Stranded With a Billionaire (22 page)

Luckily, she had the clothes she’d taken when she’d left Logan’s apartment. She grabbed her favorite jeans, paired them with a silver belt, and tossed on a form-fitting black boatneck sweater and some ankle boots. She pulled her hair into a smooth ponytail and added a pair of hoop earrings, and then presented the ensemble to Gretchen.

“How do I look?”

Gretchen looked up from her laptop screen and squinted at Brontë. “Are you dating Logan?”

“I am.”

“Then I don’t care,” Gretchen said and turned back to her computer.

“Be fair, Gretchen,” Brontë said with a laugh. “We’re just going to try each other out and see if we can have a good time like regular people.”

“Oh, please,” Gretchen said with a roll of her eyes. She continued to type, her hair pulled atop her head in a wild red bun. At the side of her computer, Igor curled up, looking like a naked, wrinkly bat. Occasionally, Gretchen would reach over to pet the cat and then return to typing. “We both know that this is just some sadistic version of foreplay and you’re still madly in love with him. You just want to make him dance to your tune for a while instead of the other way around.”

Gretchen certainly knew how to get to the heart of the matter.

“So . . . does this outfit look okay for excruciatingly drawn-out foreplay?”

Gretchen peered up at her again; then her eyes settled on her chest. “Are you wearing a bra?”

“Absolutely.”

“A big ugly girdle?”

“No.”

“Mmm. You need a big ugly girdle. It’ll ensure you won’t want to get naked with him.”

Brontë smoothed a hand over her sweater. “I’m going to assume that this looks fine, then.”

“Fine, fine,” Gretchen waved a hand, then returned it to scratching Igor’s wrinkly skin. She didn’t look away from her monitor. “I’m two chapters from the end of this stupid project, so I’m going to be chained to the computer until it’s done. I’m totally fine with you staying out until all hours. Just in case you were wondering.”

“Gotcha.”

“Have fun.”

“I will.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. That means most everything, by the way.”

Brontë waved, grabbed her purse, and headed out the door.

The walk to the subway station was a short one. Even though the network of subway lines was still confusing to her, she knew a few stops and was glad that the one they’d agreed to meet near was among them. After she emerged from the subway, she headed for the restaurant they’d picked and scanned the crowd of pedestrians for a familiar set of broad shoulders in an expensive jacket.

Her gaze nearly skipped over a tall man in a form-fitting navy henley, and then she paused, gazing at him in surprise. Logan. In jeans and a regular shirt. She continued to stare as he moved to her side, looking just as at ease as ever, and his hand went to her waist to pull her in to his embrace. His scent enveloped her, and she lifted her face for a kiss automatically.

But he only hugged her close, then released her.

Brontë was oddly disappointed.

“You look nice,” she told him with a small smile. “I almost didn’t recognize you out of a business suit.”

He grinned down at her, looking boyishly handsome, and it made her pulse pound. “It’s been a while. I admit that it seems like everything I have in my closet has somehow magically transformed into either workout clothing or a suit. I had Audrey pick me up a few things.” He ran a hand down his front and lifted his chin as if posing. “Do I pass muster?”

“You do,” she said with a small laugh.

“You look gorgeous,” he told her, his gaze devouring her body in the form-fitting sweater and jeans. “I’ve missed getting to look at you every day.”

Her breath quickened, and she gave another nervous laugh.

“I’ve missed that, too,” Logan said, grinning.

She couldn’t seem to stop smiling. When he offered her his arm, she placed her hand in the crook of it. “Where are we going?”

“I thought we’d grab something to eat and then see a movie.”

“What movie?”

He looked perplexed for a minute, then grimaced. “I don’t know what’s playing, to be honest. I forgot to ask Audrey to check.” He pulled out his phone.

She put her hand over his, stopping him. “We can just see whatever’s showing. No big deal.”

Logan’s expression was a bit sheepish. “I seem to have thought of everything but the date itself.”

“Oh?”

They began to walk and Logan guided her through the streaming crowd.

“Indeed. I cleared my schedule, had Audrey purchase date clothes, picked out the restaurant, memorized some Plato—the usual. I even rode the subway here, just like a normal New Yorker.” He grimaced. “I’d prefer not to do that on a regular basis. The man next to me smelled like piss.”

