Logan (Carolina Reapers 4)

He pressed his lips together.

And my shoulders dropped at the hesitation coloring his features.

“Are you hiding something, Logan?”

There. I wouldn’t eat that doubt that crept into my blood. I’d put it right out there for him. I wouldn’t be lied to. Not again. And I definitely wouldn’t be caught wondering for the rest of my life. Besides, we were friends, what could he possibly have to hide from me.

Marriage.

Kids.

Sixty-two cats.

I nearly laughed at the last scenario my paranoid mind painted.

“You have to promise you won’t judge me,” he said, totally ignoring my hiding question. Probably because it was insane for me to even suggest he’d hide something from me. We were closer than even Quinn and I were now.

“I would never,” I said, gaping at him. “You know me better than that.”

Something clicked behind his eyes, chasing most of the fear away. “You have to promise, Delaney.”

I started at the intensity of his words.

“Promise me that when you see my house, it won’t change the way you think of me. Won’t change the way you look at me. Treat me.”

I swallowed hard, a tangle of nerves rising in my throat. Oh, Logan. God, he must live somewhere he was truly ashamed of. That’s why he’d never invited me. And I’d just forced his hand. I was such a jerk.

“Hey,” I said, my voice soft. “I’m sorry. That was totally rude of me. I don’t need to see your place. It’s fine. I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” he cut me off. “I want you to see it.” A soft smile shaped his lips. “Just,” he sighed. “I need you to promise me.”

I gripped his hand. “I promise. You know I don’t care about stuff like that. I care about you.”

And there was that bit of truth I couldn’t deny even if I’d wanted to.

I cared about Logan, much more than I should. Much more than was safe for my heart.

“I care about you too,” he said, the words nearly a whisper between us as we huddled together at the table. Either from the crisp breeze or from the intensity of the conversation, we’d somehow twisted toward each other, legs near tangled, hands intertwined.

I blew out a slow breath.

Friends held hands, right?

And delivered orgasms like an expert.

Sure, sure they did.

God, I was analyzing hand-holding, might as well be back in middle school. The man had had his tongue inside me, and I’d barely been able to think of little else since. I was so entirely fucked.

Logan pushed back from the table. “Want a coffee to go?”

I shook my head, following him. “No, thank you,” I said, and he nodded, leading us out of the café and toward his car.

I was nervous enough on my own and didn’t need additional caffeine to spur me toward chaos.

As he drove us through downtown Charleston, and further, I mentally steeled myself. Told my brain to smooth my facial expressions, regardless of where we ended up. Because it truly didn’t matter where Logan lived, but I didn’t want to offend him by some miscalculation of my eyes or something equally embarrassing. He could live in a shack and he’d still be Logan.

But shacks were not what peppered the smooth streets in the cute, quiet little suburb he turned into. Not even close.

The houses sitting atop lush, well-kept yards, were huge.

And new.

And immaculate.

And all that mental preparation went right out the window, my jaw dropping as he parked in a long driveway toward the end of a cul-de-sac.

I’d properly shut my mouth by the time he killed the ignition and turned to look at me, worry coating those dark eyes. I smiled easily, hopping out of the car before he could attempt to open my door for me—which he’d done countless times since I met him.

He led me to the front door, slipping his key in and ushering me inside.

Warmth greeted me in every possible way—from the temperature of the house to the rich hardwood floors to the faint cinnamon scent permeating the air.

“This is home,” he said as I followed him deeper into the luxurious space.

We passed a grand room filled with lush leather furniture perfect for sinking into with a book on rainy days, but the walls were bare. A large staircase just off the grand room led to what I assumed was an array of bedrooms, but he passed up the stairs, electing to lead us down a long corridor. These walls were anything but bare.

And I stopped to admire the pictures covering the walls.

Family photos.

Young Logan easily recognizable by those intense dark eyes, his hair slightly more unkempt back then. In almost every picture, a younger girl smiled up at him like he was the light of her life. She had to be his sister.

“Kate’s eyes are the exact shade as yours,” I said, scanning the photos. “She’s beautiful.”