Chapter 24: Chapter Twenty-Four

RAE

Something happened at Logan’s family dinner. He’s fuming. He’s trying to hide it, but it’s pretty obvious based on the way he keeps clenching and unclenching his fists.

Also, his jeans are covered in what I think is salad. If he didn’t seem so distraught, I would ask if he lost a food fight.

No, that’s a lie. I wouldn’t ask, but it was a clever thought.

Instead, the moment we step into his apartment, I blurt out, “What makes you happy?”

He kisses me softly. “Rae Olson makes me happy.”

I blush. “Besides her.”

He thinks about it for a minute. “Not much these days, to be honest,” he sighs. “Sorry, that was negative. ~Sheesh~. Uh, cooking usually.”

“We should cook something, then.”

Logan’s lips turn up into a half-smile. “Don’t you hate cooking?”

I shrug. “Maybe not with the right teacher.” ~Go Rae! Good flirting~.

He chuckles. “You really want to?”

“Yes, please, but only if you go easy on me.”

Logan has a full smile now. ~Yeah, Rae~! “How does pizza sound? I have some leftover sauce.”

“Delicious.”

He pulls a cookbook from his massive bookcase and flips to a bookmarked page.

“You’re not getting out of it that easy,” he laughs, raising his eyebrows at my lazy ass perched at his counter, very much not in cooking ready-position.

“I think my best contribution would be reading the recipe out loud,” I inform him.

I’m not lying. Zoe and I have an arrangement where she cooks and I clean. Thanks to her culinary skills, I’ve never had a reason to learn my way around a kitchen.

He shakes his head playfully. “No way. Come on over.”

I groan, hoping I sound as playful as he does, and join Logan on the—~shudder~—other, ~kitchen~ side of the counter. He pulls out ingredients and lines them up perfectly beside the cookbook.

Then, my worst nightmare becomes a reality, and he hands me a mixing bowl that already contains flour and water.

“When did you pour those?” I exclaim.

“You were staring at the rest of the ingredients,” he says with a soft chuckle.

“Oh.” I shrug. “They’re in a very neat line. I was impressed.”

Logan snorts, and I can’t help myself. I plant a huge kiss on his cheek. This perfect man thinks my awkward commentary is funny. I just… Around Logan, I can be myself, and I ~like~ myself.

“Nice try. Better get mixing unless you want to crack the eggs.”

“Yeah, I’d prefer no eggshells in my crust,” I mutter.

My solid pink blouse becomes a polka dot one courtesy of the flour that refuses to stay in the bowl while I whisk.

Logan roars with laughter when I attempt to break up a chunk and end up splattering my face with gooey dough. I should feel embarrassed, but I don’t.

I crack up too, and without thinking, I wipe a tiny bit off my nose and smear it onto Logan’s.

He gasps. “How dare you?”

I giggle until I feel his arms on either side of me. There are only inches between us. His warm breath tickles my ear, and I find myself leaning backward, turning my head slightly, closing the distance between our lips.

His kitchen has other ideas. I flinch when the oven beeps to inform us that it’s preheated.

It’s not the only one that’s preheated, let me tell you.

His sharp exhale hits my neck. Instinctively, I step back into him. I need Logan, need his lips on mine. I lean against his bulge, feeling how hard he is beneath his jeans, and hear his breath catch.

Fuck the pizza. Spinning around, I throw one arm around his back and grip the soft cotton of his tee. My other hand pulls his head toward mine.

Logan’s hands cup my face. Our doughy noses touch, and I think the internal fireworks rattling around my sternum might kill me.

Logan’s lips brush mine ever-so-gently, almost as if they’re asking permission. I readily grant it, parting my lips and wrapping my arms around his neck.

His hands drift from the sides of my face. One slides behind my head, pulling me closer.

The other slowly moves down my side, landing on my hip. I moan into his mouth (oops) when he presses his hips against my center, tilting me backward over the counter.

Logan’s lips pull away and track soft kisses along my jaw and neck. My breath catches. We lean back more, and then it happens.

My fucking back cracks.

Loudly.

Logan jumps backward. “Oh, my God! Are you okay?”

My cheeks are on fire. Forget the oven. I’m pretty sure my face could cook the pizza. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.”

“Are you alright?” Logan’s tone is panicked.

“What?” It takes me a second to understand why he’s asking. Probably because my spine just sounded like it was breaking in half.

“Oh, yeah. It doesn’t hurt. I guess my back just had to crack.”

Logan breathes a sigh of relief. “I thought I broke you.”

I try and fail to hold in my giggle. “Oh, God. No. That was…” I shake my head. “Shall we pizza?”

~Shall we pizza~? I hate myself.

“Let’s pizza,” Logan laughs.

A million anti-Rae thoughts whip through my head in a blizzard of anxiety and self-hatred. I’m quickly descending into panic mode.

“I’m—I’ll be right back,” I splutter, rushing from the kitchen toward the closest door. I swing it open and come face-to-face with shelves of cleaning supplies and pillows. Not a bathroom. “Uh, where’s your—”

“Next door over.” Logan is biting his lip, suppressing a laugh.

I really, truly hate myself.

