by Elise Noble
Sloane always had been a generous one. “Does she live far away?”
“Right next door.” Another giggle followed by a groan. “I’ll need to clear this mess away super quick because she’ll probably have a heart attack if she looks through the window.”
“Are you serious? She looks through your windows? That’s kind of intrusive, kitten.”
“I don’t like it, but at least I don’t need to worry about burglars, right?”
Logan hated nosy neighbours, which was why he’d bought a house in the middle of nowhere. A ranch-style home tucked away in the woods beyond Rybridge, surrounded by whispering trees and a high fence. Growing up in Anaheim squashed into a two-bedroom apartment with his parents and three sisters, he’d craved space, or at least somewhere to sleep that wasn’t a fold-out bed in the living room. Now he had sixteen acres of land, but it got lonely there sometimes.
“I guess that’s a positive. Edna aside, you like living here?”
“It doesn’t cost too much, and Nickel likes the yard.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Oh, shit. Another tear. Cheesecake. More cheesecake. Logan grabbed another box from the counter and tipped the chocolate chip cookie dough version onto a plate, then poured Sloane another glass of wine just to be on the safe side.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” He slid a forkful of gooey goodness into her mouth. “Here, eat this.”
“It’s not okay. The bathroom faucet drips, the roof leaks, and the yard turns into a jungle every spring. I only moved here because of the cats, but Dime got run over last year by the cable repair guy. And I got so upset that I shouted at him, so now I don’t have cable either.”
“Kenneth didn’t help?”
Sloane choked on a mouthful of cheesecake, and Logan thumped her on the back.
“Oh, sure, he helped. By insisting we always stay at his place because the dripping noise annoyed him. He wanted me to move in with him, did you know that?” She knocked back the wine and held out the glass. “I need another drink.”
Logan picked up the bottle. Was this a good idea? Probably not, but at least Sloane was opening up. Every time he talked to her in the office, she turned the conversation back to the job, and in seven years, he’d only become more intrigued by the quiet, pretty girl who hid away behind a curtain of light brown hair and an ultra-professional attitude.
“Well, at least you didn’t move in with him. I’d have had to rent a bigger truck to get your stuff back.”
“Right! And I’d have been homeless.”
“Nah, that would never happen. I’ve got—” He’d been about to say “a spare room,” but what if that freaked her out? “I’ve got an idea that Emmy would have come up with a solution.”
“Asking my boss to rescue me? I’d never have lived that down.”
“Come on, Emmy’s more than just a boss. She’s a friend too.”
“I suppose.” Sloane picked up the bottle and chugged back the last of the rosé.
“You want the white next?” Logan asked.
“I think so. Yes.”
Definitely not a good idea. Logan reached for the corkscrew.
“So, why do you only ‘suppose’ Emmy’s a friend?”
“Look at everyone in the office.”
“I do, most days.”
“Well, I don’t exactly fit in, do I?”
“Why not?”
“Those women are all so…so…capable. So smart and elegant. And then there’s me.”
“I don’t get it.”
And Logan genuinely didn’t. Never had he suspected that Sloane suffered from such a crippling lack of self-confidence, and one that was completely unwarranted. Sure, she may not know how to shoot a gun or jump out of an airplane, but few girls did. And Sloane had Emmy beat hands down in the sweetness stakes.
Sloane ate another mouthful of cheesecake and washed it down with Sauvignon Blanc. “My boob fell out at yoga tonight.” She went to clap a hand over her mouth but poked herself in the eye instead. “Ouch. This whole day has been a disaster. Whole week. Year.”
But Logan had already heard the first part, and he couldn’t stop laughing. “What? How?”
“Forget I said that.”
“Not happening.” Despite Emmy’s friend Fia extolling the benefits of yoga, he’d always written it off as a bit girly. But now he saw that attending a class could have benefits. “Where do you go to yoga?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not going again.”
He flicked the zipper on her sweater. “Is that why you changed into this?”
