She made a face at her friend. “I’m serious. My problem with Logan is that last time we did the exact same thing—we moved in together right away, and he just kind of took over my life.”
“I see.” Gretchen sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “Took over like how?”
“He bought me some clothes.”
“That bastard.”
“Shut up, Gretchen. I’m trying to tell you. He bought me clothes, and we went to a party and . . .” She frowned in thought. “I bought books for his library.”
“Well,” Gretchen said huffily. “What a douche bag. How dare he spend his billions on you?”
Brontë glared. “You’re not helping.”
“Of course I am,” Gretchen said, matter-of-factly. “I’m making you realize how silly you’re being.”
Brontë continued to glare at Gretchen.
The redhead shrugged. “Look. He’s got so much money he could roll in it. You, meanwhile, count the change in your wallet for a slice of pizza. Is it weird that he wants to shower you with presents and nice things? Maybe he likes buying them for you.”
“He doesn’t like gold diggers, Gretchen. Everyone always uses him for his money. I don’t want to be like everyone else.”
“Then don’t be. Don’t go running off buying a truckful of Birkin bags. Though if you do, remember your bestie, Gretchen, and her sister, Audrey.” When Brontë glared at her again, Gretchen sighed. “Look. It doesn’t sound like the problem is his money. It sounds like the problem is you.”
“What?”
“As in, Logan doesn’t need you. He likes you, he finds you fun, but he doesn’t need you to survive. So you don’t know what to do with yourself. That’s a little unhealthy, don’t you think?”
“That’s not the case at all!”
“No? What did you do when you moved in with him?”
Brontë opened her mouth to protest, then snapped it shut again. “I shopped with Audrey, and then I sat around in his apartment.”
“Gee, exciting. I’m amazed he let you get away the first time,” Gretchen said drily.
“Oh, my God,” Brontë said. “All this time I’ve been thinking I can’t be with him because I can’t be who he wants me to be. What if it’s because I am the problem?”
“Well, you are a waitress,” Gretchen said. “It’s not as if you can continue waitressing if you’re living with a billionaire.”
She was right, Brontë realized. Oh, God. Everything she was saying was right. Brontë was blaming Logan for being . . . Logan. Logan was who he was—a little alpha, take-charge, and always thinking ahead. And she’d been punishing him for being who he was instead of loving him for it.
She’d been the problem all along.
Her stomach gave a sick little lurch. “I don’t know what to do, Gretchen. If I move in with him again, I worry that I’m going to turn into one of those women he hates. Sitting around all day spending money and doing nothing.”
“That won’t happen. You’re smart. You’re constantly spouting ancient wisdom and writing little sayings on customers’ cups. They love that. Do something with that big philosophizing brain of yours instead of serving coffee.”
Brontë stared down at her cappuccino. “I really wanted to do something with my philosophy degree, you know. Show the world just how wise and intelligent they were in classical times. Make others love the ancients just as much as I do.”
“Then maybe you should go back to school. Teach. Or write books about ancient philosophers. I know a great editor or two. Or you could set up charity foundations with all of your boyfriend’s ridiculous money that he wants you to spend.” Gretchen leaned over and clasped Brontë’s hand. “My point is that the money’s not a problem. It’s not an obstacle if you don’t make it one. If he wants to shower you with money, use it and really make something of yourself, Brontë. Be who you want to be, not just a Midwestern waitress with big dreams. Understand? You can always pay him back.”
Strange how a friend telling her to make something of herself came across far more gently than when Logan had. Brontë smiled at Gretchen. “So if you were me, you’d move back in with him?”
“Hell, no,” Gretchen said. “If I were you, I’d have killed him in a week. But you’re wimpy. You’re great with him.”
Brontë stuck her tongue out at Gretchen.
The redhead grinned, and gave Brontë’s hand another squeeze. “If he makes you happy, don’t set up obstacles that don’t have to be there. Love is more important than anything else in the world. Well, almost, but you’ve got the money thing taken care of already. I’d kill to have a man look at me the way Logan looks at you.”
“Cooper looks at you that way, Gretchen,” Brontë said carefully.
The look of chagrin on Gretchen’s face was terrible to see. “I keep hoping he’ll grow out of it,” she said quietly. “I like Cooper, but he’s not the right guy for me. He’s so . . . normal. Bland. I need someone different.” She smiled at Brontë, and her smile was sad. “I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic, you know. Holding out for a hero and all that.”
