Page 12 of Frozen Hearts
He shifts in his chair as though he’s going to do precisely that. Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him, and horrified that he’s going to cause more of a scene than he already has, I hastily snap out a hand, ignoring the searing heat of his skin against my palm and the exhilaration that shoots along my nerves as I squeeze his forearm.
“Don’t do that,” I blurt, not altogether hating the grin slowly gaining traction as it spreads across his face.
“Does that mean you’ll help me?”
I worry my lips as I mull it over, conflicted feelings threatening to drag me under. On the one hand, I respect his ability to reach out and ask for help. That takes guts and determination, something that I realize Logan has in spades, even if I don’t entirely appreciate how he’s gone about asking for my help.
However, there’s also this underlying tension between us. This is our first conversation and I already feel the sheer intensity of it. The rawness. The potency. It’s both inviting and menacing. Enticing and dangerous—primarily for me—and I no longer know what to do as I try to steel myself against his gaze.
Flicking my eyes to meet his, I run them over his rarely serious face. He’s patient, waiting, but I can see the apprehension, the desperation he’s trying so hard to hide. Emboldened, I turn to face him. “What’s in it for me?” I ask, cocking a brow at him.
His eyebrows lift before his typical cocky smirk curls his lips. “You mean other than getting to bask in the presence of my company?” I can tell he’s teasing, but I still roll my eyes, making sure to pierce him with an unimpressed glare. “You’ll get a nice bump in your social status, being seen with me. If I get an A on next week's test, I’ll even tell people you’re cool.”
Seriously? Is that why other people do shit for him?
“Social status means nothing to me,” I deadpan. “I have no interest in being ‘cool’ or fitting in with anyone here.”
He merely blinks, surprise flashing across his chestnut hues. “Then what do you want?”
I tilt my head, thinking it over. It’s a good question.What do I want?
I want a secure job with a stable income.
I want to be able to pay my bills each month without stressing.
I want to provide for myself and my family.
I want to offload my good-for-nothing mother.
None of which he can give me.
“I guess I don’t want anything from you.”
He rears back, face contorted in shock. A strange moment passes between us where his eyes rake over my face as though he is seeing me for the first time. His scrutiny is unwavering, his brow flattened as though he’s trying to solve forkbefore he wipes away all trace of confusion, replacing it with a frown so severe it looks foreign on his usually peppy face.
“Everyone wants something from me, Shortcake.” His tone is so blunted that it physically stings. “You can let me know when you figure out what it isyouwant.”
I open my mouth to argue, to tell him that he genuinely has nothing I want. I’m not interested in his fame or popularity. I don’t wanthismoney. Do I want money? Of course. Anyone who would say otherwise is kidding themselves, but I know exactly what happens when you accept money with strings.
The cost: one already tarnished soul.
And it’s a price I’m not willing to pay.
Honestly, even if there was something I wanted from Logan, I’m not certain I’d ask for it. Not now, when I suspect most of his interactions revolve around what he can do for others. It’s sad and hurts my heart for him.
Has anyone ever gotten to know Logan for Logan? Has anyone ever looked behind the veneer to acquaint themselves with who lies beneath?
Why do I find myself wanting to do exactly that? My fingers itch to reach up and pry off his mask, to catch a glimpse of the real Logan. The one that I suspect no one on this campus truly knows.
Logan’s gaze takes on an icy quality, his tone equally cold. “So, do we have a deal?”
I search his face, all traces of humor gone. I’m reminded of his notorious reputation. One that runs rampant on campus. His ruthlessness. His ability to take down any opponent who stands in his way without hesitation. Logan might come across as a harmless golden retriever, but according to the student body, he’s vicious on the ice. Which is why the Huskies are undefeated champions for three years running—soon, I imagine, to be four. I see now that he’s also capable of that same ardency off the ice. If hockey ever doesn’t work out for him, I’m certain he would be a force to be reckoned with in the boardroom.
Perhaps it’s because I feel bad for him, or maybe it’s simple resignation that leads me to utter, “We have a deal.” The words slip from my tongue, sealing our contract and binding us together, and despite not having asked for anything in return, I feel as though I’ve unwittingly signed my soul over to Logan Astor.
* * *
I’m still thinking about the deal I made with Logan as I stretch out my hamstrings on the floor of the stage that night.
