Page 145 of Keeping Kasey
“You wouldn’t let me stay in Ford’s office.”
“What?” he asks, turning the music down.
“You wouldn’t let me stay in Ford’s office to work on getting the names,” I tell him. “I needed you out of the way long enough to get them before Logan and James found out I lied—that’s why I locked you in the bathroom.”
Damon does a poor job of hiding his smile. “I know, Goldie.”
“Then why did you keep badgering me about it?” I snap.
“To findthat,” he says with a growing smile. “I was worried we lost you there.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He glances at me with a warm glint in his green eyes. “Quiet doesn’t suit you. I hoped I could annoy you into getting some of that attitude back.”
“I didn’t have much choice,” I remind him.
“Maybe not. But then you broke that plate, and I was a lot less concerned.”
“You werelessconcerned when I held jagged glass to your brother’s throat?”
Damon’s brow furrows. “Do you really think he couldn’t have stopped you?”
“If he could, he wouldn’t have a gash in his arm.”
He shrugs.
I study Damon as he focuses on driving, looking for any indication of what might be happening inside his head. I still can’t tell if his mask is just that good or if there’s simply nothing nefarious on his mind.
With Damon, the only way to know for sure is to ask.
“Why do you care if I have my attitude or not?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and when he does, it’s with a distant, almost reminiscent smile. “I know better than anyone that Logan isn’t good at second chances. Or third, or fourth, for that matter.”
Damon’s relationship with Logan is something I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand.
He parks the car in front of the hotel, waves goodbye, and watches me walk inside before driving off.
I can sense Logan the second I set foot in the lobby.
It’s pathetic, really.
He sits at the hotel bar, nursing a whiskey and staring at nothing in particular. Anyone else might look awkward sitting alone, but Logan never looks out of place. He doesn’t need to mess with his phone or watch whatever sports game is playing on the TV.
Logan is perfectly comfortable in everything he does.
He’s traded his usual suit for a black tuxedo. His hair looks like it was slicked back earlier in the night but has since lost its form, and his long necktie is slung over his shoulders. It’s a messy, worn look that he pulls off effortlessly.
And I hate that I am still so attracted to him.
Then, as if he can sense me too, Logan turns his head to look at me.
His face is unreadable, but when he leans back to reveal the second whiskey glass beside him, the message is clear.
And Iwantto go.
He wouldn’t push for conversation or try to touch me.
