Waiting For Us (Beautiful Surrender, Part Three) (A Billionaire Romance) (2 page)

“I know you'd never hurt me, Logan. Well,” I added, injecting humor in my voice, “Not unless I asked to be hurt.”

He didn't relax or even crack a grin. He still looked troubled, gently bringing my hands from his face and stepping backward. He glanced down at his battered fist, the knuckles still an angry red. He didn't look at the wound like it brought him pain. His eyes bore into the broken flesh like one would gaze at an old friend that you hadn't seen in years.

“When I was a kid,” he began, his voice a deep, relaxing river that rippled over my skin. “My knuckles looked like this more often than not.” He clenched his fist. “I wore it like a badge of honor. I was smaller than the other kids. My clothes weren't name brand. Hell, for all I know they were the throw away clothes that my classmates sent to Goodwill. Recycled hand me downs so they could have the latest, coolest whatever. But these?” He brought his other fist to join the first, practically in a fighting stance. “This set me apart. It made me special. Feared.”

I swallowed, stomach knotting and twisting. I wasn't sure what emotion I should turn to first. Guilt wasted no time stepping to the front. I wasn't one of the kids that picked on the smaller kids with the hand me downs and dirty sneakers, but I didn't stand up for them, or go out of my way to befriend them either. I'd rationalized it somehow, cleared my conscience by elbowing or chastising friends that went too far, or shook my head at their cruel jokes. But face to face with someone whose childhood was filled with hurt, who obviously needed someone to be his friend and an ally in some way other than just in spirit and silence, my conscience didn't feel so clear. Being silent seemed like as great a sin as the ones committed by the tormentors.

His eyes flickered to me and he flashed a pained smile. “I'm not telling you this to make you feel guilty or to garner your sympathy. I want you to understand where I came from, and who I'm not. I want you to know me, Melissa.”

My heart hopped in my chest, my face on fire as I stole away from his intense gaze.

“I never said this out loud, but I fought because I was afraid,” he pressed on. “I didn't have much besides my dignity, so I held on to it the only way I knew how. With my fists.”

I nodded slowly, understanding. “You snapped because you thought she was disrespecting you.”

“Delilah has been disrespecting me since the day I ended things with her. That's nothing new,” he said bitterly. “The thing that hit me like a cinderblock to the chest, was fear.”

Of course.

He was afraid of being a father.

He walked to the landing, bracing himself on the wooden bannister. He looked down at the first floor, but I knew he wasn't seeing the travertine tile and high end furnishings. He was pulled back to the past. A time when the life he now lived probably seemed as likely as pigs flying.

“I didn't know my father. But from the things my mother said about him—” His grip tightened, his whole body taut and ready to fight.

“Logan,” I said softly. Just a single word. Trying to bring him out of the darkness and back to me.

He relaxed, casting his eyes over his shoulder at me, then tearing them away again. He was trying to unload the weight of his past and what drove him to his actions—and he wasn't done.

“The role models I had for fatherhood weren't the best. Men who hit my mother. A couple who raised their hand to me. I learned early on that you're either the one being hit, or you could do the hitting. Feel pain, or dish it out.”

I nibbled on my bottom lip, doing my own walk down Memory Lane, but I just breezed back to a few days ago. Hearing him talk about submission and dominance. I thought it was just sexual, but now I wasn't so sure. Was his need to dominate born out of childhood trauma?

“Before you even ask, I didn't become a Dom because I was smacked around as a kid,” he said, reading my mind. “I wondered the same thing, but I made peace with those demons long ago.” He turned back to me, his face shadowed. “I just have my moments.”

I wrapped my arms around his waist, leaning into his warmth. I felt as close to him as I had when he was deep inside me. Like he was giving me a piece of himself. How many times had I tried to pull something out of Jason, wanting more than the surface? I talked about my mother, my father, my worries about a future that wasn't my own. And he listened, but he never talked. He never really let me in. But this man, this enigma, was allowing me to see his scars. To see the good and the bad. It felt good. Right. As close to home as I'd ever felt with anyone.

He whispered a kiss on my forehead, inhaling my scent like it was the sweetest thing.

“You know,” I began, deciding to take another stab at a joke. “When I have moments, it usually involves drunken texts and voicemails or eating everything in my fridge.”

A smile dashed across his face. “Something to look forward to.”

