“Be my guest.” She tried to sound as if she didn’t care, then held her breath as he walked into her apartment and flicked on the lights.
Logan didn’t seem to possess the same fear that had sent her friends scattering from her life. What would it be like to be that self-assured? She followed him into the small kitchen and watched as he stepped around the small table and two chairs, then opened the pantry. The kitchen was no bigger than most people’s bathrooms, but it was functional, and she didn’t need extravagance.
Logan glanced at her, forced a smile, but she could see he was in protection mode. His eyes were narrowed and serious, and his shoulders had risen with tension. He planted his legs with every measured step, reminding her of a panther, stealthy and powerful, the way he moved through the small hallway, checked out the bathroom, then the laundry closet on the opposite wall. He methodically checked out every nook and cranny in her apartment. She moved closer as he stepped into the bedroom. With no doorway to separate the two, he had a clear view of her double bed, single dresser, and the clothes hanging in her closet. When she’d run from Mystic, she’d taken only what she could carry without assistance. She’d fit everything she needed in one suitcase and two backpacks. Stella had fretted about having enough clothes to sustain whatever job she’d eventually find to hold her over, but she’d quickly realized that it wasn’t clothes, shoes, or other material items that she needed in order to get through each day. She’d learned that strength and determination were the only must haves she needed in order to survive.
What Stella missed most was hearing her mother’s laugh, seeing the happiness in her eyes when Stella walked through the door to visit, and the way her mother lowered her voice when she talked about something she found funny or interesting. God, she missed her. She glanced at the picture of her mother on the bedside table, the only material thing she owned that she really cared about.
“I think you’re all clear.” The sleeves of his dress shirt were pushed up to his elbows, exposing muscular forearms with a dusting of dark hair. The top buttons were still undone, tails untucked. The fight had added streaks of dirt to his shirt and a wild messiness to his hair, making him even more devastatingly handsome.
If Logan had been standing in her bedroom looking like sex on legs before Kutcher, Stella might have tried to flirt with him. She wouldn’t have thought about seducing him before Kutcher, because before Kutcher, she was a good girl, and her seductive ways included little more than stolen glances. Kutcher ruined that for her. Ruined her. Thinking of all the ways Kutcher had changed her, and the things he’d stolen from her, brought anger. It started deep inside her, simmering, brewing, bubbling up in her chest, until she wanted to scream.
She took a step closer to Logan, thinking about when he’d first come into the bar. His eyes had locked on hers, inciting fear, then desire.
“Thank you. There aren’t many places to hide in here.” She shifted her eyes to the bed, felt her cheeks flush at the pang of longing to be touched that gripped her, and turned away from Logan. She shouldn’t be thinking about lying on the bed beneath him, feeling him move inside of her, but wasn’t that a normal thing for a girl to think around someone who looked like him and acted so nice? Kutcher had slithered into her psyche and coated the most normal thoughts with guilt and fear.
“Hey, you okay?” He came up behind her, so close she’d bump into him if she moved. Warm hands touched her arms, and she closed her eyes, fighting images of Kutcher doing that exact same thing, then slamming her into a wall. In an instant, anger reared up inside her again.
Logan’s hand slid down her arm as he came around and faced her. “Your whole body just went rigid. Did I hurt you?”
As Stella shook her head, she realized that while she’d been fantasizing about Logan, her pain had subsided. “No.”
“Why did you flinch?”
He was so close she saw every sliver of whisker along his jaw.
“Did I scare you?” His voice slid over her skin, warming her all over.
“No. You didn’t scare me. I’m just mad.” She didn’t know where the confession had come from, but it opened a door inside her and her breaths came faster, harder. His eyes were seductive, and she wanted to see them staring down at her while he was buried deep inside her, taking away her pain and fear and filling her with pleasure.
“I’m sick of being afraid.” She turned away to distract herself from the lust coiling down low in her belly. “I’m tired of measuring every thought. Every move.”
“Stormy…” He came up behind her again. The air around them blazed with heat. “That’s not your real name—we both know that.”