Betrayed, Then Claimed by Fate

Chapter10 Almost

Lynn's POV

"Amber." Logan's smile turns polite but distant, like a door slamming shut. "How are you?"

"Fantastic!" She positions herself close enough to touch him, one manicured hand settling possessively on his muscled forearm. "I've been trying to reach you. My number hasn't changed, you know."

I step back, suddenly feeling like an intruder in whatever drama is playing out.

"Actually, Amber, this isn't a good time." Logan's voice carries subtle warning. "I'm showing my neighbor around the city."

Amber's calculating eyes flick over me dismissively before returning to Logan with practiced seduction. "Well, when you're free, call me. We have unfinished business."

She leans in to kiss his cheek, body pressing against his with obvious intent. Logan doesn't reciprocate, but he doesn't pull away either.

"See you around," she purrs before sauntering off with an exaggerated hip sway designed to showcase her assets.

"Sorry about that." Logan runs a hand through dark hair, looking genuinely uncomfortable. "Ex-girlfriend. She has trouble understanding boundaries."

"It's fine." But it's not, really. Amber is exactly the kind of woman a man like Logan should be with—stunning, confident, the type who probably never has self-doubt or trust issues or homicidal ex-fiancés.

'What am I doing here? Men like Logan don't end up with women like me. They end up with Ambers and Amys—beautiful, uncomplicated women who know how to play the game.'

"Lynn?" Logan's voice is concerned. "You okay?"

"Perfect. Just thinking we should probably head back. I have a lot of settling in to do."

Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment? But he nods. "Of course."

The ride back is quieter, my arms around his waist feeling less natural somehow. When we reach our building, I climb off the bike quickly, handing him the helmet before he can say anything.

"Thanks for the tour. It was exactly what I needed."

"Lynn, about Amber—"

"You don't owe me explanations." I force a bright smile. "We're neighbors, remember? Just friends helping friends."

Relief flickers across his features, followed immediately by something that might be regret.

"Right. Just friends."

I spend the afternoon grocery shopping and arranging furniture deliveries, throwing myself into mundane tasks of making this place feel like home. Cooking has always been my therapy, and by evening I've prepared a feast.

Salmon with herb crust, grilled shrimp with garlic butter, roasted vegetables that smell like heaven, and an apple pie cooling on the counter. I've set the table with care—good wine, fresh flowers, candles casting everything in warm, golden light.

I'm putting finishing touches on the presentation when my doorbell chimes.

Through the peephole, I see Logan standing in the hallway.

My traitorous heart does a little flip.

"Sorry to bother you," he says when I open the door, "but my dinner plans just fell through, and I couldn't help noticing the incredible smells coming from your place."

He looks tired but still devastatingly handsome, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. There's something almost vulnerable in his expression, like he's had a long day and just wants somewhere safe to land.

"Are you inviting yourself to dinner?" I ask, fighting a smile.

"Shamelessly." His grin is boyish and irresistible. "I promise I'm better company than whoever just stood me up."

Against every instinct screaming about complications and boundaries, I step aside to let him in. "I hope you like salmon."

"I love salmon." Logan follows me toward the kitchen, his presence immediately filling the space with warmth. "And shrimp. And whatever that is cooling on the counter that smells like pure temptation."

"Apple pie from my grandmother's recipe."

"You made apple pie from scratch?" His voice is reverent, almost awed. "Lynn, you're officially my favorite person in this building."

We work together with surprising ease—Logan opening wine while I plate final touches, our movements coordinated like we've done this a hundred times before. It feels domestic and dangerous, comfortable in a way that should terrify me.

"This is incredible," Logan says around his first bite. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"

"My grandmother insisted everyone should know their way around a kitchen, regardless of gender or social status." I pour wine for both of us. "What about you? Any culinary skills hiding under all that corporate success?"

"I can order takeout in four languages and make coffee that won't kill you."

"That's something."

"It's survival." His smile turns self-deprecating. "My ex always said I'd starve without restaurants and delivery services."

There it is again—the ex. Amber? Someone else? The mention creates a strange knot in my chest that feels suspiciously like jealousy.

"She sounds charming," I say dryly.

"She had her moments." Logan's expression darkens briefly. "Just not enough of them when it mattered."

I want to ask more, but something in his tone warns me off dangerous ground. We finish the main course making safer conversation about work and the city, neutral topics that don't venture into minefields.

The wine makes everything softer around the edges. I find myself relaxing in ways I haven't in months. Logan is funny and intelligent, asking thoughtful questions about my work, my dreams for this new life.

For the first time since discovering Charles's betrayal, I feel like myself again—not the victim, not the fool, just Lynn enjoying dinner with someone who seems genuinely interested in what she has to say.

We're clearing plates when Logan moves closer to help, his sleeve brushing my bare arm and sending electricity straight through my nervous system. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, more intimate, charged with possibilities neither of us is acknowledging.

"Dessert?" I ask, voice slightly breathless.

"I thought you'd never ask." Logan's eyes are dark with something that has nothing to do with apple pie.

I turn to get plates from the cabinet, and suddenly he's behind me, body heat warming my back as he reaches around me to help. For a moment we're pressed together, his chest against my shoulder blades, his breath stirring the hair at my nape.

"Lynn," he says softly, and there's something in his voice that makes my pulse race.

I turn slowly, finding myself trapped between his body and the counter, close enough to see the flecks of darker blue in his ocean eyes, close enough to count the individual lashes that frame them.

"Yes?"

His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb stroking across my skin with devastating gentleness. "I should probably tell you—I don't usually do this."

"Do what?"

"Get involved with neighbors. It's complicated, and you're..." He trails off, gaze dropping to my lips.

"I'm what?"

"Dangerous," he whispers, leaning closer until our mouths are almost touching. "So f*****g dangerous to everything I thought I wanted."

The air between us crackles with tension, with want, with the promise of complications that could destroy the careful boundaries we've been building. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, can smell his cologne mixed with wine and the indefinable scent that's purely him.

My phone rings, shrill and jarring in the charged silence.

We spring apart like guilty teenagers, the spell broken by harsh reality intruding on whatever was about to happen.

Charles's name flashes on the display.

We spring apart like guilty teenagers.

Everything inside me goes cold.

"I should..." I gesture helplessly at the phone, hands shaking slightly from adrenaline and interrupted desire.

Logan nods, running a hand through dark hair, his own breathing slightly uneven.

"Of course."

But as I reach for the phone, I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my skin, can still see the heat in his eyes that promises this conversation is far from over...