Brontë nodded and squeezed Gretchen’s hand back. “You’ll find the right guy. I’m sure he’s out there somewhere.”
“He might be, or he might just be fictional. Or broke. Or both.” Gretchen gave her a teasing laugh. “It’d help if he was half as rich as your boyfriend, though.”
***
For the first time in years, Logan felt an emotion that had become foreign to him.
He was nervous.
Tonight was going to be a clusterfuck. It was one of the brotherhood meetings. They had a strict rule that no additional parties were allowed. No siblings. No buddies. No parents. No business partners. Just the original six. No one had ever thought of breaking the rules, because it would have been unfair to the others in the group.
And here Logan was, their leader, about to bring the woman he loved to a meeting and explain to her that he was part of a secret society of billionaires. The tattoo on his arm? A badge of membership. His success? Interlocked with that of his brothers.
He hoped she’d understand. He knew there couldn’t be any more secrets between them, not if he wanted to keep her. And he was laying it all on the line, betting everything he had, because he needed her to realize just how much he loved and trusted her. And how different she was from everyone else.
The others would be furious. They wouldn’t understand. None of them were married or even had steady girlfriends, though Reese had a steady stream of women. But Logan had to do this.
He couldn’t risk losing Brontë forever. So he’d show her everything . . . and hope she wouldn’t be put off by the nondisclosure agreement she’d have to sign. Danica had balked at the prenup and shown her true colors. What would Brontë do?
Was he going to lose everything just by trying to include her in his life? He hoped not.
***
Brontë studied her closet. She had no idea what to wear to this mystery meeting. Meeting implied business, but Logan said it was friends. She studied the clothes hanging in the small closet. Go casual? Or dress up in anticipation of something fussy? She couldn’t decide. Tonight felt important for some reason, though she had no idea why.
Her mind was still on this morning’s conversation with Gretchen. Logan had offered himself just as he was, and she had been the one with the problem. It was a bit humbling. There was nothing wrong with being a waitress, of course. She liked her job and liked working with people. But she couldn’t be a waitress and be with Logan. The two were completely incompatible. Waitressing was hard work with odd hours. She didn’t want to be too tired to see him—or too busy. And it didn’t make sense for her to bust her butt for tips when he had money.
She had to choose.
And she was going to pick the gorgeous man she was in love with, of course. It was just a matter of
admitting it to herself.
She decided on a simple black sweater and dark gray skirt with heels. Dressy enough that she could pass for formal, but it wouldn’t look out of place if the evening was casual. She smoothed her hair, applied a bit of makeup, and waited for Logan to arrive, her stomach fluttering with nervousness.
She had a feeling tonight was going to change everything in their relationship.
***
The dark sedan had shown up for their date, and Brontë didn’t even blink when the driver got out to open the doors. She would just have to get used to that sort of thing in the future, she told herself.
Logan got out of the car and kissed her lightly, then held the door open for her to get in. Brontë smiled at the driver as she entered, then slid over to make room for Logan. When he was seated next to her, she asked, “Is what I’m wearing all right?”
“It’s fine,” he told her, seemingly distracted, but he reached for her hand. With a nod to the driver, the car pulled away from the curb, and they began to head back toward midtown.
Brontë watched the buildings that passed, noting streets and trying to determine where exactly they were going. Where was this meeting being held? To her surprise, they pulled up in front of a small bar.
She gave Logan a curious look, but followed him out of the car and onto the street.
He put his hand on the small of her back and guided her forward. Inside, the bar was quiet, only a few patrons seated at wooden tables. It looked very . . . ordinary. A hockey game was playing on a TV set in the corner, and no one was paying a bit of attention to them.
“Is this where the meeting is?”
“I’ll explain everything later. I promise.”
Curious, she let him lead her to one of the back doors. A dark, narrow hallway was lit by a single unadorned lightbulb, and at the far end stood a large hulking man next to a door.
Logan stepped in front of her and headed toward the man, and unease grew in her stomach. This . . . wasn’t normal. Was this some kind under-the-table business deal? Something illegal? Oh, God. Was Logan into trafficking? The drug trade? Her stomach twisted with anxiety. Surely not. She’d never expected such a thing from Logan, but what were they doing down here in this dingy hallway for a business meeting? She didn’t understand.
