Smoke & Mirrors by Skye Jordan
22
Logan
Ilet Isabel leave the bathroom first, then brace my hands on the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.
Her “What would you say to the idea of me staying?” triggered something inside me. Unlocked a door of some kind, letting an old, dark fear emerge. One I don’t even fully understand.
If she stays, I’ll be a goner, no question. Without her impending move, I have no reason to keep up my walls. Without my walls, I’ll fall head over ass for her, and if she lies…
I push off the sink and shove all ten fingers through my hair. I want to jump. I want to go all in and drown myself in her. I just don’t want to be screwed over again. Especially not by someone I care about as much as I care about her.
I exit the bathroom with a million mixed feelings. It’s closing in on 10:00 p.m. and the customers are thinning out, Isabel’s party is breaking up, and she’s closing out sales and saying goodbye.
I keep myself busy by cleaning up Lucky’s mess in the kitchen, restocking the bar, helping with the tables.
When I return to the bar, Cole has shut down the register and is counting the money.
“Stop looking for trouble,” Cole says without looking up.
“Huh?”
Cole wraps a rubber band around a stack of cash, scribbles a number on a tally sheet, then looks at me. “She went into the bathroom looking a lot happier than when she came out.”
I glance at Isabel. She’s subdued now, and I hate that I tugged her happiness down a notch. I feel a little like Scrooge, looking through a window at my possible future. And like Scrooge, if I don’t change, I’ll lose that future.
“She’s thinking about staying,” I tell him, “but she’s still not being completely honest with me. I don’t feel like I can trust her.”
Cole puts the money in a banker’s bag. “You know at her core, she’s a good person. She’s always had a heart of gold, and that clearly hasn’t changed. These are issues you’ve got to get over, because no one is perfect, and no one tells one hundred percent of the truth, one hundred percent of the time. Nobody. Trust is your issue, not hers.”
Cole takes the banker’s bag and heads toward the office. As he passes, he delivers this parting shot: “She’s also the best woman you’ve ever been with.”
I war with my demons on the way home. Isabel may be behind me somewhere, but I’m not sure. I don’t see her headlights, and she clearly didn’t want to address this problem.
My headlights sweep across the property as I turn in, over the dumpster she’s filled, over the walk she’s swept, over the windows of the rooms she’s cleaned—without being asked and without one complaint.
My logical mind is telling me Cole’s right. I’m making too much out of nothing. But that pit in my stomach is still there.
Lucky lifts his head from the passenger’s seat and rises into a wobbly sit.
“Tired, bud? You’ve been a busy pup.” I pick him up and step out of the truck just as Isabel’s Jeep turns onto the property. My heart lifts into my throat. The happiness that floods me when I see her is nothing I’ve ever felt before.
She climbs from the Jeep, and I collect Lucky in one arm. We stand beside our vehicles for a moment that seems to expand with the silent night.
“Still want to talk?” she says.
“Yeah.” Sort of, not really. “Come in. I’ll get Lucky settled.”
Inside my apartment, I fill Lucky’s bowls with food and water, but he bypasses the dishes for his dog bed. Isabel curls into one corner of the sofa, legs crossed.
I love the look of her in my apartment. I love the way the space seems to warm up with her in it. I love the way the same thing happens to me when I’m with her.
Instead of sitting on the sofa, I drop into a crouch in front of her and stroke her jean-clad thighs with both hands. I need the contact. Need to feel close to her, even when something deep inside me is trying to rip me away.
“You scare the shit out of me,” I admit. “You know?”
Her expression is as surprised and confused as I feel. Those words tumbled out without my permission. “No, I don’t know. What does that mean?”
“I really care about you. More than any other woman I’ve been with. And I’ve just been through so much shit, it’s hard for me to see anything going right for me.”
She exhales and uncrosses her legs. I slide my hands under her knees, part her legs, and pull her toward me, sliding her to the edge of the sofa, just short of my lap. She combs her fingers into my hair, her nails scoring my scalp. It feels so good, I groan. Tingles of relief flow down my tight neck and stiff shoulders, easing my tension.
“Maybe that’s because you’re always looking for the bad,” she says. “Always waiting for the worst to happen. When you look for bad, you find bad. I’m certainly no Pollyanna, but I really do try to look for the good in everything and everyone, and even though I know that backfired on me with Cocksucker, it’s also brought a lot of good into my life just when I needed it most. You, for example. When you look for good, you find good.”
I think of all she’s done since she’s been here, all the loyalty and dedication she’s shown—to Tucker and Cole, to Natalie and Tina, to the employees at the bar. To me.
I lift my hand to her face and slide my thumb over her cheek. “There sure is a lot of good to see in you.”
That gets a smile from her, and the sight twists something at the center of my chest. I kiss her and she wraps her arms around my neck. Her kiss floods me with relief and joy, and I know in that instant I want her to stay. Yet at the same time, I don’t fully trust her to stay.
I pull away and slide my hands over her thighs. “What made you think about staying?” I smirk. “I mean, besides me, of course.”
She laughs, then goes serious again. “Natalie made a really compelling case for working independently. It’s something I want to check out.”
“Independently? Like your own business?”
