Three days later I wanted to call it off, to stay in my crappy tiny apartment and not look at another shiny building in my life. Jen, the realtor, was distressingly bubbly and a morning person to boot. She spoke more words before eight a.m. than I did all day. After our first encounter, she didn't call before nine and always, always brought me coffee. She was very concerned that Mr. Chase knew she did everything in her power to make me happy, and after the constant references to Mr. Chase and his brothers, Mr. Chase and his excellent taste, Mr. Chase and his request for multiple closets, I was ready to punt Mr. Chase to the curb and find my own place.
But she meant well and seemed a genuinely nice person, so it was difficult to be too mean to her. My frustration grew out of the multitude of options and Logan's seeming indifference to the acceptable ones. He wanted the perfect one. He wanted an apartment that had everything, that was the best in the city — whether it was for sale or not. He only wanted the penthouse. Anything else wasn't good enough. Since there were limited buildings near the restaurant, that meant Jen had her work cut out for her trying to make the current owners sell or move.
When I complained, as Logan and I ate lunch in the restaurant's kitchen, he shrugged and said the other solution was to look farther from the restaurant, but that would mean I needed a new car. Just the thought of trying to purchase a new car had me holding my hands up in surrender. It felt like everything happened too fast, an intense rush of emotions and change. Like I turned around and no longer recognized my life.
The changes at the restaurant were for the better, at least. Carter took over as manager, and with Logan Chase's connections, the quality and behavior of our vendors improved immediately. We hired more staff for the kitchen and started renovating the back of the house to replace all the shitty appliances Joey sold out from under us.
Even standing near the heat of the cooktops in the soup kitchen, thinking about him made me shiver. Logan and Edgar both promised he was dealt with, but I didn't entirely believe them. Joey was too mean to just disappear. Maybe the people he owed money figured that out, but I remembered from much earlier in my life that dead men didn't pay back debts. His loan sharks had no reason to kill him since that would eliminate his ability to pay. He was out there somewhere.
"More chicken noodle?" I added more herbs to the giant stockpot, then nodded to one of the volunteers. "This one's ready, take it out to the line."
The weather turned and grew blustery rather that just cool, and snow threatened. All of the shelters filled quickly, and the soup kitchen's clientele expanded just as fast. Logan thought I hadn't noticed, but the soup kitchen received a sizable donation that filled and re-filled the pantry. When I asked where the money came from, the charity that ran the facility only said it came from heaven. I snorted, concentrating on the next vat of broth and noodles. Heaven my ass, it had Logan's fingerprints all over it.
When I took a day or two off from the restaurant, Logan suggested — gently but insistently — that Jake take over as head chef for that time. I agreed, more so that Jake got the experience, but part of me was so exhausted from all the work of the last few years that I might have agreed with any reason Logan handed me. But it left me with more time to volunteer at the soup kitchen, despite that Logan complained he intended the time off from work to mean more time with him.
I hid a smile as he chopped fruit on the cutting board behind me, looking dead sexy in a hairnet and latex gloves. My suggestion that he spend time with me at the soup kitchen had not met with a great deal of enthusiasm, but I had to give him credit — he showed up. After his first attempt at fixing chili, though, I put him to doing something he couldn't burn or scald. He muttered and pouted about it, clearly having never been told he wasn't successful, but he did it. Obeying did not come naturally to him.
"How's it going?" I peered around his side, resting my head against his shoulder in a brief moment of weakness since all the volunteers were out serving the food. His grumbly noise started up the moment I touched him, and I breathed him in. I loved that sound.
He tried to sound dignified. "Very well, thank you. I'm a master with a knife, as these apples clearly demonstrate." He gestured at a pile of uneven apple chunks.
I bit my lip to keep from laughing at him and rubbed his back. "Thank you for trying."
"Shit." He laughed, giving me a sideways look. "That means I'm terrible at this too, doesn't it?"
"I don't think anyone out there will judge your apple cutting skills."
"You will, though." Logan raised his eyebrows.
"Never." When he just looked at me, I laughed and turned back to the soup. "Maybe a little. We'll have a knives class soon. Help with your technique."
Logan followed me, and his arms slid around my waist so he could draw me back against him, and that contented rumble vibrated through me. He kissed the side of my neck, the rough stubble of his jaw dragging shivers through me from head to toe. "I don't usually need help with technique, baby."
I snorted, trying to bump him back with my hip and elbow so I didn't catch fire on the burner, and peered at the batch of chicken noodle in front of me. "Such confidence, friend."
He made a hungry noise and nibbled behind my ear. His palm slid over my stomach, down to the waist of my jeans, and my breath caught. His voice grew rough. "After we're done here, how about drinks and a late dinner at my house? I'll cook."
"You have terrible taste," I said, breathless but trying not to show him how my stomach wobbled and dropped to my feet. "Why would I trust you in a kitchen?"
"By cook," he murmured, moving to kiss my other shoulder. "I meant cut fruit. You'll have fruit salad for dinner and like it."
I laughed but pulled away, giving him a look as I set the ladle aside. "Nice try."
"Babe, help me understand."
I paused, then shook my head. "What do you mean?"
"Natalia." When I glanced over, he leaned against the counter near his cutting board, arms folded over his chest. That patient look on his face made my palms sweat. "You pull away when I touch you."
"It's not you." I tried to smile and concentrated on dicing more chicken in quick, efficient chops. "It's not about you, I mean."
"Tell me what's wrong. Tell me how to fix it."
I threw the chicken into the pot and stripped off my gloves, tossing them into the overflowing trashcan before I hauled it out and tied it off. "You can't fix it, Logan. You've already fixed everything else, pretty much, but this isn't —" I took a deep breath and forced myself to meet his gaze steadily. "I just need time. It's not easy for me to trust someone like you."
