and giving her the very best things in life. I can finally reward her for being a fantastic mom. I can finally drive my car without wondering how to pay for gas. I can finally afford the medical bills for my brother, and I can take care of everyone just like I’d always wanted.
It means I’m free from all the worries I had before.
It means I’m confident that I can love someone. That I can be with someone, for real.
And the someone I always wanted—that was you, Bryn Beckett.
Just so I’m perfectly clear: I love you. I want you in my life. I want to be with you, for real.
I’ll make a couple of other things clear, too. I’m still funding your legal aid. I will continue to do so. I think it’s a damn good cause, and I love to see you excited about it. I’ll get someone else to oversee it since we’re entangled now, but my money will be there for everything you need.
Also, I love you. I think I already said that.
But it’s your choice if you want to be with me. I’m not some dick like Charles, who would probably appoint you with the title of “girlfriend” and start introducing you to his family before he gave you the news.
I don’t expect a response, but I’d love one if you have the time.
Logan.
I read my words carefully, double checking my intent and how I’ve stated it. There can’t be any confusion in this. Reasonably satisfied that I’ve made my best effort, I hit send, then close the laptop.
It’s almost three in the morning. I doubt she’ll see the note until tomorrow. Maybe then we can start again.
* * *
“I’m sorry Mr. Chandler,” the desk clerk states without expression. “Miss Beckett checked out several hours ago.”
Hours?
“I see,” I respond blankly. “Thank you.”
I called her. I knocked on her door again this morning. When I called her cell, I couldn’t hear it ringing. I knew then she was gone.
There’s nothing for me to do.
Chapter 15
Bryn
The plane lifts into the air, rising above the concrete maze of streets, buildings, houses occupied by sleeping people. I see the first inkling of sunrise off to the east, rising above the hazy blue-green line of the Atlantic.
“The captain has turned off the fasten seatbelt sign. Feel free to move about the cabin,” a flight attendant announces. That’s my cue.
My laptop is waiting. I haven’t looked at anything on email or social media since Friday afternoon, before I headed out on this ill-advised excursion with Logan Chandler. I should have stayed home. I have no idea what I was thinking but whatever it was, it was poorly considered.
He’s easy to look at. He’s easier to talk to. He’s charming. He’s also an arrogant son-of-a-bitch who thinks—just because he’s got money—that I’m an easy score.
I turn on the laptop, dreading the raft of unanswered mail in my inbox. I didn’t tell anyone but Bonnie and Claire where I was going or what I was doing. I have an idea that half the office is waiting on a response from me on some time-sensitive filing or notes on a deposition.
When my inbox finally loads, I’m pleased—perhaps a shred disappointed—to see that my absence hasn’t been felt as keenly as I feared.
There’s a note from my father asking me to lunch today. It’s entirely possible I can still make it.
There’s a note from Bonnie, my admin, reminding me of a 10:00 appointment on Monday morning. I’m good with that.
There’s a note from Claire asking how things are going. I’ll answer that shortly.
And finally, the last note in my inbox; subject line, ‘Please don’t delete this. Hear me out.’
It’s from Logan.
I sit back hard in my seat, peering out the small cabin window, considering the ribbon of islands to my right that make up the edge of the Mid-Atlantic seaboard.
What could he possibly have to say that I might want to hear?
I click on the note.
Dear Bryn,
As you know, I didn’t quite finish college, so I’m not sure how much sense I’m going to make…
… I’m sorry.
I was so happy in that moment that I wasn’t sure what I was saying, but I think you heard something different than what I meant to say…
I love you…
What am I supposed to do with that?
I’ll give him this; he’s capable of writing a good note, even if he’s self deprecating about it. I find myself calming, even laughing a couple of times. It feels like I’m listening to him, like I’m in the room with him.
I’ve known a lot of dumb jocks in my life, and none of them could write their way out of a wet paper bag. He’s got a knack for this. And he’s sweet. Funny. Masculine. Charming.
‘…and I love you…’
What is it my father says?
Never put anything in writing you wouldn’t want used against you in court?
He put it in writing. He’s owning it.
What am I to do with a declaration like this?
The truth is that Logan Chandler has made me aware of my own vulnerabilities. I recall a conversation about my lack of love-life months ago with Claire. She joked that Logan was ‘the perfect man for the job.’ I dismissed the idea.
I knew I’d been a bitch in high school. I knew I had told him I wanted something more than he could give me. I knew he’d been so hurt and so broken. And he seemed… out of my world. Out of my league. Beyond me, separated.
