I realize Logan has stopped walking, so I stop and turn as well. He's looking at one of my paintings I hung in the hallway. I debated whether I wanted to display something so personal, but in the end, it's not like anyone is going to see it anyway.
My dad doesn’t come over to my side of the house often since he’s rarely ever home anyway. And when he does, he never comments about my art projects. I think I remind him too much of my mom with my auburn hair and love of painting and crafts of all kinds.
“I like it,” Logan says. He sounds surprised at his admission, which makes it all the more genuine.
“Thanks,” I say quietly, tucking some of my hair behind my ear.
Logan turns slowly, those otherworldly eyes of his resting on me once more. “You did this?” he asks, almost in awe. I nod my head.
He studies me intently, like he’s trying to pick me apart and find out where I hid all the darkness to create something like that. Admittedly, most of my artwork has bright colors and a healthy amount of glitter, but this one...well, it needed to be painted.
I look over his shoulder at the canvas with broad, abstract strokes of black paint that twist up into a million tree limbs. Two bright lights shine through the branches like headlights and deep red paint streaks across the lower left corner of the canvas.
I know what this painting means to me, but I wonder what he sees. I wonder what it makes him feel and which part made him react so strongly. Logan doesn’t seem like the type of guy to comment on art, so this had to have meant something to him, right?
He clears his throat and looks away from me, letting me know we should keep going with the tour. Probably a good idea. If we stayed here any longer I’d end up rapid-firing my questions at him. After the hummingbird soliloquy, I figure it’s best to give him a few hours to recuperate. I get the feeling Logan is the stoic, broody type.
We make it a few more steps down the hall before Logan stops again to look at another of my paintings. This one is pretty much the complete opposite. A little chickadee is happily chirping from a tree branch with a meadow of wildflowers in the background. The painting is done mostly in pastels, and not at all something a giant, tattooed, ex-military man would be interested in.
Logan looks at me, quirking up an eyebrow, silently asking if I did this one, too.
I nod and can’t help the blush creeping into my cheeks. No one has ever seen my paintings, let alone complimented them.
Once again, we share a moment. Our eyes lock and all the differences between us fade away. Logan furrows his brow in concentration, then lets his gaze wander all around my face like he's trying to memorize me.
I take the opportunity to do the same.
Logan has sharp, angular features, although his nose looks like it's been broken a time or two. It somehow fits him perfectly, though. His midnight black hair is shorter on the sides and longer on top, perfectly blending into that beard of his I love so much.
I don’t know for sure, but his lips look soft. I can’t stop thinking about kissing him and finally feeling what it’s like to be wanted and desired that way.
When I meet his eyes again, it all becomes too much.
My heart thuds painfully in my chest and I feel my brow and upper lip break out into a cold sweat. Anxiety is a bitch.
“I have to pee!” I exclaim like a toddler. I cringe at my awkwardness, then turn on my heel and run down the hallway.
“Wait!” Logan calls out. “What about the window?”
“It’s in there,” I say, pointing to my craft room as I fly on by. “Sorry, can’t hold it,” I blurt out for some reason.
Ohmygod, stop talking about going to the bathroom! I don’t even have to go; I just need to get away.
As I open the door to the bathroom, I give Logan one last look. He’s still standing in front of my chickadee painting, gaping at me. I don’t blame him. That was one hell of an introduction.
3
Logan
Ten minutes. That’s all it took for me to become obsessed with the brown-eyed angel.
It’s the way she nervously tucked her hair behind her ear, her sweet little blush, those damn curves I’d love to get my hands on. But there’s more.
Spencer appears shy and innocent, and I have no doubt she is in every way, but there’s a depth to her endless brown eyes beyond her twenty years. A sadness so great she had to put it on canvas.
Everything about this house is elegant and extravagant in ways I’ve never experienced, which made the dark painting stand out all the more. Angry black strokes littered the canvas and curled up into menacing trees. I have no idea how she managed to paint menacing trees, but that’s exactly what they were.
Something about it hit me square in the chest. I somehow felt seen and understood in a way I didn’t know I needed. The pain she spilled all over the canvas echoed my own in more ways than one.
There was such raw fear, suffering, and overwhelming grief in that painting. A contrast to the bright, if not a bit skittish woman who painted it was jarring.
What happened to her? Spencer’s father told me her mother died in a car accident, and I could see some of that represented in her painting. There was so much more to it, though.
I don’t know shit about art, but I felt that painting deep in my soul. I didn’t think I had one of those, but Spencer is proving me wrong every step of the way.
The other painting, the one with the bird and happy colors, seems more her style. Yet one look in those deep brown eyes said it all. She’s both light and dark. Sweetness and sadness. Beauty and pain.
“Stop this shit,” I grumble to myself as I lay here in bed. But I know it’s no use. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since she sprinted away from me hours ago.
I rub my eyes and take a deep breath, rolling onto my back. I can’t help but picture her white dress as it kicked up behind her, showing me those creamy thighs. Christ, my dick is rock solid just thinking about what they would look like wrapped around my head.
My hand trails down my stomach and rubs the bulge in my boxers. I tip my head back and hiss at the contact. I’ve never had this instant, insatiable reaction to someone before, let alone a woman eighteen years my junior.
And let’s not forget the fact that her dad is my old military buddy. What kind of asshole does that make me? I should be ashamed of myself.
My body doesn’t seem to give a fuck, however.
When she looked at me over her shoulder, I swear I saw a longing in her eyes that matched my own.
I waited around in the hallway for a few minutes, noting that she didn’t use the restroom or even pretend to flush the toilet or wash her hands. Creepy? Probably, but I take my duties as a bodyguard seriously. Especially when it comes to Spencer.
When she opened the bathroom door, I ducked into her craft room, which gave me the perfect angle to watch her without being seen. Spencer poked her head out and looked around, presumably for me. She blew out a huge breath and then muttered to herself, shaking her head before slipping into what I assume was her room.
She’s complicated, that’s for sure. I don’t know why she felt the need to hide, but I gave her space for the rest of the day. God knows I can relate to wanting some alone time.
I spent the afternoon and evening getting my bearings around the huge estate, including a walk around the perimeter. I checked out the window in her craft room from the inside as well as the outside.