Everything fits like a charm. The jeans hug my curves perfectly, and the soft sweater feels like a warm hug against my skin. How did he know my size?
Then again, this isn’t the first time he’s bought me clothes. They’re still sitting in the stalkerish bag they were delivered in, at Penelope’s house. Huh. I should try them on.
Now that he’s fucked me front, back, and sideways, there’s little point in trying to appear standoffish. Besides, he’s getting me food.
My stomach growls impatiently.
As I pull on the new socks—because of course he thought of everything—I try to sort through the jumble of emotions swirling inside me. Gratitude, certainly. A hint of suspicion—how did he manage all this so quickly? And underneath it all, a warmth I’m not quite ready to name.
I run my fingers through my damp hair, wincing as I hit a tangle. My reflection in the mirror catches my eye, and I pause. There’s a glow to my skin that wasn’t there before, a brightness in my eyes that I haven’t seen in... well, longer than I care to admit.
Is this what being with your fated mate does to you?
The thought sends a jolt through me, and I quickly push it aside. No. I’m not going down that road. This thing with Logan is temporary, purely physical. A way to work through the pheromones and nothing more.
There’s too much going on to let myself dance down la-la-lustful lane, oblivious to the consequences.
The click of the door opening startles me out of my thoughts.
"Nicole? Are you decent?"
I roll my eyes. "Since when do you care about that?"
His chuckle sends a shiver down my spine. "Fair point. But I come bearing gifts, so I thought I’d be polite."
The scent of coffee and something deliciously sweet wafts through the air, making my stomach rumble once again.
"You could be as rude as a bear and I’d forgive you, if you bring food."
Logan closes the door behind him, raking his eyes over me with hungry appreciation—and, of course, not for the food. "You look good in those clothes."
I hold up my hand before he can finish. "Let me guess. ’But you’d look better out of them.’"
He grins. "You know me so well. It’s like we’re fated to be together, or something."
His cocksure swagger as he steps forward has me rolling my eyes. "That bond is over, remember? You rejected me. I rejected you. Snip, snap. Pain and all. Gone."
"Is it, though?" he muses, leaning down to kiss my cheek before handing me two giant plastic bags, smelling like heaven’s kitchen.
"What’s this?"
"Pancakes, waffles, French toast, eggs, bacon, sausage, biscuits—oh, some weird French thing, too."
"Crepes?"
"Yeah, that sounds right. Strawberries and bananas."
Hefting the bags in my hand, I give him a bewildered stare. "Am I that fat to you?"
"What? No, of course not." He snatches the bags out of my hands quickly. "They’re for me. You can’t eat. You only eat air, and you weigh as much as a tiny dumpling."
"A dumpling... Are you calling me fat again?"
My lips twitch as he groans.
"No. Dammit. I give up. No, I’m not calling you fat, Nicole."
Following as he trudges to the only table in the room, I ask, "Seriously, why did you buy so much?"
"Not because I think you’re fat. You’re adorable and the perfect size for me. Your belly makes a perfect pillow, and your thighs are just thick enough for me to—"
"Logan."
He glances over his shoulder with a disarming grin. "I didn’t know what you liked, so I got a variety. Is that okay?"
* * *
After eating breakfast—despite it being nearly one in the afternoon—Logan surprises me by adopting a more serious attitude.
"Did you still want to go check on Fernsby?" he asks, gathering the trash before I can.
When I try to help him, he swats my hands away, pointing to the chair with a frown.
"Yes. He’s the one who gave me the client names on those records. Have you looked into them?"
"We’re still checking on things." He flashes me a smile, probably noticing the tension on my face. "I promise to give you a heads up if someone wants to arrest you, so don’t stress out too much."
He doesn’t seem to want to get into detail—and I can’t blame him. This is the kind of situation that makes what we’re doing so very, very wrong. He can’t discuss the investigation with me, and I can’t trust the investigation. Even though my heart is now pretty certain that Logan, at least, won’t hurt me.
On purpose, anyway.
"Well—the way I see it, if I know how Mr. Fernsby got those names, it might give me a direction with Scott’s murder. To find the real one, I mean."
"I get it, Nicole. I want to talk to him, too."
Fiddling with my fingers as he shoves all the trash into one of the giant take-out bags, I ask, "Are you off today?"
He freezes for just a moment. Just long enough for me to feel uneasy.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because you spent all evening with me yesterday, and now all morning today. It has to be your day off, right?"
"Mm. Yeah. I’ll have to get back to work tomorrow." But he doesn’t sound right.
That part of me that just insisted he wouldn’t hurt me on purpose is already wavering, and I glance at the bed. The place where he’d fucked me, over and over, with so much passion. And gentle care. And sweet whispers.
"Oh," I murmur, wondering how to feel now.
But maybe I’m just being paranoid.
Maybe Logan’s just having a hard time figuring out what he can tell me and what he can’t, with the situation being what it is.
Stay optimistic, Nicole. Not everyone’s a douchebag.
He tosses the trash by the door. "Mind if I take a shower before we go? Unless you don’t mind me walking up there smelling like your twenty-two orgasms."