“Yeah. She could work for a bakery or a restaurant or a catering company, but she’s working for herself.”
“She did create a pretty great gig.”
“Right?” Her gaze drifts away again. “I don’t know, I just started thinking about it. Our industries are totally different, and I don’t know how well it would work for me, but I did great at the party tonight, got a couple of ongoing contracts with two stores.”
“Would you be happy with that?” I ask. “I mean, you’ve already seen how opposite life here is compared to New York. I’m having a hard time seeing you leaving the city or being satisfied here, long term. This seems like more of a sabbatical for you.”
Something passes through her eyes, and she looks away. Guilt. She’s lying again. But I hear Cole in my head and check myself.
“I can’t afford a sabbatical, so no, I don’t see this as that. What I do know is that I’m not going back to New York.”
The surety of her tone makes me feel grounded in that respect. “And San Francisco and LA?”
She sighs heavily. “I don’t have my entire life figured out. Not all of us can be as accomplished as Maya or as secure in a career as you and Tucker and Cole. I’d have to see how it all works out. I don’t have a crystal ball. I can’t promise anything right now except that I love being with you, and I’m growing to love it here too.”
Is that enough for me? Logically, I know now is all anyone has, yet I find myself desperate for reassurance.
“I’d have to have more parties, approach more stores to carry my work, develop an online presence. That would take time. A lot of time, given I don’t have a wealthy investor just sitting around waiting to throw money at me.” She shrugs. “But I think I want to give it a try, and I want to know what you think.”
“I have no frame of reference for this kind of thing. That’s Maya’s wheelhouse.”
“But on a personal level,” she says with an eye roll in her tone, “what do you think about me staying? About changing this not a thing into a real thing?”
My perception of our relationship shifts instantly, and I see us more as one than two. I see us working together toward the same goals. I see having her in my life every day, and I swear a swarm of butterflies fills my chest.
“Honestly,” I say, then pause, thinking about what I’m going to say before I say it. Isabel’s gaze is eager and open, making this so much easier to say. “I love that idea.”
“Really?” she says, expression shifting to surprise and hope.
“Really.” And yeah, it really does feel right. Sure, I still have concerns and insecurities, but I push them away, because Cole’s right—if I don’t, I’m going to lose the best thing I’ve ever had in my life. “I love the idea of you staying. Of us being a thing.”
I kiss her, and she eases into my lap, where I wrap her tight and slide my hands under her T-shirt, along her warm, smooth skin. I moan at the feel of her, at the way she dives in and gives all of herself. But I’m ravenous for more.
I unbutton her jeans with one hand and push the zipper down, then move my hands beneath the fabric and between her legs.
She gasps at the unexpected touch and breaks the kiss. Her gaze meets mine, heavy lidded and lusty. I stroke her, then sink two fingers as deep as they’ll go and watch her lids flutter close, watch her head fall back, hear the purr deep in her throat, feel her hips rock into my touch.
“Damn,” I murmur, “you’re so fucking sexy.”
She’s hot, wet, and soft, lost somewhere in lust, her eyes glazed with pleasure. I love making her come. Love watching her shatter. I have to admit, I also love having a little control over when and how that happens, but this is the first opportunity I’ve had because Isabel is assertive in the bedroom. She goes after what she wants.
But right now, I want her to want me longer. Harder. I want her to want me with an intensity that marks her heart.
I work her deep, filling her up, rubbing her walls. Pressing my palm to her mound and grinding, only to pull away and stroke her clit with my thumb in a featherlight touch that makes her writhe.
In minutes, her clit is swollen and ripe. Isabel’s on the verge of begging me to make her come. But I need her under my mouth, where I have even more control.
I pull my hand from her body and set her on the edge of the sofa, then peel her jeans and panties off her legs. I ease my shoulders under her thighs and push my fingers through her wet folds. Her scent fills my head, intoxicating.
Isabel swears and fists the sofa cushion.
I easily isolate the dime-sized swollen flesh, spread her folds, and take it in my mouth. But I go for overall heat and pressure and lick her.
“Logan,” she says, her voice tight, her tone needy.
“Hmm?” I purposely let the sound vibrate over her.
“Oh my God.” She lifts her hips, and I slide my fingers deep inside her again, then move my tongue to her clit. Barely, barely, barely touch her. Barely slide the tip of my tongue over the flesh.
She moans. “Yes, yes, yes.”
I move slow. Excruciatingly slow, giving her a deep thorough finger fuck. A methodical taste of her clit.
She’s impatient. Slides her hand around the back of my head and pulls me in, lifting her hips. I pull back, circle both wrists, and ease them not just back to the sofa, but behind her, where I hold both wrists with one hand and use the other to start that maddening sex play all over again. And, damn, I love having control. I love diving deep into her, exploring and finding every hot spot both inside and out.
Until I can’t hold back anymore. Until I cover her with my mouth and stroke and suck until she shatters. Until her hips buck and her body shakes, and she screams with the intensity of the orgasm and melts into the sofa, panting.
Then I stand, scoop her up from the sofa, and head into the bedroom for another night of insanely amazing sex, and maybe, hopefully, a bridge in the chasm I created between us.