Page 14 of It Shouldn't Be You
“I used to hate being a redhead when I was younger and all the stereotypes that come along with it. But I grew into it,” I say before taking a sip of the water while Logan helps himself to some bread from the basket.
“Pass me your plate.” Intrigued by what he's up to, I hand him my side plate and watch as he swaps our plates, giving me the warm, buttered plate of heaven.
Why is him making sure I’m fed before he is so fucking hot?
Just as I start to panic about not having looked at the menu yet, a waiter comes over. Logan quickly rattles off a few different dishes and orders a bottle of Dom Perignon before I can say a word.
“Order enough food there or?” I ask after the waiter leaves us.
“I figured we could try a bit of everything and take any leftovers with us. That way, you get to sample all their best dishes, and I get to learn what you like,” he says, leaning back in his seat, spreading out like the mafioso he is. Having grown up around powerful men, his aura is familiar to me, but the effect it has on me is not. It's far too soon to be craving him in the carnal ways that I am, but between his old-world manners, take-charge attitude, and his determination to wine and dine me despite being deeply embroiled in drama, I find myself falling for him a little more. But still. It’s far too early to be feeling any type of waytowards him, so in an effort to ignore my feelings for now, I keep us conversing. When asking him to tell me about himself dries up almost as soon as I’ve asked the question, I switch tactics.
If he won’t or can’t talk about himself outright, then quizzing him on his history with Owen and Alex might give me some insight on him.
“Care to share how you and Owen are so close?”
“I wouldn’t call us close, per se.”
“Considering he has your phone number and had a hand in setting our marriage up, I beg to differ.” I take a sip of the champagne, savouring the way it seems to seep into my bones as I wait for his answer.
“Touché. Did you know we were in the same rugby league? We ended up at the same summer camps most years," he says. At my nod, he continues, "Owen was never one for taking hints. After we got paired up for a team-building exercise, he decided he should keep trying to 'win me over' outside of that class. Imagine a golden retriever following me around—that was Owen." His words could sound harsh, but the fond expression on his face softens them.
The four different pasta dishes are delivered to our table, and we eat in comfortable silence. Except for my moans because that truffle pasta is to die for.
It’s only when I’ve sat back, far too full, on a carb high and maybe a little tipsy, thanks to the champagne, I bite the bullet. “Why me?”
“What?” he asks, sitting back and dabbing at his mouth before giving me his full attention again. I could get used to being pinned under his gaze. Or other body parts.
“Why marry me?”
"History has shown that people trust family men more than single twenty-something bachelors. And with my father claiming my whole life that I'm not fit for this, an arranged marriage was inevitable. As for why you, if I'm being honest, I don’t have a neat answer. I needed a connection to the Four Points, and Owen mentioned you. He vouched for you as a good fit to be my wife. But now, having met you and gotten the privilege to know you, I’m glad it was you. I’m glad we have the chance to explore this obvious connection between us," he explains. His voice is steady, but the sudden tension in his shoulders and the way he taps his knuckles on the table suggest he’s more affected by his words than he lets on. Little does he know, seeing this glimpse behind his mask settles my nerves more than any smooth talk ever could.
“Thank you for not trying to bullshit me. I won’t say I’m not curious about where this could lead, but I will warn you, I do plan to make you work for it. After all, you went back on your word to meet me before we got married.”
I’m so over that by now. Stepping foot in the compound made it clear just how much shit he was dealing with day in, day out.
However, what would life be without a little fun and games?
"I’d expect nothing less. And let the record show that if I could have convinced them to let you come to me, even for something as simple as a walk around the grounds, I would have. In a heartbeat."
With that, he lets me shift the conversation back to lighter topics, such as telling him all about my tendency to hide from potential suitors as a kid and how I glued myself to Cora on our first day at St Theresa’s, claiming her as my best friend within our first week.
Even as we take our to-go bags of leftover food and the unfinished bottle of Dom Perignon with us to the car, he listens to my stories, smiling gently and laughing at all the right moments. His hand rests on my thigh as he drives us back to the compound.
It’s only as we're pulling up in front of the main house that our conversation winds down, and the tension that’s been held at bay all evening envelops us like a weighted blanket. He walks me to my room, his hand firmly on my lower back.
When we reach my door, I turn to bid him goodnight, only to find myself frozen as I meet his gaze. The intense heat in his eyes is unlike anything I’ve ever felt, and I'm unsure how to respond. But before I can overthink it, he pins me against the door. With one hand beside my head and his body pressing lightly against mine, he uses his other hand to tilt my chin up.
“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he murmurs before closing the gap between us. Heat floods my body as his lips meet mine, and with a hungry groan, he grasps my waist and deepens the kiss for a moment before pulling back. “Sweet dreams, Princess.” He kisses my forehead and gives my waist a final squeeze, leaving me breathless and dizzy from the champagne and his kiss.
Chapter 11
Waking up with the phantom feeling of Logan’s tattooed hand around my throat and embarrassingly wet panties wasn’t something I expected to happen, yet, after the searing kiss that left me biting my tongue against asking for him to come into my room, it really shouldn’t come as a surprise.
Rinsing my dirty thoughts away in the shower leaves me with the equally embarrassing thoughts of what is awaiting me downstairs. Is Logan going to bring up the kiss, or should I?
Nope. I need to remember who I am and slow the fuck down before I wind up hurt, all because of my careless actions.
I pick out my best ‘no fucks given’ outfit. Men might use weapons as their armour, but I’m a firm believer that picking out the perfect outfit and wielding it just so can be as effective as a steal chest plate.
