Do you know that?” Sassy tossed a pillow toward Logan as soon as he entered his bedroom. “Did it ever occur to you to mention to me that you’re telling your friends I’m your old lady?” “I considered it for about as long as you thought about telling me who you really are,” Logan said, kneeling down for an apparent two-fold effort—to hide the grin stamped on his lips and to grab the fluffy object from the floor. “You know who I am,” she accused. “You’ve known since the minute I walked in here. You just want me to say the words.” “Then say them,” he encouraged her softly. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me, Logan Marcs.” “I don’t.” “I know that look. Damn if I haven’t seen it a million times before—from you, from the locals back home, from teachers and students. All my life, I’ve been on the receiving end of pity.” “I don’t pity you,” he promised, taking her by the hand and dragging her toward him. “You do,” she whispered, gasping for air, nervously twitching as her facial spasms gave her away all over again.
