She shook her head. “Logan, no.”
Frustration flashed in his gaze. “Why is that a problem, Brontë?” His voice sounded as if he were trying to be patient . . . and it were causing him pain.
“Because our relationship is all messed up, Logan. You and I were ‘moved in together’ before we barely even knew each other, and look at how well that worked out.”
“It worked out just fine in my eyes.”
She snorted. Of course he’d say that. “Nothing’s changed, Logan. Last night was great, but I’m allowed to sleep with a guy and not move in with him.”
His face hardened as a stark look of disbelief crossed his gaze. “Is there someone else?” His voice was deathly serious.
“What? No. Of course not.”
Relief flickered in his eyes. “Good.” He moved forward and pulled her into his arms. “I’m not seeing anyone else, and you’re not either. This thing we have, it’s just you and me.”
“All right.”
“And you’re moving back in with me.” He sounded so possessive and so utterly sure of himself.
“No, I’m not. Not until I’m ready.”
Logan seemed to think about that for a moment and then accepted it. “What will it take to make you ready? I want you back in my bed.”
“You have me back in a bed.”
“In my bed, for good. And in my life, Brontë. I want you in my life most of all. At my side.”
She tugged her towel a little tighter around her naked body. Being in his bed was no problem. It was being in his life that she was struggling with. “I’m not ready yet, Logan. Please don’t pressure me.”
Brontë thought he would protest again, but to her surprise, he moved in and caressed her neck, lifting strands of wet hair off of her skin. “I’m disappointed, but I understand.” He leaned in and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “The offer remains, of course. Accept it when you’re ready.”
She trembled at the sweetness of his touch and the understanding in his voice. “Thank you, Logan.”
He kissed her again. “What are you doing today?”
“I work in an hour.”
“Want me to clear your schedule?”
“No,” she said with a smile. “I need to work, and Cooper could use the help today.” Working, mindless as it was, helped keep her mind off of things like her personal life. “Maybe tonight.”
He shook his head. “Tonight I’m busy.”
“Oh?” That was . . . interesting. “Busy with what?”
“Meeting,” he said abruptly. “I’ll be free tomorrow night.”
“All right,” she told him. “I’ll miss you tonight.”
Logan gave her a curious look, and then leaned in and kissed her fiercely, as if he’d just come to some sort of bizarre realization. “I love you.”
A bit surprised, she laughed at his expression. She almost blurted “I love you, too,” but stopped herself. “What brought that on?”
The look he gave her was intense, making her laughter die in her throat. “I want you to come to my meeting tonight.”
“You do? To a business meeting?
“It’s more of a meeting of . . . friends.”
“Are you sure that’s allowed?”
“It will be,” he said, his smile surprisingly grim.
***
Brontë was lost in thought as she walked the streets of SoHo, heading to Cooper’s Cuppa. Gretchen hadn’t been at the apartment that morning, and Brontë suspected that she had returned home late the night before and quietly left for work that morning without disturbing Brontë or her guest. It suited Brontë just fine. While they normally walked to work together, strolling by herself allowed her to clear her head and think a little.
Her night with Logan had been . . . intense. Magical. Wonderful. If she hadn’t already been in love with him, she would be by now. But it was also a little troubling. He’d wanted her to move back in with him as if nothing had happened, and she was still mentally working through some of their issues.
When all was said and done, he was still a billionaire used to getting his way in everything, and she was still a waitress. Their massive power incompatibility worried her. Men like him didn’t date waitresses. Men like him bought the establishment and slept with the waitresses, she thought wryly. That was her situation . . . and yet it wasn’t. Logan had proved he wasn’t what she’d expected, just as she wasn’t what he’d expected, she supposed.
But she couldn’t quite bring herself to fling it all away and return to being his live-in girlfriend. To have no other role in his life than being arm candy that was fun in bed.
She didn’t know what to do. Logan had said the offer stood, but what if he didn’t wait forever? What if he got tired of waiting for her to be comfortable with who he was and he moved on and forgot about her? Tears pricked at her eyes, and she swiped them away, pulling open the door to the coffee shop.
Gretchen was behind the counter already, her red hair pulled up in a messy knot, her glasses sliding down her nose. She looked up at Brontë’s entrance and gave her a startled look. “You’re here today?”
“Of course,” Brontë said stiffly, heading to the back. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Gretchen stepped out from behind the counter, following Brontë to the office. “Oh, I don’t know. Could it have something to do with the tall, dark, and rich guy who was over last night?”
“Why does everyone assume that just because Logan and I sleep together that I automatically decide to shirk all my duties?”
