Page 29 of Logan
I leave the office, the weight of the impending dinner invitation sitting heavy on my shoulders. The city’s pulse doesn’t distract me from my thoughts. Instead, it amplifies the urgency of resolving the misunderstanding.
Reaching the grocery store, I push through the glass doors,the mundane task of shopping grounding me. I enjoy cooking and always prefer cooking over eating out.
Chicken or fish? The age-old question. I settle on chicken, grabbing twice the usual amount with Sloane in mind. It would only be right to cook for two.
The apartment greets me with silence; Sloane’s absence hangs in the air.
Truth be told, solitude suits me, liberating me from the charade of feigned interest in another’s words. I set to work on the chicken, searing it in the pan, chopping and adding vegetables.
I dish out a portion onto a plate, put the rest into a bowl, snag a cold beer from the fridge, and take my seat at the table.
My phone buzzes with a new message.
Aidan Wolfson
How about Sunday night? My wife’s thrilled. It’s been ages since we’ve had American guests. She’s eager to share stories.
Fuck. His wife’s already looking forward to it. Backing out now could jeopardize everything.
The sound of the door swinging open cuts through my thoughts.
Sloane steps in, the light fabric of her dress embracing her waist, highlighting her curves and full breasts in a way that captures my entire focus. But only for a moment before I lift my eyes to meet hers, finding a warm smile that speaks of a day well spent.
At least one of us has reason to smile today.
Her look from yesterday floats in my head after the erotic scene she played for me on the speaker. I never would have guessed that’s what she was listening to, but perhaps the incident with the pink vibrator should have been a clue.
She bends over to set down her bags, and I avert my gaze, respecting her privacy.
She has an interesting combination of wisdom and sexiness that I like. I have no problem admitting that, but she’s off limits, and the closest she’ll get to my cock is in my fantasies. I don’t sleep with women who work for me. It’s a rule I’ve never broken, and I have no intention of starting now.
I don’t have a death wish, and I will not destroy my life's work for a fuck or fleeting euphoria. I have my right hand for that.
“Did you have a nice day?” I ask out of politeness and take a sip of my beer.
“Yes, thank you. I went up on the Tower Bridge and took a lot of pictures. Did you know it’s not called London Bridge? That’s another bridge, quite ugly, to be honest. I went to the wrong place at first, but the real bridge is really beautiful, and the floor there is transparent, which is actually cool. Not my brightest idea to wear a dress, though. There’s a mirrored ceiling, and, well, I inadvertently put on a bit of a show for everyone.” Her laughter fills the space, light and unbothered.
The image seizes my thoughts, unwelcome yet vivid. I shift uncomfortably, striving to steer my mind in another direction.
“After that, I headed to the Tower of London and stood in line for almost an hour to see the Crown Jewels. But it totally paid off.” She pauses, a dreamy look crossing her face. “Ipictured myself with a crown and scepter, kind of like those childhood fantasies of being royalty. But apparently, my name wouldn’t cut it.” She chuckles, shaking her head in mock disappointment. “I heard you only get to pick from a specific list of names. And it’s crazy to think, after seventy years, there’s finally a king. Makes you wonder what it’s like for him, finally stepping into that role.”
Her laughter fills the room once more as she spins, her dress lifting to reveal her long, tanned legs.
I blink.
She makes my life more complex in the most intriguing way, and I can’t help but admire how she’s not intimidated by me, openly sharing her experiences. It’s so rare for me that I can’t remember the last time I had such a light, carefree conversation with anyone except for maybe Cora.
Conversations with Georgina were always short and to the point. But Sloane keeps the conversation flowing.
Anyone who knows me would think her nonstop chatter might annoy me, but it doesn’t. Not one bit.
“How was your day?” she asks.
“Busy with meetings.”
Her gaze drifts to the spread on my plate, an unspoken question in her eyes.
“Would you like to join me?” The invitation is out before I can even think it through. “There’s enough.”
