Dirty Together(The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #3)(4)

By: Meghan March

“Thank you. Seriously. That’s one less thing to worry about then.” Except for how the hell I’m going to get to Gran’s, I add mentally.

I’m exhausted from the long day, but I pop the trunk anyway and haul out my bag. I round the car to the passenger side door and collect my purse. Hooking the strap over my shoulder, I shut the door and start around the hood.

Logan throws a hand out in a “stop” gesture. “What the hell are you doing?”

My eyes cut to his. “Going to Gran’s house.”

“On foot?”

“It’s not that far.”

“It’s cold as shit, and it’s at least three miles if it’s a step. You ain’t walking.”

I bristle at his pronouncement. Lord above, save me from alpha males.

“I’m not sure when you decided it was cool to make decisions for me, but I’m just going to do whatever the hell I want, thanks.”

“Holly, don’t be ridiculous.”

My temper flares hot and fierce. All thoughts of previous embarrassment are shoved right out the window.

“Do you not recognize the signs of a woman about to break? Because I’m hanging on by a thread here, and the last goddamn thing I need is another man telling me what I can or can’t do.” My voice has climbed an octave and a half by the time I finish snapping the words out.

“Whoa. Honey. Calm—”

“Don’t even . . .”

He holds up two hands in front of him, as if warding off the she-beast taking shape before him. “I’ll give you a ride. If you want.” He hastily tacks on that last bit, and I can feel my anger draining away as I agree.

“Okay. Thank you.”

Logan tugs my bag from my hand, and I don’t fight him. I’m whipped. Dog tired. Worn out. I just want to get to Gran’s so I can face-plant on what I hope to God are clean sheets, and hibernate for a few days.

We pull out of the service station in Logan’s big black jacked-up Chevy truck. The seats are dark gray leather, and it smells new. I scan the interior, looking for a dangling pine tree air freshener labeled New-Car Smell, but I don’t see one. The electronics are so fancy that I think it must be new. Apparently Logan Brantley is the one living large these days.

He flips on the radio—to a country station, of course—and heads out of “downtown” toward my gran’s. I do the mental quote-y fingers around “downtown” because it’s one blinking red light and four corners. Given that the people of Gold Haven, Kentucky, aren’t all that creative, they just refer to downtown as the Four Corners. There’s the beauty shop corner, the pharmacy/post office corner, the pub corner, and the service station corner. That’s the sum total of the Four Corners.

The radio DJ’s voice catches my attention when he says my name. My latest single comes on. I should be giddy over the fact that I’m getting airplay, but all I can manage right now is a slight smile. I didn’t come home to be Holly Wix.

Logan looks at me as if he’s expecting me to say something, so I mumble the first thing that comes to me. “Guess you know you’ve made it when you hear yourself on your hometown radio station.”

Logan shakes his head. “That’s satellite. Local station plays you all the damn time. Don’t play much else.”

“Oh.” The word comes out shaky.

He’s looking out the windshield when he says, “I always knew you’d make something of yourself. Glad you took your shot when you had the chance.” He glances sidelong at me before adding, “Even if it did put you out of my reach.”

I’m so blown away by the surreal situation I find myself in—back in Gold Haven, riding in Logan Brantley’s truck—that I can’t even fumble for a response.

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