Page 20 of Defensive Desire

"You've got that look. Like someone just told you Christmas is canceled."

"What?" I blink.

"That look you get when you're spiraling." He crosses those big, impressive arms, leaning against my table. "What's eating at you?"

"It's nothing. Just... nerves."

"Emma." His voice is firm, seeing right through me. "Try again."

I fidget with a coffee packet, not meeting his eyes. "Really, it's just—"

I glance over at Clara's pristine setup, then back at Logan's patient expression.

"I'm an idiot," I blurt. "Look at this place. Look at me. Clara's been doing this for fifteen years… she's Iron Ridge royalty! I'm just the girl who opened a coffee shop because she couldn't figure out what else to do with her life."

Logan shakes his head, the scowl deepening on his brow.

"That's bullshit."

"Is it though? She's got... history. Reputation. People trust her. She knows everybody's orders by heart, remembers their kids' names..." I feel tears threatening and blink them back furiously. "What if I'm just kidding myself? What if all this work is for nothing because I'll never be what she already is?"

"Emma." Logan steps closer, his body blocking out the world. "Look at me."

I do, reluctantly.

"Clara's had fifteen years to become who she is. You've had three." His thumb brushes across my cheek, so quickly I almost think I imagined it. "You make coffee that gets people excited. You created blends that have the whole damn team talking. You built something from nothing."

"But—"

"No buts." His voice drops lower. "Clara's established. You're hungry. You're growing. You're..." He pauses, like he's searching for the right words. "You're becoming. That's scarier than being. It's also braver."

My breath catches. "Logan..."

"And you know what else?" he continues, the corner of his mouth twitching as he looks over his shoulder like he's about to tell me some big secret. "Clara doesn't make me want to stick around after practice just to watch her work."

Heat floods my cheeks.

The way he's looking at me, like I'm something worth protecting, worth believing in, makes my knees weak.

"You're good with words when you want to be," I whisper.

"Only with you." His blue eyes meet mine. "And good morning to you too, gorgeous."

Gorgeous?

Did Logan Kane just call me gorgeous? In that casual, throwaway way that suggests it's just a fact of life, like the sky being blue or hockey players being ridiculously attractive?

My cheeks warm. I try to play it cool even though my heart is doing gymnastics.

Logan, of course, just goes about his business as if the world didn't just shake.

He rearranges the cups in a more stable configuration with those big, surprisingly gentle hands, and I find myself mesmerized by the way his forearms flex as he works.

"Thank you," I manage, though it comes out more breathless than I intended.

He just shrugs like it's nothing. Like casually calling me gorgeous and helping with my booth is something he does every day.

"Emma! Logan!"

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