Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(41)

“What the fuck?” Logan snapped. “You’re joking, right?”

“Nope,” I said, the word leaving my lips with a pop. I finally looked at Logan then, and even though it was cliché and made me want to roll my eyes at myself, I loved that his hands were curled into fists at his side, that his eyes looked murderous as it all sank in. “He even pulled me into his lap, refusing to let go of me until I punched him in the groin and high-tailed it out of there.”

Logan’s mouth fell open, his eyes flicking back and forth between mine in a look of horror. “What did you do?”

“I told my dad,” I said. “Obviously. Because that’s what any fourteen-year-old girl would do. I told my dad.” I swallowed. “And I thought he would fly in like the superhero I thought he was, kick Randy’s ass, save the day.” My lip twitched, something between a smile and the beginning of a sob finding me. “But he didn’t. He said it was nothing, that Randy was drunk, that he was sure Randy didn’t mean any harm, that I was being dramatic,” I spat the word. “And that I should let it go.”

“How could he say any of that?” Logan asked, that wrinkle between his brows again. “You’re his daughter. That man practically molested you.”

“Yeah, well, pissing off the police chief wouldn’t bode well with my father’s underground casino staying in operation, would it?”

Logan shook his head. “And your mom?”

I scoffed. “She’s soft, weak, and does whatever Dad tells her to. She had nothing for me other than a hug and an offer to run me a hot bath.”

“Jesus…”

I nodded, but as soon as the last words were said, I drew in a deep breath, picking up my brush like nothing had happened. “Anyway, I decided then that I didn’t want anything to do with my family or their legacy. And that I was going to be my own person, and I didn’t give two shits what they had to say about it.”

Logan was quiet for so long that I paused where I was painting to make sure he was still breathing. He was, and in fact, it was about all he was doing — just looking at me, and breathing.

“What?”

“It’s just that I’ve been trying to keep my father’s legacy alive, to be everything he’d ever wanted me to be and more. I would give anything to have another moment with him, and meanwhile, you’ve been trying to escape your father for over a decade.” He swallowed. “I can’t imagine being in your shoes when that happened, or what you must have gone through ever since. You’re really strong, Mallory. Really fucking strong.”

My heart squeezed painfully in my chest, but I played off the emotion with a scoff. “Yeah, so strong that I had to come crawling back home to Daddy and take his money to make my dream come true.”

“Hey,” Logan said, reaching over to place his hand on my forearm. He squeezed until I looked at him, and I hated the sincerity I found there.

That The 1975 song was right — sincerity was scary.

“That’s not what you did, okay? You’re making your dream a reality, and doing whatever it takes to get there — that’s a strong entrepreneur. That’s a warrior.”

The way Logan watched me in that moment, I knew he meant every word he said — and he wanted me to believe them as much as he did.

Suddenly, the air around us was too thick, too dense with emotions that I didn’t want to feel. I blew a breath out loudly through my lips, pulling my hand from where it had been paused in front of my canvas. “Alright,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s enough of that. I brought you over here to paint to relieve stress, not make more of it.”

“I’m not stressed.”

“Well, you’re not having fun, either,” I argued. Then, my eyes flicked to the brush in my hand, to the paint on the palette between us, and I grinned. “But I think I know how to change that.”

Logan quirked a brow, watching as I dipped the brush in the mahogany paint on my palette. I lifted the brush, made it look like I was going back to painting, and waited until Logan had turned back toward his own canvas.

Then, I flicked my brush and sent paint splattering all over him.

Specks of the orangish-brown color hit his biceps, the muscles of his rib cage peeking through his shirt, his neck, his eyebrow, the corner of his mouth — now popped open in surprise. He turned his head slowly, blinking several times before he wiped his thumb over the corner of his mouth where the paint had splattered. Logan looked at his thumb, at my challenging smile, and then he dipped his own brush.

“Oh, you’re going to pay for that.”

I squealed, jumping up from my bar stool and running away before he could even dip his brush. I took my palette with me, reloading my weapon before I turned back around. But Logan was there, and as soon as I was facing him, I saw paint flying my way in slow motion.

I closed my eyes just in time to feel the cool liquid splatter all over my face.

Logan laughed as I blinked my eyes open again, charging after him with my brush. He ran behind his canvas, and when I flung another attack, it landed all over the painting he’d been working on.

“Hey!” he said, peeking over the top at the new addition to his work. “You ruined it!”

“I made it better.”

“Oh, yeah?” Logan swiped his brush over my painting, making a haphazard smiley face right over my snow man. “There. I returned the favor.”