I thought there were worlds separating us. That he wouldn’t want to know—wouldn’t care—about what I was doing.
And the other thing. He was a mechanic. Deep down, I wasn’t sure we’d have anything to talk about.
A few months ago, he would still have been able to discuss the cynicism in Twain’s Letters from Earth, or the way that Charles Dickens’ works were seminal in bringing radical change to the legal system, to labor conditions, to the wages workers are paid. Of course, I didn’t know that.
That he would be interested in what I’m do
ing.
I’m insecure.
I was too focused on my job to see the man right in front of me. And too shy to make a move.
And I thought, because he was a mechanic, that we were literally worlds apart.
…I’m a snob.
* * *
“You know,” Claire says, consoling me. “You can just accept his apology and let it go from there. You don’t need to humble yourself and admit all your failings. He’s not an idiot. He’ll figure those out soon enough.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I respond. “I think he’s probably already well-aware.”
“That you’re a snob? Yeah,” she says. I hear the grin in her tone. “That you’re as insecure as the rest of us? That may take a little longer for him to puzzle out.”
There’s a knock at my office door.
“Hang on, Claire. Somebody’s at my door.”
“Come in!” I call out.
Bonnie pokes her head in, flashing a beaming smile. “More flowers,” she says. “At the front desk. Somebody sure does like you.”
“I gotta go, Claire,” I say. “I’ll call you later.”
“Fine,” she replies. “Don’t leave him hanging too long.”
I walk with Bonnie to the main reception area. Another crowd has gathered, this one smaller than the one on Friday, but no less curious or enthusiastic.
Today the roses are blue, and countless. Perhaps three dozen, maybe more. They’re beautiful and fragrant, and I’m starting to feel terribly ashamed of how I behaved towards Logan.
I pluck the card from the center of the arrangement, slipping the thing from its envelope. It reads,
“I miss you. —Logan.”
* * *
Good lord.
I scurry away from the main desk with my unwieldy arrangement wafting a floral scent in my wake. Friday’s roses are still remarkably fresh, so these just add to the greenhouse effect my office has taken on.
An hour later, while I’m buried in briefings, trying to get up to speed on an important, upcoming case, my father walks through my office door, then stops cold in his tracks.
“Good grief. Did someone die?” he asks, gazing around at the flowers, his jaw slack with surprise.
I ignore his comment.
“What’s up?” I ask, rolling forward in my chair, laying the brief down on my desk.
His eyes move from the flowers, then to me, and back again. Without preface, he lays a thick folder down on my incoming pile and takes a breath. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
I shake my head. “Not really.”
Daddy takes a step forward, fixing my gaze. His expression goes serious.
“Honey, are you involved with someone?”
I square my shoulders, narrowing my eyes. “I’m still deciding,” I say. “Haven’t made up my mind yet.”
He cocks an eyebrow, tilting his head toward the absurdly large vase of blue roses. “And is this his reaction to your indecision?”
I nod.
His lip turns upward. The corners of his blue eyes crinkle with veiled delight.
“Well played,” he applauds me, taking a step back. “Make the right decision. Let me know how it turns out.”
Ha. If only he knew.
Maybe I will. But not soon. I need to be certain.
After work, at home in my apartment, with a handful of roses brought with me from the office installed in a vase, I hold my breath while typing a text that I hope will mend fences.
Bryn: You write a very pretty note, and make a strong case in your defense. You may have a future in the law. The roses are beautiful, BTW.
I set my phone down on the counter, making fresh coffee while I wait. It doesn’t take long.
Logan: Drake informed me I needed to send roses. I don’t have anything better to do, so I did.
He makes me laugh. I know he tries to, but that doesn’t diminish the fact that he succeeds. It’s the rarest of people who can make me genuinely laugh. The rest just leave me with rolling eyes.
Bryn: It’s a school night. I have to eat, read legal briefs, and go to bed. In court at 9:00 A.M.
Logan: I’ll bring dinner. We’ll talk while we eat. I’ll let you read, and go home when you tell me to. Please.
How do you argue with a man who makes his case so plainly, and always comes bearing something of value in exchange? I don’t have a thing in the house to cook, and I’m starving. I was going to order pizza.
Bryn: Okay. Feed me. Long day and I’m hungry. The roses are lovely, but inedible.
Logan: Next time I will send three dozen pizzas. On my way. What’s your address?
He doesn’t even know where I live? Good. At least he’s not stalker material.
I type out my address, then some additional instructions for good measure, hoping his navigational app is up to it. My apartment is hard to find. I like it that way.
Thirty minutes later there’s a knock on my door.