Before I could tell him that Crazy Melissa was absolutely, positively nothing to look forward to, he pressed his lips to mine. The kiss we shared was filled with the things that songs were written about. Tenderness, excitement, hope for what was to come. I felt his lips all over my body, seared into me in the most delicious way. When we came up for air, both breathless, I thought about something that was completely insane. Maybe we could make this work after all. I felt like nothing was tethering me to the ground, so filled with happiness that I could fly. Anything else was easy, as conquerable as the clouds that were so close that I could touch them.

“I think I'm in love with you.”

The words slipped out in the haze. A haze that cleared almost instantly when Logan's eyes filled with horror.

If my ascent was magical, a high that nothing else compared to, crashing back to earth was the thing that nightmares were made of.

I covered my mouth, but it was too late. The words were out, and he was still looking at me like cockroaches, snakes, and spiders were crawling all over me.

I squeezed my eyes shut, knee buckling nausea hitting me in waves. Before I could attempt to take it back, he cleared his face of emotion and spoke.

“Melissa, let me—”

“Explain?” I finished hoarsely. The nausea was fading and burning, lava hot anger was bubbling to the surface and spewing out of my mouth. “Don't worry about it. I'm the dumb one that fell for some guy I’ve barely known for a week. A guy who told me he doesn't do relationships.” I hit below the belt. “A guy who punches mirrors when life gets tough.”

His jaw tightened. Razor sharp. “If you could let me finish—”

“Don't.” I turned on my heels, fleeing down the stairs.  It was almost a Cinderella moment, except the thing I left behind was my underwear—and a broken heart.

I
stepped into Mika's Brew and Pastry, and barely got two feet in the door before I came to a hard stop. Just like always, Mika's had a line clear out the door. Men in two piece suits, women in blouses and razor sharp black pants; men in hard hats, students and women with little ones in tow—we all lined up for our hit of caffeine. The baristas shouted out names at the pick up station. The air was heavy with the aroma of warm croissants and meaty biscuits. The same artsy fartsy pictures hung on the walls, surrounded by the small cafe tables you had to fight it out
Hunger Games
style to score. Everything was just as I remembered it when I left for Pleasure Point.

Everything but me.

When I got back home and stepped into my apartment, I remembered how Logan's lab, Maddie, would rush to meet me, nearly knocking me over she was so excited. I remembered seeing him in some manner of undress, his muscled chest glittering beneath the skylight. The devilish wink that made me weak in the knees. The eyes filled with dark promises that made my body ache for his touch. And sleeping? It was more lack thereof. After I finally tossed and turned myself to unconsciousness, I'd wake up and throw my arm to his side of the bed and jerk myself awake when it dropped to the mattress.

But I soldiered on. I lied to myself as I went through my routine. Said it was all a dream. All in my head. Had to be—because I must have been living a fantasy if I ever thought Logan Mason wanted me for anything except for sex. Anger put fire in my belly and when I walked into work and nailed my pitches and secured two new high profile clients for Kaleidoscope Marketing, even my dad seemed impressed. Somehow I held it together. I avoided the internet and gossip websites. Even if
Access Hollywood
's commercial popped up, I changed the channel. Hearing about Delilah or seeing his face was the storm cloud that hung above my head and I lived in constant fear that the sky would open up at any moment.

I put on a good show, though. I even swapped a few lighthearted texts with my best friend, Stacia Rodriguez. But there was something about Mika's that was making me come undone. Sweat exploded at my temple, my heart punched my chest as I shuffled forward and the door shut behind me. The walls seemed to be closing in, trapping me. When a familiar voice rang out above the conversation and drum of the espresso machine, I knew why.

“Melissa! Over here!”

I drew a shaky breath and searched for the smile I'd been forcing on my lips all week before I faced her. She had prime real estate in front of the bay windows, easy access to several outlets. Her smile glittered as brightly as the sun that shone through the painted glass. Her makeup was lighter than she usually wore it, her natural beauty stunning me even though I'd seen her without a stroke of it on at all. I wasn't the only one that noticed. Several of the men in line shifted in her direction even though their names were likely not Melissa. I maneuvered through the cafe and pulled my smile tighter. She leapt from her seat and threw her arms around my neck like it had been two years since we'd seen each other instead of two weeks. She released me, giving me a minute to catch my breath as she stood back and inspected me. I waited for her face to fall and the barrage of questions to hit me like the waves back in Pleasure Point.

