Page 161 of Keeping Kasey
“Goodnight, Kasey,” Logan says as he unlocks his door.
“Logan?”
When he lifts his gaze, I’m struck by the undisguised hope in his eyes. For a fraction of a second, all I want to do is kiss him.
I wanthimto kissme.
I swallow back that particular desire and ask, “Why did you want to know where I was?”
His smile falls into contemplation, and I almost wish I hadn’t said anything. I don’t want to taint our otherwise decent night.
After a few seconds, I’m about to tell him to forget it, but then his eyes fill with a steely resolve, and he says, “I spent the entirety of four months wondering. Figured it was time I got an answer.”
“You thought about me every day?”
“Every single day,” he says without a hint of mockery or bashfulness threatening his solemn features.
I have no idea how to respond to that—to the genuine, raw truth Logan freely gives me.
Where’s the hot-headed, egotistical bastard? The one who fought my every word. The one who rose to every challenge and played every game. The one who left savage marks across mythroat just because he could. The one who was ready to go on a killing spree after I was attacked.
The one who nursed me back to health. The one who held me through the night. The one who asked me to stay with him. The one who I could swear fell in love with me.
The way I fell in love with him.
The different sides of Logan Consoli give me whiplash, butthisversion of him scares me.
I can hate Logan.
I can love Logan.
But I don’t know what to do with this detached, tired, utterly apathetic Logan.
He should be glaring or smiling at me, yelling in my face or whispering in my ear, pinning me against the wall or sending me suggestive winks from across the room.
He should befightingme, thenwantingme.
But Logan’s solemnity is all I see as he lets out a long breath, nods once, and retreats to his room.
My stomach drops with something like disappointment, but I reject it and go into my room, locking the door behind me.
What’s there to be disappointed about? We had dinner—a far more civilized interaction than I ever thought Logan and I would have again.
It was pleasant enough, but it didn’t change anything.
So, why am I thinking about what his lips would feel like on mine? Soft yet firm, as he takes what he wants while giving me so much of himself. The way his hands would trap my body against his like he’d weld us together if he could. How he’d nibble against my neck until I was covered in his marks, and my fingers would clutch his hair, holding him as close as I could.
My chest clenches, and my breath shallows—just like every other time I’ve failed to force those thoughts away.
Falling into the memories is dangerous.
Especially when there’s only one door separating us now.
I don’t realize I’m standing in front of it until my hand hovers over the knob.
What would I do if I opened it, anyway? It’s not like he’s actually going to kiss me.
And yet, I reach for the knob.