“Yup. I’m never— There’s the mouse!”
Shit. The little bastard shot across the floor and dived under the refrigerator. Logan moved it an inch, and the mouse ran out into the corner and sat there, whiskers twitching.
“Don’t kill him,” Sloane squeaked.
Logan grabbed a plastic container and advanced, arms outstretched. The mouse was quick, but years of special forces training had made Logan’s reflexes quicker. Two seconds later, he had Mickey trapped in the box.
“Got him. I’ll put him out in the yard.”
Or better still, the landlady’s yard. She took Sloane’s money and didn’t bother to repair her roof, yet the woman managed to fill her yard with an expensive patio set and a bunch of ugly-ass statues.
“Welcome to your new home, Mickey,” Logan muttered as he released the mouse over the fence. “I hear she’s got cheese inside.”
Back in the kitchen, Sloane had keeled over sideways onto the counter, narrowly missing the remains of the cheesecake. Seemed the alcohol had finally caught up with her.
“You’re so damn beautiful, kitten,” he whispered.
His only answer was a quiet snuffle.
“Let’s get you to bed.”
CHAPTER 6 - SLOANE
MY HEAD HURT, my stomach hurt, and I’d already puked twice this morning. With Nickel as my witness, I swore I’d never eat cheesecake again.
Pride wouldn’t let me call in sick, so I stumbled into the office at nine a.m., just in time to rearrange Emmy’s flight back from Barcelona. Apparently, she’d gotten delayed by an unplanned excursion and missed her departure. Then Black called from Washington to say his meeting at the White House was going to overrun and would I please rearrange his meetings for the rest of the day.
One of the people who got bumped was a CEO who needed me to grovel a bit and stroke his ego, and by the time I’d moved Black’s dinner with him to next week, my headache had turned into a migraine.
But it wasn’t all bad. With the scheduling issues, I’d barely thought about what happened last night. The mouse, the kitchen, the wine… How would I ever face Logan again? If my hazy memory served correctly, I’d told him my boob escaped from my yoga top. Death seemed like an attractive option.
Lunch didn’t.
In fact, the mere thought of eating made me feel ill, which was probably a good thing since I’d consumed about six thousand calories yesterday. I fetched a glass of iced water and a package of Tylenol from the kitchen and groaned as another email popped into my inbox.
“Logan was looking for you,” Leah said.
Fantastic. My day was now complete.
What on earth should I say to him? An apology, obviously, but that was totally inadequate. He’d picked up my stuff from Kenneth, bought me comfort food, removed my unwanted visitor, and when I’d woken up in bed this morning—fully clothed, I hasten to add—my kitchen had been restored to its former rickety glory.
The only evidence Logan had been there at all were the cheesecake wrappers in the trash and the wine bottles in the recycling bin.
Oh, and the mortification permeating through my veins like a slow-acting poison.
Since Emmy and Black were away, I gathered up my laptop and phone and decamped to their private office. Yes, the walls were glass, but if I ducked down behind Black’s giant computer screen, perhaps Logan wouldn’t notice me? Only one more presentation to final
ise before I could go home and crawl back under my duvet.
And I so nearly made it. My mouse was hovering over the “save” button when the door cracked open, and a groan escaped my lips when I realised who it was.
“Sorry! So sorry. I was groaning about work, not you.”
Logan dropped into Emmy’s chair and wheeled it closer.
“I wanted to check you were okay. You seemed a little, uh, unconscious last night. I stayed for a while to make sure you kept breathing, but…”
“Oh, I’m fine. Perfectly fine.” My fingers nudged the Tylenol package underneath Black’s keyboard. “Thanks for catching the mouse and rebuilding my kitchen. And bringing food. And I guess you carried me to bed? You didn’t hurt your back, did you?”
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Putting yourself down.”
“Huh?”
“My back’s fine. There’s no reason why it shouldn’t be. Carrying you to bed was the decent thing to do, as was helping with your rodent problem. Want me to come over at the weekend to fix your leaky faucet?”