“You look amazing!”

I rolled my eyes, lowering myself into the seat across from hers. “Did you add a little something extra to your coffee this morning?”

She reclaimed her seat, her eyes shining with excitement. “Coffee? None for me, thanks.” She pointed a manicured finger at her coffee cup. I arched my brow expectantly. She made a grander gesture, but I was clearly still missing something. When she finally picked up a string that was dangling on the side, I nearly fell out of my seat.

“You're drinking tea?” I feigned horror, my eyes going wide. “Who are you, and what have you done with Stacia Rodriguez?!”

“Ha ha,” she said, sticking her tongue out at me. She rolled her shoulders back. Shoulders that weren't clad in her usual blazer, and beneath, some monotone blouse. Her caramel colored skin was accentuated by a lilac colored sleeveless top. I craned my neck around and saw she wore a billowing, beach approved pleated skirt.

I rattled off the list. “No coffee, hardly any makeup—”

She wiggled her eyebrows. “No makeup actually.”

I made a face. Entire YouTube series existed to create the sun kissed look she had naturally. “I stand corrected: no coffee, no makeup, no blazer and slacks...what's going on?”

She brought her cup to her lips, but I still saw the secret smile on her lips. “Can't I just switch things up?” Before I could rebuff that and remind her that she was the queen of structure and routine, she added, “Let's just say a lot of things can happen in two weeks.”

“Ain't that the truth,” I muttered, and instantly regretted it when I looked up and saw the concern rush across her face.

“What? What happened? Is everything okay?”

I swiped the second cup on the table, dodging the question. “For me? You shouldn't have.” I paused midair. “None of that tea nonsense right?”

“Hell no,” she shuddered. “I remember you going off when they tried to pass decaf off on you.”

I took a hearty gulp, relaxing since we were talking about anything except my vacation—though heat rushed my cheeks at the memory of my brief freak out a few months back. Apparently, she was never going to let me live it down. “I didn't go off.”

“You hurled the cup in the trashcan and hissed that you never ordered decaf. You were moments away from leaping over the counter and beating the poor barista within an inch of her life,” Stacia joked.

I winced, remembering the day more vividly than I'd like. I'd gotten into it with my father after he set me up for failure, spearheading three major ad campaigns on top of a massive workload. He added the hair that broke the camel's back when he told me he wanted me to take on two more clients that wanted a complete image overhaul. I'd snapped and he'd called me an ungrateful brat and I'd stormed over to Mika’s for some much caffeine. I couldn't put my anger where it belonged, so the barista unfortunately stepped in the line of fire. I was so lost in the memory that I forgot I was avoiding one conversation and my silence was just reinforcing the fact that I wasn't okay.

“So, you going to tell me what that little comment was about?” Casual clothing or not, her face was intent and serious as a heart attack. Her dark brown eyes were trained on me, scouting for the truth. No wonder her conviction rate was so high. It was impossible to be on the receiving end of her glare and hold on to your secrets.

“Not sure what you mean.” My hand shook as I took another sip. I squirmed beneath her gaze and ripped my eyes away, yanking them up to a TV on the wall. I nearly dropped my coffee when Delilah's face popped on the screen.

There she was, dressed in some skin tight number that looked better suited for a club than a morning talk show. It was black and barely covered her lithe frame. Her fire engine red hair was wild and unkempt, like she'd just fucked back stage and remembered she had an interview. Her jade green eyes were bloodshot, intensified by jet black eyeliner and mascara. The volume was lost, but from the deep breath she drew and the shocked looks that reverberated across the hosts faces, I had an idea of what she was saying.

The words emblazoned across the bottom of the screen confirmed it: ‘Actress pregnant by billionaire businessman’. I told myself to breathe, because I knew what was next, but I still gasped when Logan's face shone down at me. The picture must have been recent because I'd done a fair amount of Googling despite everything in me screaming it would do me no good, and every picture I'd found he looked impeccable. Not a hair out of place, clean shaven, usually clad in some dark and tailored two piece suit. The Logan above me looked haggard, his hair somehow longer than I remembered. Stubble lined his jaw. His appearance wasn't collected and sophisticated, and he was practically growling at the camera.