Just as I expected, my cheeks are scarlet. Not flushed in a sexy way. No. They’re bright fucking red. Skin-condition red. I fan myself, which accomplishes nothing but send more sweat to my clammy forehead.

I take some deep breaths, worry Logan is going to think I’m pooping if I take much longer, flush the toilet even though I didn’t use it, and wash my hands.

When I step back outside, the oven timer is set, and Logan is putting the ingredients away.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks cautiously.

I nod like an idiot. “Yeah, my back cracks a lot. I should have cracked it before I came over. Not that I was expecting…” I cut myself short.

Then, for a reason I don’t understand, my brain feels the need to state, “It was an alarm clock so we didn’t forget the pizza.”

“You’re so cute,” he says softly.

Not the reaction I was expecting. My cheeks go scarlet once again. Bathroom progress destroyed with a single compliment. “Thanks, Logan,” I mutter, eyes on my feet.

“You’re perfect, Rae,” he murmurs and strides toward me confidently, like he’s about to scoop me into his arms and declare me his or something.

Not like that would ever happen. People like me don’t end up with people like Logan.

I’m so out of my element it’s not even funny. Well, it’s probably funny to Logan, but not to me.

“Not at all, but thank you,” I grumble.

“You don’t think you’re perfect?” He has the courtesy to sound surprised.

“No,” I scoff. In response to his raised eyebrows, I channel my inner Hannah Montana and remind him that nobody’s perfect.

“Then you’re as close as can be.”

“Thanks, Logan. I think you’re the perfect one.”

Now he’s the one to scoff.

I put my hands on my hips. I don’t know why. They just fly up there. “Yes, you are.”

“You seem very angry that I disagree with your assessment,” he chuckles.

“Maybe I am.”

“Maybe I’m angry you disagree with ~my~ assessment.” He smirks.

The oven beeps, saving me from the pressure of coming up with a witty retort. Logan serves the pizza, and we fall into conversation about work.

I’m showing him a few of my photos on the Colton Pharmaceutical website when his face lights up in a genuine smile so perfect I forget how to breathe.

“Damn, Rae. That’s incredible. Can I see some more?”

I nearly spit out my pizza because Logan ~actually~ wants to see pictures I’ve taken for clients over the past year.

My parents don’t even look at clients’ websites anymore, but Logan is just as excited as I am when I see my work published.

“That’s so impressive,” he breathes as he scrolls through a series I did at a local college.

“Logan, you’re a CEO,” I laugh. As proud as I am of my photography, I’m fully aware that my accomplishments pale in comparison to Logan’s.

He shrugs. “I hate it, to be honest. I’d love to do work I’m proud of.”

“You’re running a whole company by yourself,” I point out. “That’s definitely something to be proud of.”

He laughs humorlessly. “Definitely not by myself. Howard, the COO, does more than I do. Dad should have passed the role to him, but he wanted it to stay in the family.”

“I still think you’re perfect.” I poke his nose, where a speck of dough is lingering. “Couldn’t you give the job to Howard if you don’t want it, though?”

“I can’t betray Dad’s legacy like that,” he sighs.

I nod. “You’re a good son. It must mean a lot to him.”

Another scoff.

“You don’t think so?”

“No, I…” Logan trails off.

“Sorry. We don’t have to talk about it,” I say quickly.

“No, it helps. A lot, actually.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Can I ask you something?”

I resist the urge to make a terrible joke about how he already did. “Of course.”

“The first time you came over, you seemed kind of upset after I called you sweet. Why was that?”

A flash of stress ignites inside my chest. We’re having a heart-to-heart about his life goals and his dying father. I can’t ~not~ give Logan an honest response.

“I’m awkward and sad all the time.” I try to keep my voice upbeat, which is, you know, pretty impossible. “I’m not exaggerating. I literally have depression and anxiety. Social anxiety.”

~Deep breath in, deep breath out.~ “Sometimes, people who are going through a tough time want to spend time with me because they know I won’t judge them.

“They can get everything off their chest because my default state is pretty much the same as their worst days.

“I’m not saying my depression is as bad as what you’re going through or that you were using me to talk or anything.

“I just… I get insecure because that’s happened to me a lot, and I kind of interpreted what you said that way, even if I shouldn’t have, you know?”

He definitely doesn’t know. I’m rambling. “I don’t want you to see me as weird or awkward or perpetually sad, even though that’s what I am. That probably doesn’t make any sense, but…yeah,” I finish.

“I’m sorry I made you feel like that,” Logan says quietly. “I promise that’s not what I meant.” He rests his hand on mine.

“I meant that you’re compassionate and, yeah, that you aren’t judgmental, but not because of anxiety or depression. You aren’t judgmental because you truly care about other people.”

“Thanks,” I choke out. ~Don’t cry, Rae. Don’t fucking cry.~ “That… That means a lot.”

“I’m serious. You’re incredible.”

I brush away the wetness from my eyes before it can turn into tears. I’ve never felt so ~seen~ before. Logan doesn’t look past my shyness and my awkward exterior. He sees them, and he appreciates them.

He ~likes~ them. He appreciates me for who I am and for who I want to be, the sassy Rae bursting to break free from her cage. Sometimes, that Rae even makes an appearance when he’s around.

I love it.