She laughed again, feeling an insane urge to hug him. “Well, I appreciate the effort.”

They walked two blocks, chatting about ridiculous things like the weather, Gretchen’s obvious dislike of him and her protectiveness of Brontë, Cooper’s coffee shop, and Audrey’s efficiency as an assistant. Simple, easy conversation. She loved it.

“Here we go,” Logan said, and they stopped outside of a small pizza parlor with an old yellow-lit sign. “I thought we’d grab a slice here.”

It . . . definitely didn’t look like the regular sort of place Logan frequented. “You like their food?”

“I did when I was a teenager. This was my first job, you know.”

She looked up at him, surprised. “You worked here?”

“I did.” He stared up at the sign, the expression on his face half fond, half rueful. “I was going through a rebellious phase—drinking, smoking, staying out all night. The usual teenage boy stuff. My father couldn’t deal with me. Of course, I never dealt well with my father, either. I ended up skipping classes for a few days and was suspended from school. My father wanted to teach me a lesson. He told me that I was too arrogant for my own good and that I needed to learn from someone who wasn’t terrified of my family’s money or position. So he dropped me off here.” Logan gestured at the pizza parlor.

“A family friend?” she guessed, watching his face.

“A very old friend of his from school. It turned out my father had given him the loan to start the place, so he owed my dad a favor. That favor was taking me on as an employee for a week. Andy—that’s the owner’s name—was a real drill sergeant, too. He had me washing floors and scrubbing toilets and standing over the sink for hours at a time. I remember that was the longest week of my life. I hated every minute of it, but my father told me that if I didn’t stay, he’d kick me out. So I stayed.”

“Your father sounds . . .” She struggled for the right word. “Interesting.”

“My father was a real asshole. But he was right about Andy. He kicked my ass and worked me harder than anyone ever had. And you know what happened at the end of that week?”

“Your father relented?”

“Nope,” Logan said with a half smile. “Andy fired me. Said I was the shittiest worker he’d ever seen and that three-year-olds had more drive than I did. That woke me up. Here was someone who wasn’t afraid of my father’s money or position. He just wanted a kid to wash dishes, and he ended up with me, who’d never washed a dish in my life and wasn’t about to start. But I was more afraid of my father than Andy, so I had to convince him to keep me on. Which meant working harder. I worked there all summer. Learned a lot about hard work and running a business. I respected the hell out of Andy, too.” He stared up at the pizza sign fondly again. “Hungry?”

Brontë nodded, fascinated by the story he’d told her. It gave her a lot to think about. “You’ve been wealthy all your life, haven’t you?”

“Always, but it wasn’t easy, either.” Logan stepped inside and moved to the counter, pointing at one of the pizzas and then holding up two fingers.

She waited for him to continue.

“My father was a hard man.”

“Surely not all hard. Your mother must have loved him.”

He gave her a wry look as he handed a twenty to the cashier. “My mother was a showgirl who wanted my father’s money. She tolerated his bad moods since he was rich, and he tolerated her since she was gorgeous and pregnant with me. She died when I was five.”

“I’m so sorry.” Brontë took her plate and followed Logan to one of the small, dingy tables in the back of the parlor.

“I am, too. That meant it was just me and my father.” He shrugged. “He died two years ago.”

And two years ago, Logan had broken off his engagement with Danica. No wonder he had trust issues. Brontë took a small bite, a mix of emotions swirling through her. “This pizza is good,” she said, changing the subject to safer territory. “Thank you.”

“So what was your first job?” He took a bite, waiting for her to respond.

She grimaced. “Babysitter, of course.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“It depended on the kids, really. Some were great, some were horrible. It gave me a lot of time to read when they were napping, though.”

He grinned. “I can see why you took the job.”

“I am very transparent, aren’t I?” She smiled impishly back at him.

“And do you want kids someday?”

It was a tough question, but she’d been expecting it. Brontë chewed, thinking for a long minute. Then she dabbed her mouth with a napkin and gave him the only answer she could. “Someday, with the right person.”

