Page 88 of Logan
My neck and shoulders ache, my eyes feel gritty and raw, and all I want is to grab a few essentials and get home to a hot bath and a glass, or three, of wine.
I snag a green plastic basket from the stack by the door and make my way down the aisles, tossing items in. Shampoo to replace the nearly empty bottle in my shower. Toothpaste because I’m almost out, and I have a thing about always keeping a backup on hand.
I pause in front of the display of vitamins and supplements, trying to remember what else I need.
The events of the day—one in particular which led to all the rest—have left me physically and mentally drained, andthe telltale tickle at the back of my throat heralds an oncoming illness.
Probably a result of all the recent travel, the recycled air and the close quarters of airplane cabins. Everyone always says flying is like putting yourself in a metal tube full of germs. A petri dish with wings.
I close my eyes and begin massaging my temples as a sudden thought flits through my mind.
Maybe there’s a market for some kind of personal filtration device, something you could wear on planes to screen out all the bacteria and viruses. It would have to be sleek though, and unobtrusive. No one wants to sit next to the weirdo in a giant gas mask and hazmat suit.
“Condoms?”
The deep, recognizable voice yanks me out of my musings. I turn slowly and stare straight into Logan Valeur’s icy blue eyes.
“I... What?” I stammer, my mind still caught somewhere between airplane air filtration and the reason this man seems to materialize at the most inopportune moments.
“You’re buying condoms?” He arches one dark brow, his chiseled features set in an unreadable mask. “It’s only been a week since...”
He trails off, but I hear the unspoken end to that sentence as clearly as if he’d shouted it through a megaphone.
Since you were in my bed, screaming my name.
A hot flush crawls up my neck, and I clench my jaw, a spark of anger flaring to life in my chest. Where the hell does he get off passing judgment on me? What I do and who I do it with is absolutely none of his concern, not anymore.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but...” I let my gazeslide pointedly to the shelf I’ve been browsing, realizing with a sinking feeling that I’ve stopped directly in front of the truly impressive condom selection.
Well, in for a penny...
I snatch a box of Magnums off the shelf, the ones proclaiming to be “extra large for the well-endowed man,” and toss them into my basket. Then, just to really drive the point home, I grab two more boxes and add them to my haul with a defiant clatter of cardboard on plastic.
“There. Stocked up and ready to go. So kind of you to be concerned about my sexual health and preparedness, Mr. Valeur.” I flash him my brightest, most insincere smile, but it fades when I take in his appearance.
He looks...rough. His pallor is even more pronounced under the harsh fluorescent lights, his sharp cheekbones slashed, highlighting the gauntness of his too-pale face. Purple shadows smudge the delicate skin beneath his eyes, and I can see the pulse fluttering wildly at the base of his throat.
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask, concern overriding my hurt and anger. I reach out to lay my hand on his forearm. “Is it your head again?”
He flinches away from my touch as if burned, his face closing off, shutters slamming down behind his arctic eyes. “I’m fine. And even if I wasn’t, it wouldn’t be any of your concern, now would it?”
I rear back as if he’s slapped me, my fingers curling into my palms. I bite down hard on my lower lip as his callous dismissal pierces me like an icicle straight to the heart.
I take an involuntary step back, but I can’t seem to tear mygaze away from his, trapped in the gravity well of those devastating blue eyes.
My traitorous body remembers his touch, his taste, the rasp of his stubble against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. The way he can set me on fire and turn me to ash with the simplest brush of his lips.
And my foolish, romantic heart remembers the long, meandering conversations as we explored the streets of London, the glittering city lights reflected in his gaze as he smiled at me, those small, secretive smiles he never shows to anyone else.
The ones that make him look younger, almost boyish, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that never failed to make my breath catch.
But he’s not smiling now. There’s not a trace of warmth or familiarity in the harsh planes of his face. He’s looking at me like I’m a complete stranger, just another nameless, faceless Valeur employee he can barely be bothered to acknowledge.
Like I’m nobody. Like I’m nothing.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. This is how it has to be, after all. What happens in London and all that jazz. We’d agreed, hadn’t we?
A couple of fun weeks playing tourist, a mutually satisfying end to the festering sexual tension between us, and then back to business as usual. Boss and underling, two ships passing in the corporate sea. The terms of engagement were perfectly clear from the outset.
