Missy
The restaurant was quiet enough that no one shouted Logan’s name when we entered.
That had been one of my conditions.
Public, but not crowded.
Visible, but not exposed.
Logan chose a small restaurant near the edge of the city with dim lighting, simple wooden tables, and no private entrance. Tara checked the location before I left, then reminded me three times to share my live location.
Chase knew where I was too.
He had not asked for the name of the restaurant.
That restraint probably cost him several years of his life.
Logan stood when I approached the table.
He wore a dark sweater and no cap.
No disguise.
No attempt to become Luke.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
His gaze moved over me briefly.
“You look beautiful.”
I paused.
Compliments were allowed.
Comparisons were not.