He nodded.

“You?”

Logan’s eyes were on her again. “Someday. I’ve already found the right person. I’m just waiting for her to be ready.”

Brontë’s nervous giggle surprised neither of them.

***

The only movie that they could get tickets to was an action movie, but sitting in the dark with Logan was pleasant no matter what the flick. Though the movie theater was crowded, she still enjoyed herself, and spent half of the movie with her head on Logan’s shoulder, waiting for him to make a move. After all, date movies were for making out, weren’t they?

Except he didn’t, and when they walked back to the subway, Brontë was a little confused. Their date had gone so well. She’d found out so much about him and been so comfortable with Logan tonight, but he was keeping it platonic. Extremely platonic. And she didn’t know how to handle that. After all, they’d been intimate before.

Extremely
intimate.

Since it was late, he walked her back to Gretchen’s apartment building, and they stood on the stoop, gazing at each other.

“Are you going to give me a kiss good night?” Brontë asked.

Logan looked up at her with a slow, assessing gaze, and then shook his head. “Not tonight.”

“Why not?” She flushed at how forward that sounded. “I just mean . . . we’ve already been lovers. I—”

“Brontë,” Logan said in a soft voice, hushing her. He stepped closer, and his hand moving to her waist, tugging her a little closer to him. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. It’s that if I start, I don’t think I can stop.”

Her entire body felt suffused with heat at his words. “Logan, I—”

“No, let me finish,” he said. “You need this to feel comfortable with me again. You want to date without the money or the power. I understand that. And now that I’ve had some time to settle into the idea, I like it. So we’re going to take things slow.” He took her hand in his, and then raised it to his lips, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles. “We’re not going to take things to the next level again until you’re ready. But I don’t want just sex from you, Brontë. When we go to bed together again, it’s going to be you and me. Strings attached and all. So think long and hard about what you want. Because I know what I want. I want you.”

So direct and to the point. She felt breathless, gazing up into his serious face. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet,” she told him honestly.

He pressed another kiss to her knuckles and smiled. “Then we date again. What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“I have to check my work calendar to see if I’m free,” she began.

“Brontë,” he said patiently. “We both know you can be free tomorrow night. Don’t play games.”

He had a point. She was just pushing to see if she could win, and it wasn’t fair to him. “I’m free. What do you want to do, then?”

“Be with you.”

At this rate, she was never going to stop blushing. He made her feel . . . a little excited, but strangely pleased. She rather liked being the center of his universe, even if at the moment his universe consisted of small, easy dates. “Do you want to go bowling? Dinner?”

“Have you been to Broadway yet?”

Excitement flared through her. “Oh! No, I haven’t, but I’m dying to. I would love to see a show! Isn’t it too late to find tickets to anything good, though?”

“Leave that up to me. I’ll pick you up for dinner tomorrow.” He reluctantly released her hand. “Think of me tonight?”

“I will. Good night, Logan.”

She watched him descend the steps of her building and head back down the street to the subway. He didn’t look back at her, but that was okay. Her entire body was still warm from his words.

What do you want to do, then?

Be with you . . . Think of me tonight.

Strange how admitting that she would think of him somehow felt more intimate than a dozen kisses.

Brontë went inside, heading up to the apartment. Gretchen hadn’t moved from the space she’d occupied when Brontë had left hours earlier, except her bun now had several pencils stuck into it, and the cat had moved to curl around her feet. She looked up at Brontë as if surprised, then glanced at the clock. “Oh. Oh. It’s late.” She rubbed her eyes and stared at her computer screen. “Well, shit. I think I lost track of time. How’d it go?”

“Good,” Brontë said with a dreamy sigh. “And bad. I’m still totally in love with him.”

“Just don’t tell him that,” Gretchen said, reaching down to pet Igor. “I guess I’ll stop hating him until you two break up again.”

Brontë made a face. “Very funny. We’re going out again tomorrow night.”

“Fine with me. That’ll give me a chance to fix this last chapter I wrote. It’s horrible.” She stared at the screen and grimaced. “Good thing this book won’t have my real name on it.”

Brontë snorted. “Well, I’m heading off to bed. See you in the morning.”