Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Those walls seem pretty ironclad right now.
He shifts on his feet and I catch his scent in the air, and I hate how it pulls me right back to last year. If pheromones are a real thing, Logan radiates them. The scent of his skin, the back of his hair, even the way his fancy suit smells.
I pull in a long breath and shut my eyes for a moment.
And I think of a world in neon.
The cityscapes I paint, with sunsets shot through with bold pink and nightscapes where the windows glitter with blue and green.
The raven I painted last week with electric purple eyes, and the hissing mountain lion I painted in electric orange, with fangs bared, unafraid.
Fuck it.
You knew who I was, even if you never showed me all of yourself.
I’m just going to be me.
I let my eyes flutter open again, and when I look at him, I feel like I’m stepping back into myself.
“You look better than I remember,” I tell him, because that’s the fucking truth.
It’s like a miraculous bolt of sunshine when Logan’s mouth actually comes up into a smile, like he can’t even pretend not to like what I just said. He smiles fully this time.
“Are you saying I looked bad last year?”
I shake my head. “Not even close. But you looked sadder last year, and now you look… you look fucking great, Logan.”
“I was a lot sadder back then. I had no idea how to handle this career, that’s for damn sure.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes searching my face. “Please tell me you’re doing better, too?”
I’m silent for a beat.
I want to shout about everything in my life. There’s something about being with Logan that makes me want to express every stupid thought in my head, and it’s all bursting to come out, like all of that neon blue and pink and purple waiting to get splashed across an open canvas.
“I want to answer that. But can I hug you first?”
As soon as he utters the word yes, I step forward and wrap my arms around Logan and hug him as tightly as I can.
I pull the bulk of his body against mine, and he’s so warm, so tall, so real.
He hums in my arms and I feel the gentle vibration of it.
Nothing close to what you feel like in my dreams.
In my mind, I’d remembered fragments of him. But as I grip my arms around his back and breathe him in, it’s all here again. The pain. The desire.
And my goddamn inability to let go.
CHAPTER 11
LOGAN
“Chase,” I say softly as he clutches against me, attaching himself to me like a six-foot barnacle.
“Just let me hug you,” he says into the crook of my neck. “Please?”
Overwhelming doesn’t even begin to describe it.
I swear I could have stood there for an hour, just burying my face in his dark hair. It’s a tiny bit longer now, still beautiful in a slightly messed-up, tousled way.
I keep my composure as I relax in his arms, holding him close. It’s just a hug. I know that, logically.
“It really is good to see you,” I tell him.
His body is so warm against mine, and he doesn’t seem to have any intention of releasing me.
“Sorry,” he murmurs against me. “I promised myself I wouldn’t touch you.”
I hum. “Nothing wrong with hugging a friend.”
I know damn well that we were never “friends” to begin with, but if I’m going to be spending months here at the Bellwood again, that’s how it will have to be.
“I have to stop hugging you now,” he says quietly.
I puff out a quiet laugh. “Am I too suffocating?”
He pulls back, and his eyes land on mine.
“No. Having you here is just… a lot.”
I forgot how visually arresting it is just to look at Chase. Everything about his body is impossible to ignore, and my eyes don’t even know where to start with him.
He has new tattoos.
I can only see the edges of a couple of them. One peeks out at the top of his chest and it looks like the edge of a crescent moon, and the other is at his wrist, and I only see purple ink inside black lines and I can’t make out the rest. A gemstone, maybe? An amethyst?
I can’t remember if his lashes were always this full and dark, but I’m sure they always were, and I’m just stunned to witness it again in person instead of in memory.
And his hair.
That’s exactly how I remember it.
The waves that fall around his face, framing him, only add to the feeling that he’s a living painting, a jolt of striking color in a world that can feel so monotone.
“How are you and your one true love?” he asks.
I lift an eyebrow. “What?”
“Single-malt Scotch.”
I drop my head for a moment. “Oh. I’ve been laying off the Scotch. I have wine sometimes, but not even close to daily. No hard liquor, really. Definitely no cigarettes.”