“’Cause that’s what happened last time?” Gretchen asked playfully.
The words were meant as a tease, but it was too much for Brontë. She sniffed loudly and stared at her locker, willing herself not to cry.
It didn’t work.
“Oh, jeez,” Gretchen said, pulling one of the spare brown aprons off of a coat hook and handing it to her. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s okay,” Brontë said, dabbing at her eyes with the apron and collapsing into a heap on a nearby stool. “I’m just all confused on the inside.”
“You want to talk? I can get us a couple of coffees, and we can steal one of the booths in the back. It’s kind of slow this morning.”
Brontë nodded.
Five minutes later, they were settled into the smallest back booth of the coffee shop, hot mocha cappuccinos in hand. Cooper looked at them curiously from time to time, but he didn’t pry, and Brontë was grateful.
“So,” Gretchen said. “You had Mr. Moneypants over last night. It went badly, and that’s why you’re crying.”
Brontë shook her head, grabbing a handful of napkins as she felt the confused tears welling up again. “It went great. It was beautiful. He told me he loved me.”
Gretchen nodded thoughtfully. “And this is bad? Admission of love pre–blow job as incentive, then?”
She giggled, the sound a little choked with tears. “Post–blow job. And no, it’s not bad. I just don’t know what to do. I still have an apartment back in Kansas City. A life. Well, such as it is. But this morning, I got out of the shower, and Logan was packing my bags as if sleeping with him meant that I was automatically moving back in.”
“That bastard,” Gretchen said ironically. “How dare he want to spend all his time with you? Do you need me to talk to him and set him straight?”
She made a face at her friend. “I’m serious. My problem with Logan is that last time we did the exact same thing—we moved in together right away, and he just kind of took over my life.”
“I see.” Gretchen sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “Took over like how?”
“He bought me some clothes.”
“That bastard.”
“Shut up, Gretchen. I’m trying to tell you. He bought me clothes, and we went to a party and . . .” She frowned in thought. “I bought books for his library.”
“Well,” Gretchen said huffily. “What a douche bag. How dare he spend his billions on you?”
Brontë glared. “You’re not helping.”
“Of course I am,” Gretchen said, matter-of-factly. “I’m making you realize how silly you’re being.”
Brontë continued to glare at Gretchen.
The redhead shrugged. “Look. He’s got so much money he could roll in it. You, meanwhile, count the change in your wallet for a slice of pizza. Is it weird that he wants to shower you with presents and nice things? Maybe he likes buying them for you.”
“He doesn’t like gold diggers, Gretchen. Everyone always uses him for his money. I don’t want to be like everyone else.”
“Then don’t be. Don’t go running off buying a truckful of Birkin bags. Though if you do, remember your bestie, Gretchen, and her sister, Audrey.” When Brontë glared at her again, Gretchen sighed. “Look. It doesn’t sound like the problem is his money. It sounds like the problem is you.”
“What?”
“As in, Logan doesn’t need you. He likes you, he finds you fun, but he doesn’t need you to survive. So you don’t know what to do with yourself. That’s a little unhealthy, don’t you think?”
“That’s not the case at all!”
“No? What did you do when you moved in with him?”
Brontë opened her mouth to protest, then snapped it shut again. “I shopped with Audrey, and then I sat around in his apartment.”
“Gee, exciting. I’m amazed he let you get away the first time,” Gretchen said drily.
“Oh, my God,” Brontë said. “All this time I’ve been thinking I can’t be with him because I can’t be who he wants me to be. What if it’s because I am the problem?”
“Well, you are a waitress,” Gretchen said. “It’s not as if you can continue waitressing if you’re living with a billionaire.”
She was right, Brontë realized. Oh, God. Everything she was saying was right. Brontë was blaming Logan for being . . . Logan. Logan was who he was—a little alpha, take-charge, and always thinking ahead. And she’d been punishing him for being who he was instead of loving him for it.
She’d been the problem all along.
Her stomach gave a sick little lurch. “I don’t know what to do, Gretchen. If I move in with him again, I worry that I’m going to turn into one of those women he hates. Sitting around all day spending money and doing nothing.”
“That won’t happen. You’re smart. You’re constantly spouting ancient wisdom and writing little sayings on customers’ cups. They love that. Do something with that big philosophizing brain of yours instead of serving coffee.”
Brontë stared down at her cappuccino. “I really wanted to do something with my philosophy degree, you know. Show the world just how wise and intelligent they were in classical times. Make others love the ancients just as much as I do.”