“I’m not naming names.”
He scowled. “Give me a number.”
“I don’t know. Maybe twenty.”
“That’s half the fucking department,” he said.
“I wasn’t meaning to ambush you with this, maybe we shouldn’t talk about work stuff.”
“No, it’s fine.” Although his tone said it was anything but. “Tell me, then, how you would have handled Jamie’s critique.”
I barely remembered the ad, but the look Logan gave me was piercing, and somehow I knew if I didn’t come up with something, he’d use it to prove his point.
“I’d have told her it was cliché and expected, maybe to sit with a designer that has a totally different aesthetic and see what their approach would be. Jamie’s stuck in a rut,” I said. “I don’t think she’s going to figure out to stop putting drop shadows on everything until you actually tell her.”
I was sitting across from a wax figure; I don’t think he even blinked. Had I really shocked him? Wounded him?
He swallowed, slowly returning to life. “She probably would have reacted differently to that.” He said it like it was painful to admit, and I was grateful to be seated when it happened. Perfect Logan Stone had admitted a mistake.
“You were different last Monday. Better,” I said.
“I’d been late to the meeting.”
“Oh, right. You must not have had time to prepare because of your massage.” I couldn’t help but get the dig in.
“I was prepared, but since my massage therapist was in a car accident and showed up twenty minutes late, I had to keep the critiques brief and on schedule. I’d already wasted enough of everyone’s time. No one really cared what I had to say after that.”
“Oh.” It had been true. “You could have tried apologizing.”
He gave me a tight smile. No, that wasn’t his style.
“Okay, let’s forget about that,” I said. “I promise I won’t hold a grudge if you want to be honest with my work. That’s separate from . . .” I gestured between us, “. . . what this is.”
“What this is,” he said, “is against policy. That’s why we’re not going to tell anyone about it at the office.”
That kind of went without saying to me. “I understand. I’m not really close with anyone there anyway.” In fact, Logan was now the closest friend I had there.
When dinner was over, he drove me to my place and parked on the street.
“Can I come up?” he asked.
His apartment had been immaculate, which I hadn’t found surprising. He was a control freak at the office; I assumed that bled into all aspects of his life. Certainly his sex life, not that I was complaining. However, my place was a disaster. It was always a disaster.
“I didn’t exactly make the bed this morning. Or clean up the clothes explosion.” Or do the dishes from dinner with Payton last night.
“So, that’s a no?” The brown eyes were surprised.
“No, but it’s . . . not like your place. Do you get claustrophobic?”
He gave me a wary look. “I don’t think so. What level of messy are we talking about? Do I need to report it to FEMA?”
When I ushered him inside, he understood. My studio apartment was cramped. The kitchen was one row of cabinets and appliances on the right. I had a bistro table in the center, and along the back wall was my sitting area.
I’d left the door open to my closet, which sat adjacent to my bathroom. He didn’t seem too bothered by the mess, but he could tell right away something was off.
“Where’s your bed?”
I gave him a sheepish look. “It’s in the closet.”