Page 50 of Logan
“I’m not doing this to prove anything,” I tell him, my voice even. “I’m doing it because I can. And because I want to.”
His jaw tightens, that muscle ticking. He doesn’t like it, but he gives a single nod. “Just… if you need me, I’ll be ten minutes away.”
I walk back to him, the gravel crunching under my heels, and press a quick kiss to his cheek. His skin is warm from the sun already, his stubble rough under my lips. “I always need you. But this part? I need to do alone.”
He doesn’t say anything as I slip into the driver’s seat, but his eyes don’t leave mine through the glass. Even after I turn the key, even as I pull out of the driveway, I can still feel the weight of his stare, like a tether I’m cutting one deliberate inch at a time.
It takes until I’m halfway across town for my hands to stop shaking.
The radio is turned low, some soft instrumental track murmuring in the background, but my heartbeat drowns it out loud and steady, pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to warn me.
I shouldn’t be this nervous.
I’ve run luxury properties. Managed teams twice my age. Pulled disaster budgets back from the edge. I’ve stared down hostile boardrooms and kept my voice level when men twice my size tried to undermine me.
But none of that matters when the last time I stepped into a manager’s office, I had to drive my knee into him just to get away.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel until the leather creaks.
That day feels like another lifetime now. But my body remembers. My pulse remembers.
I refuse to let it own me.
I won’t shatter. Not today.
The hotel comes into view a sleek stretch of glass and steel, too polished, too impersonal. Exactly the kind of place I used to walk into like I belonged there.
I pull into the nearly empty lot. Only a few cars scattered here and there. Renovations have the place closed to the public, which makes it even quieter. Even more still.
I smooth my skirt, reapply a quick swipe of lipstick in the rearview, and push the door open. The air smells faintly of paint and dust, the scent of something being made new again. My heels click on the tile as I step inside.
The lobby feels hollow. No background hum of conversation. No luggage wheels rolling past. Just the muted echo of my own footsteps. The front desk is unmanned except for a small sign that reads:Ring bell for assistance.
I press it, the sharp ding slicing through the quiet like an alarm in a sleeping house.
A male voice calls out from somewhere behind the wall, “Are you here for the interview?”
“Yes,” I answer, my voice carrying more confidently than I feel.
“You can come on back through the door to the left of the desk!”
I move toward the door, noting how disorganized this already feels. No one to greet me. No clipboard. No structure. Not a great sign for a job I’m supposed to take seriously.
I open the door to a dim hallway lined with closed offices. One door two spaces down has its light on.
“Right through here,” a voice says from behind me.
And my blood runs cold.
No.
“Mac,” he says, smiling.
No. No. No.
The haircut is different. He’s in a tailored suit. There’s a fake name on his badge. But the eyes, the voice, they’re the same.
Anthony Watson.