“No! I mean, no thank you. It’s kind of you to offer, but you’ve got that trip to New York, and you’re not scheduled to come back until six on Sunday evening.”
“You’ve been checking my calendar?”
Perhaps just a tiny peek. “Leah mentioned it earlier.”
Dammit, I needed a distraction. Something. Anything.
My phone rang.
Okay, anything except Kenneth. Technically, it was an unknown caller, but the last ten times that had happened, it had been my pig of an ex withholding his number. Because it was my work phone, I had to answer in case a client was calling, and the slimeball knew that.
“What’s wrong?” Logan asked.
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you glaring at the phone like it murdered a puppy.”
“Because there’s a ninety-eight percent chance that it’s Kenneth.”
Before I could stop him, Logan snatched it up.
“Blackwood Security.”
A pause.
“Sorry, Sloane can’t talk right now. Her mouth’s otherwise engaged.” Logan waggled his eyebrows and grinned. “That’s it, kitten. All the way down.”
His low, drawn-out moan sent heat rushing south before I realised what he was insinuating. How dare he?
“Stop it!” I hissed.
Logan merely tucked my phone into the crook of his shoulder, reached out, and put a hand over my mouth. One eyebrow quirked at whatever Kenneth had said.
“Really? You ever stop to think that maybe it was just your dick she didn’t like sucking?”
Did he…? Tell me he didn’t. Tell me Kenneth didn’t just inform Logan that I hated giving blow jobs. Yes, it was true, but Kenneth always wanted me to go down on him late in the evening, and he insisted on wearing tight-fitting briefs that gave him sweaty balls. The smell made me gag. Yeuch.
In my dreams, on the other hand, Logan tasted of chocolate cake and red wine, a proverbial buffet of well-hung man.
But today, I had no time to dream, not when that same man was currently ruining my life. I wrenched his hand away and made a dive for the phone, but the asshole twisted sideways and I ended up plastered against him, my back to his front. That delicious bulge pressed against the top of my butt. Was it my imagination, or did it feel a tiny bit hard?
For a brief second, I relaxed against Logan’s chest, but then I came to my senses, what little was left of them.
“Logan!”
“That’s it, lovely. Scream my name.”
Before I could say another word, his hand clamped over my mouth again, and his other arm came around my chest like a steel band. I could barely move an inch, and now I was close enough to hear Kenneth spluttering through the phone.
“Sloane would never do anything so vulgar in her workplace.”
“Beg to differ.”
“What would your boss say if he heard you speaking like that in the office?” Had Kenneth always been so whiny? “In fact, I’ve got a good mind to call him.”
“Sure, go right ahead. His—”
“No!” I tried, but it came out as a mumble.
Rather than tighten his grip, Logan perched on the edge of the desk so I had no choice but to tilt back against him. When I tried to protest again, he ran his thumb over my bottom lip, which theoretically shouldn’t have stopped me from speaking, but it did because I couldn’t think of anything other than sucking it.
Don’t you dare, Sloane. Just don’t.
“As I was saying, my boss’s extension number is six-six-five—” I felt Logan shrug. “Kenny hung up. Score one to us.”
Us? Us? Logan finally removed his arm and I scrambled away, panting worse than the pervert who’d started calling my home number six months ago. I didn’t know his name, but he phoned every Wednesday, the only man in my life who demonstrated any kind of commitment.
Apart from Mr. Barnes, possibly. Right now, he seemed committed to being a jackass.
“Logan, what the heck are you playing at? Why did you say that to Kenneth?”
“To stop him from talking shit to you again. And don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
“No! You… You… You utter pig! Never once have I done that.”
My mouth spouted denials, but my eyes weren’t on the same page. Despite my attempts to focus on Logan’s face, my gaze dropped all of its own accord. And Logan was wearing sweatpants.
Ohmigosh. Did he go commando?
By the time I realised what I’d done, it was too late. Logan had caught me looking, and he didn’t bother to hide his smirk.
