The man my holy place.
My whisper of hope.
That space that was now a void that ached to be filled.
TWENTY
LOGAN
“What the fuckis up with you, man?” With my hands stuffed in my pockets, I leaned back against the wall of the elevator and eyed Trent.
Dude stood there wearing black jeans and a worn black leather jacket and unlaced motorcycle boots, trying to hold back a Cheshire smirk from his mouth.
It wasn’t working.
He laughed under his breath and stared at the elevator floor.
A grin taking hold, I shook my head. “You lightweight motherfucker. Are you drunk? Tell me you haven’t gone weak on me.”
He’d shown up at my office two hours ago and insisted we head out to grab a birthday beer or two.
I hadn’t complained much except for the fact I’d been dying to get back to my apartment.
I just wanted to look at her.
See her face.
Be in her space.
Pathetic, much?
Felt like we’d been orbiting each other for the last five days since the night something had changed.
The change had been in me, I imagined.
Like the wounds she’d inflicted no longer fucking mattered. The only thing that did was her.
Still, I’d held back, waiting on her because I was certain the girl hadn’t yet caught up to me.
She wasn’t getting it.
What made things worse was Dean had come back with squat. The only thing he’d found were a few indiscretions that weren’t anything we could take back to Aster’s father, considering most of them had been done in the Costa name.
Chuckling low, Trent scrubbed a palm over his face and cut me a glance. “Not even close, bro. Who do you think I am?”
“Then what the hell is so funny?”
“Nothin’.”
Nothing.
Right.
He laughed again.
“Why are you acting like a giggling schoolgirl with her first crush?”
He shrugged a shoulder with a damned red face.