His head cocked to the side. "Someone like me?"
"Rich. Handsome. Confident. Male. Terrible in a kitchen." I tried to smile as I dragged the trash to the back door. "I think dinner at your place would be nice, but I'll cook. And I don't want to sleep over."
Sleepover. Like we were children and had sleeping bags to roll out on the living room floor.
He straightened from his lean and reached for the trash. "Let me take that."
"I've got it." I kicked the door open, glad for the blast of cool air that chased the embarrassment from my cheeks. "Need some fresh air."
He caught my wrist before I could flee, though, and leaned to press his lips gently to mine. He caressed my cheek and then kissed the tip of my nose. "No pressure, babe. Just tell me if it's something I've done."
My heart surged in gratitude that he wasn't complaining about how we'd been going out for almost two weeks and I hadn't fucked him. I smiled, "Thank you," and shouldered the door back open. The alley was welcome space and open air and cool calm, and I heaved the trash into the dumpster despite the twinge from my shoulder.
I brushed my hands off and kneaded my lower back, looking up at the sky for a moment and wondering if there were shooting stars streaking across the sky.
"I told you this wasn't over."
Every muscle in my body seized up. For a moment, fear paralyzed me and I couldn't face the speaker — Joey, standing in the alley next to the dumpster. Holding a length of pipe in his hand and looking much the worse for wear. Yellow and purple bruises covered every visible inch of his face and throat, and a few of his fingers were splinted together. He smacked the pipe against his palm. "I'm going to break your legs first, so you can't run away."
I swallowed terror and backed toward the door. "Get the fuck away from me."
"Every moment of misery in the last two weeks is because of you. Everything was fine until you stuck your bitchy nose into my business and started calling around town. Well. Your fucking bodyguards aren't around tonight, are they?"
"Fuck. Off." I turned, wrenched at the door. Locked. I ducked, tried to dodge as the pipe thudded against the brick wall, and I kicked back.
He staggered, threw the pipe at my knees, and I screamed — more rage than pain, though. This son of a bitch was not going to hurt me. He was not going to win. He sure as shit wasn't going to violate the last place I actually felt safe. I picked the pipe up and whipped it at his head. "Get the fuck away from me. You're nothing. You're scum. I hope you fucking die, that your bookies rip your face off."
"Bitch," he snarled and lunged at me.
I meant to knee him in the groin and punch him in the nose, throw him into the dumpster and run around to the safety of the soup kitchen's brightly-lit windows. Instead, as Joey's stiff fingers clutched at my hair, the door to the kitchen blew open. Bent and folded as if it weren't solid metal.
I staggered back, about to scream again, but the sound died in my throat.
A cat, an enormous cat — a fucking lion stood over Joey, a massive paw planted on his chest. The lion roared, a sound that belonged in a nature documentary about Africa, not the back alley in an American city. I choked for breath, retreating to the other side of the alley as the thing snarled. Joey screamed and went silent, bloody rents in his chest staining the broken concrete of the ground. The lion, pretty much at eye-level with me as it turned, stalked closer. My knees gave way and I slid to the ground, shaking so hard that running away wasn't even an option. I was going to die. In an alley. In the dirt. Eaten by a lion.
"Oh please," I said, then squeezed my eyes closed. "Please, God, I don't want to die."
Not like this. Everything shut down; the breath rattled in my throat. I waited for the pain. The tearing.
A weird, wet sound and the cracking of bones made me look up, just in time to see Logan straighten from a crouch on the ground. Stark ass naked and swearing. He looked around, then found me. His expression softened and he held out a hand. "Natalia —"
I scrambled away, through the cold mud and ooze in the alley, but I didn't take my eyes off him. Some kind of trick. It had to be some kind of crazy fucking magic trick to put me off balance. He had a lot of money. He could have paid someone for the special effects. This might all be some weird shit that billionaires did for fun, trying to scare me into staying with him. My throat wouldn't form sounds.
Logan took another step toward me. "Baby, listen to me. Just breathe. I can explain."
"Wh - wh - what..." I clutched my head, staggering to my feet with the help of the brick wall behind me. "I don't —"
"Hold on, just wait a second. I can explain."
The alley opened up behind me, only a few more feet until freedom, but he moved to the side, arms wide, and I froze. Logan's patient expression grew tense, a little hard. "Natalia, don't run. Please. Don't run."
"So you — you can kill me?" The words squeaked out, and I reached a shaking hand for the wall. My phone was in my purse, inside, and there was no way I could get inside with him in the way. Why didn't anyone come outside? Didn't they need more soup?
"I'll explain. Come inside." He gestured at the kitchen behind him, the broken door, but never took his eyes off me. Stalking one slow step at a time towards me, trapping me. Hunting me down.
I shook my head, sliding closer to the mouth of the alley. If I could get to the street, someone might help me. He was naked, after all, and a dead body lay cooling behind him. Someone would help me. "Get away from me."
"Baby —"
"I'm not your baby." It came out louder than I expected, and I clamped my lips together to keep from crying. I pointed at him with a shaking hand. "Get away from me. I don't know what the fuck is going on, but it's sick. Sick. You're messing with my head, and I never thought — I didn't think you would do that. So get the fuck away from me, and don't you ever, ever talk to me again."
"Natalia," he said, a sigh. Disappointed. "Let me explain."
I shook my head. "I'm done with your explanations."
When he opened his mouth to cajole me into staying and took another step towards me, I bolted. Turned and ran and fully expected him to leap at me, to chase me. Instead, only the sound of my panicked breathing followed me into the night.