When I open it, he’s standing on the landing wearing a hopeful smile, bearing two Whole Foods grocery bags with a bottle of wine tucked under his arm.
“I wasn’t sure you’d let me in, so I brought cheesecake,” he says, biting his lip with genuine uncertainty. “And chocolate. I figured one or the other might tip the scales in my favor.”
Logan Chandler does self-effacing charm better than anyone I’ve ever met.
I flash briefly on Saturday night and the things we did. My knees quiver.
“Cheesecake and chocolate?” I observe, opening the door wide, waving him in. “After roses and poignant declarations. A girl might think you’re trying too hard.”
I close the door behind him.
Logan sets the grocery bags on the counter, then leans on it, palms down, eyes fixed on mine, all humor leaving his expression.
“You walked out on me, then flew home by yourself. You left believing some pretty awful things about me.”
His eyes have gone dark. I realize then just how heavily the last couple days have weighed on him.
“Bryn, I’m sorry. If I’m trying overly hard, it’s because I feel like I need to. I meant every word I said in that note—and then some.”
And then some? What does that mean?
I approach him, laying my hand atop his where it rests on the countertop.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “I over-reacted because I’m more than a little freaked out by… all the money. And you did choose some of your words poorly. But it’s all sorted. We’re good. We’re … okay.”
“Are we?” he asks, a pained expression marring his lovely, sculpted face.
“I think so,” I reply. “Anyway, we’ll figure it out. We’re not on a deadline here.”
Logan steps closer; dark, moody eyes brightening. “No, we’re not on a deadline,” he says. “You’re calling the plays, but since ‘we’re good’ again, can I kiss you and satisfy myself that I didn’t imagine Saturday night?”
He didn’t imagine it.
Logan’s first kiss is cautious; he’s testing the waters.
I must have punched his confidence harder than I realized. It’s the litigator in me. I was trained to spot the first sign of vulnerability and expose it, diving in hard without restraint to spread the fissure wide, showing off the instability in the whole foundation.
I slip my hand up high, around the nape of his neck, my fingertips pulling him to me, meeting his kiss and escalating, parting his lips, drawing him in.
He hauls in a heated, heavy breath, sucking my air into his lungs. His tongue and mine dance together, his teeth nick me, sending a promise of something down, rattling all the way to my belly and then back up.
“Dinner can wait,” I murmur in his ear, my fingers gliding across the buttoned-down breadth of his chest. “We have unfinished business.”
“Do we?” he asks in a whisper, his lips caressing my neck, his strong hands gently circling my waist, then reaching lower.
“We do,” I declare, nudging Logan bac
kward. I slip my hand into his, then pull him, leading, to my bedroom.
It’s not like it was Saturday night. There’s no playful brute, throwing me over his shoulder or shoving me around, manhandling me. This is different. Tender. Sweet. Patient. He takes his time with us making out on top of my bed, both fully clothed, until I can’t stand it anymore.
At every turn, he waits for me to make the next move, slowly, tediously, urging our progression forward. In between, his hands and mouth attend to every inch of bare skin I reveal to him by measure. His touch is electric and erotic. He makes every nerve ending in my entire body ignite.
Before his lips and tongue are done with me, my body becomes impatient, wanting more. I feel the wet heat between my legs. I feel the empty void that wants to be filled.
“Inside,” I beg, whining. “Please. Now.”
Logan accommodates my demand, and does so much more gently than he did on Saturday.
I feel the condom between us, woefully artificial. I resolve to do something about that as soon as possible.
When he presses in, forcing past slippery muscle, sinking into a rhythm that’s both exquisite and alien, my body responds unconsciously.
Logan doesn’t break eye contact. We’re seared together, our bodies one now, moving together in a single effort. We exchange the same breath, exchange one another’s heat, his length inside me, drawing back and then rushing in again like a regular tide on the beach.
He feels so perfect inside me.
My hands fall to his chest, then around to his broad back. My ankles hook behind his ass.
Logan’s eyes meet mine as I feel the first quavers of pleasure peaking. I arch reflexively, my eyes searing shut.
“Oh… oh…” I utter, waves rising inside me, demanding release.
“Oh… God…”
A visceral, electric charge of pulsing pleasure bursts from that space inside me occupied only by Logan’s cock. It rushes out, radiating from my belly, then up my spine and out to limbs, terminating at fingers and toes.
My brain blanks. Every thought, every fear, every nagging worry slips away into a bliss of reflexive giggling and childlike awe. All I am is rendered happy under Logan’s possessive spell. He moves and he moves me. My body responds with clockwork rhythm.