“Don’t sweat it, kitten. It wasn’t that bad. Just a little play-acting.”
“Wasn’t that bad? How could it possibly have been worse?”
Logan shrugged, totally unrepentant. “I could have mentioned anal.”
I stormed out, slamming the door behind myself as I muttered nasty things about men in general and Logan in particular, then I realised I’d left my laptop on Black’s desk. Logan held it out to me when I slunk back in to pick it up.
“Need this?”
“Why can’t you just act like a normal guy?”
“Like Kenneth, you mean?”
“Well, no, but… Why did you do it? Say all that?”
“A man can dream, can’t he?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Can’t you at least stop messing with me?”
“You want the truth? Truth is, I’m an asshole.”
I couldn’t argue with that, not today.
“Thank you, I guess.”
I’d got halfway out the door for the second time when I heard Logan’s final words.
“Fifty bucks says Kenny won’t bother you in the office again.”
CHAPTER 7 - SLOANE
“STILL FRETTING OVER Logan?” Leah asked.
Three days later? Yes. The man was born to wear sweatpants, but why, oh why, had I looked at the bulge?
“Of course not.”
“It’s just that you’ve put five sugars in your coffee.”
“Huh? Oh, darn it.”
When I kept getting distracted on Tuesday, I’d had to come up with an explanation for Leah, one that didn’t involve mice or cheesecake or blow jobs in the office or getting horrendously drunk. So, I’d told her my jitters were Kenneth’s fault. That he’d been rude to Logan, first in person and then on the phone. Seeing as it was Kenneth who’d caused this whole mess with his inability to keep his dick in his pants, I figured he should shoulder some of the blame.
“Honestly, Logan won’t care that Kenneth told him to screw off. I don’t suppose Logan was all that polite when he picked up your stuff on Monday.”
If Mom caught me bending the truth, I’d be going straight to hell. The only saving grace was that Logan was already there. Well, Iraq. After some rearranging of schedules, Cade had taken the New York job while Logan flew to the Middle East on Tuesday night to oversee
a hostage rescue, which meant I’d spent every day since then alternately worrying and hoping he stayed there. At least it was Friday now. The office would be quieter at the weekend. Yes, I could have taken Saturday and Sunday off like a regular person, but I got lonely at home, okay?
“I still feel bad for dragging Logan into my problems in the first place,” I said.
“Trust me, he’s dealt with far worse. And Kenneth hasn’t called you since, right?”
“No.” Logan had been absolutely right about that.
“So, problem solved.”
I disposed of my overly sweet coffee in the sink and poured myself a fresh cup from the filter jug. Normally, I could do my job in my sleep, but this week had been a challenge.
“I hope you’re right,” I told Leah. “I just want to forget I ever met Kenneth.”
“And I’ve got the perfect thing for that.”
Leah fished her phone out of her pocket and turned to face me. That gleam in her eye had me worried.
“What have you done?”
“I’ve got you a date.”
“Like, with a man?”
If she’d rolled her eyes any harder, we’d have had to retrieve them from the shooting range out back.
“Of course with a man. I signed you up for online dating.”
“You’ve done what?”
“I’ve signed you up for—”
“I heard the first time. Do the words ‘invasion of privacy’ mean nothing to you?”
“But you’d never have done it yourself.”
“Exactly. Because I don’t want to go on a date. Kenneth put me off men for life.”
Well, mostly. I may have spent a little too much time daydreaming about Logan’s abs, but I didn’t actually want to lick them. Not at all.
“Don’t be too hasty. Just because you got mixed up with Kenneth-the-prick doesn’t mean there aren’t decent guys out there.”
“I’m not sure I’ll find one on the internet.”
“Sure you will. My friend Lydia married a guy she met on Tinder. And if these men are hanging out online, then at least they’re not technologically inept like…like… What was his name? The guy before Kenneth?”
“Lyndon.”
“That’s it. Tree guy. Is he still finding himself in Venezuela?”