Chapter 77 Chapter 76
Logan POV
I shouldn’t be this rattled by a meeting.
It wasn’t a game.
Wasn’t a fight.
Wasn’t even a real problem.
And yet my hands are still clenched on the steering wheel like I’m trying to choke the car into submission.
A date.
With Harper.
Public. Staged. Smiling-for-the-camera kind of hell.
I let out a breath that sounds more like a growl.
They have no idea what they’re asking.
No idea what happens to my brain when she’s in the same room.
No idea what happens to my self-control.
I pull into a parking spot and just sit there, staring through the windshield at absolutely nothing.
I can still feel her.
That’s the problem.
The way she fits against me.
The way she looks at me like she’s trying to be brave and failing.
The way she says my name like it’s not just a name.
I scrub a hand over my face.
This is exactly why this is a bad idea.
People think the issue is that I don’t want her.
They’re wrong.
The issue is that I want her too much.
I didn’t plan either time.
Didn’t plan to kiss her.
Didn’t plan to take her to my room.
Didn’t plan to wake up with her in my bed and feel like my entire life had shifted half an inch off its axis.
And I definitely didn’t plan to run.
But I did.
Because that’s what I do when things get complicated.
And Harper is the most complicated thing that’s ever happened to me.
I get out of the car and head toward the Ice House, my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with conditioning.
A date.
I can’t even be in the same room with her without wanting to touch her.
Without wanting to pull her close just to make sure she’s real.
Without wanting to forget every rule I’ve ever built for myself.
And now they want us to sit across from each other at a table?
Talk?
Smile?
Pretend?
I laugh under my breath.
That’s the funniest part.
There is nothing pretend about what happens between us.
It’s not soft.
It’s not casual.
It’s not something you can put in a nice box and call “for show.”
It’s a fuse.
And we’ve already lit it twice.
I push through the front door of the house and head up the stairs, my thoughts loud and mean and relentless.
She looked at me like I mattered.
That’s the part that really screwed me up.
Not the sex.
Not the heat.
Not even the history.
It was the way she looked at me the morning after.
Like she was trying to figure out what we were now.
Like she was hoping.
I hate myself for that.
I hate myself for being the kind of guy who makes someone look at him like that and then walks away.
But I also know myself.
I know what I’m built for.
The NHL doesn’t care if you’re emotionally available.
It cares if you’re fast.
If you’re ruthless.
If you’re focused.
My dad didn’t get where he is by letting his life get complicated.
And neither will I.
I drop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling.
The idea of sitting across from her, watching her laugh, watching her talk with her hands the way she does when she’s excited—
My chest tightens.
The idea of not touching her feels like trying to hold my breath underwater.
And the idea of touching her again?
That’s worse.
Because I don’t trust myself to stop.
Not with her.
Not when she looks at me like that.
Not when she smells like her shampoo and warm skin and something that feels dangerously like home.
I blow out a breath.
This isn’t about the auction.
This is about the fact that Harper Lane is the one person who makes me forget what I’m supposed to be.
The one person who makes me want things I can’t afford to want.
I grab my phone, stare at her name in my messages.
Don’t text her.
Don’t.
I lock the screen and toss the phone onto the bed like it burned me.
A date would be a mistake.
Not because I don’t care.
Because I care too much.
And if I sit across from her and look at her and remember what it felt like to wake up with her in my arms—
I already know exactly how that night would end.
And I don’t know how to survive that a third time.