Page 26 of Never Sleep with the Enemy

He turned around.

Is Logan Shock… a gentleman?

I tame my expression as I step up behind him. “Here,” I say.

He faces me, nodding as he takes the robe. “Ah, thank you.”

“Sorry I ran off with it,” I say. “If I’d realized you were so attached to it…”

“Please.” He scoffs. “They bill you nearly two hundred dollars for these things—a lesson Goldie learned the hard way back in Seattle.”

“Ah.” I chuckle. “Frugal.”

“Waste not.” Logan walks the robe back to the bathroom, tossing it onto the hook behind the door. “How’d the rest of the reception go?”

“Great,” I say. “Sorry I didn’t come sooner. There was cake and speeches and all that.”

“I figured.”

“And the band played, of course. A new song Jonah wrote for… his new wife.”

Logan returns to the room, nodding slowly as he retrieves his glass.

“After that, the party started trickling toward the bar, and since I’m probably never drinking ever again after last night, I took the opportunity to…”

“Escape?” Logan finishes for me.

The word rings true, but I tilt my chin and say, “Slip away.”

All right.

You returned the robe, Kat.

Time to leave.

Logan raises his glass. “To the happy couple.” He downs the rest, ice rattling in the space left behind.

I nod, letting my gaze drift.

Little pieces of Tesla linger on the bed. Clothes and fabric scissors and pincushions. I force my curiosity away, eyes landing on the couch instead.

Yellow sticky notes are spread across the cushions. Some litter the coffee table. A few are crumpled on the floor, torn at the edges.

Scribbled words and phrases. Doodles. Half-finished thoughts.

“Sticky notes,” I observe.

“Sticky notes,” he echoes.

“Are you…” He moves toward them so suddenly I second-guess my question, but I ask anyway. “Are you working on something new?”

Logan drops onto the couch next to an acoustic guitar, which he slides onto his lap with effortless ease. “I am,” he says.

I smile at the chaos of ink and notes. “I just use a notebook.”

He pinches his pick and strums once. The vibration hums through my chest, each note plucking along my spine.

“I don’t like notebooks,” he says. “Not this early in the process. Sticky notes force quick thinking. Brevity. I can shift things around and…” He pauses, glancing up with a smirk. “Saying it out loud, I now realize it may sound crazy.”

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