The man eyed them with a cold expression, saying nothing, and Brontë resisted the urge to step behind Logan and let him shield her.
Logan lifted his hand and placed two fingers over his heart, then moved it up to his shoulder, and slid them down his sleeve. A very specific gesture. The man nodded as if satisfied, and his glare fixed on Brontë.
“She’s with me,” Logan told him.
The man’s eyebrows went up, but he simply nodded and gestured at the door. “The others are inside.”
This was clearly some sort of secret meeting. Her stomach clenched again. Surely Logan wasn’t in the Mafia, was he?
Then again, this was New York City.
Logan pushed the door open and then gestured for Brontë to enter.
She did, stepping down a narrow line of cement stairs into . . . a basement. A very well lit basement. Cigar smoke hung in the air, and she could hear the murmur of conversation that abruptly stilled as she descended the last stair and came into the others’ view.
A poker table sat in the center of the room. A drink table at the far end. Chips were scattered about, along with half-full glasses and ashtrays. Around the table sat five men, all scowling at the sight of her.
And . . . she recognized four of them. Jonathan, who’d been their helicopter rescuer—and who was as fabulously wealthy as Logan—sat on the far end of the table, a cigar held between his teeth. Cade sat in the middle, his expression more welcoming than the others, but equally perplexed. To his right she recognized Reese, whom she’d met only briefly. And Griffin. And there was one man with his back to her, only part of his face visible.
Reese threw down his cigar and cards, getting to his feet. “What the hell is this, Logan?”
Logan adjusted the cuff links of his jacket as if nothing were amiss. “This is Brontë. My girlfriend.”
“You can’t bring your girlfriend to—” Griffin abruptly stopped short, as if realizing what he was about to say.
Brontë’s heart sank. They were all wealthy. All wealthy and conducting secret meetings together? It could only be one thing. She turned to Logan, and tears shimmered in her eyes. She didn’t know whether she was hurt or terrified. “Why didn’t you tell me you were with the Mafia?”
“The Mafia?”
Loud bursts of laughter rocked the table behind her, and Brontë turned, confused, then looked back at Logan. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m not with the Mafia, love,” he said patiently. “But I do need you to understand this if we’re going to make a life together. These men are my . . . friends.”
“Logan,” Jonathan said in a warning voice. “Don’t you dare.”
Logan ignored him, his gaze on Brontë. He took her hand in his. “They’ve been my friends since college. We were in the same fraternity together. We made a pledge to assist each other in business and remain friends for life.” He studied her face. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“God fucking damn it,” Reese said.
“Leave him alone,” another gruff voice said. It was the man Brontë didn’t know. “He has to have his reasons.”
Brontë’s head swirled with what he was telling her. He was watching her and it seemed to be important, but she didn’t understand. “You’re college friends? But why the basement? Why—”
She stopped when he put his hand on his biceps, over the tattoo. Two fingers. A two-dollar bill. It had seemed so odd to her that someone like Logan would have such a bizarre tattoo. It made sense now, though. She gasped. “A secret society.”
“A brotherhood,” Logan agreed. “We help each other out, no matter what.”
“Hey, I can write down my social security number and my PIN if we’re giving her all of our information,” Reese said sarcastically.
But Logan’s gaze was serious as he stared down at her. “Do you understand?”
She thought for a moment, then took her clutch purse and whacked Logan on the arm with it. “You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were in the Mafia for a second.”
“This is just as secret, Brontë. If word got out that we had business dealings together, people would be crawling all over us. Feds, auditors, you name it. This is a secret. Our secret.” After a long, serious moment, he added, “And I’m trusting you with it. I love you.”
Brontë gazed up at Logan, shocked. This . . . this was a big secret. He was trusting her with everything. Giving her everything that he was.
He wanted—needed—her in his life that badly?
She realized then that Danica had been wrong about Logan. He didn’t treat everything like business. He’d come down into this basement knowing full well that his friends—and business partners, it seemed—would be utterly furious with him. He was risking everything.
For her.
“I love you, too,” she told him with a catch in her throat. “But I think your friends are going to kill you.”
A grin lit his face, and he pulled her close. “They’ll get over it.” He kissed her—long, hard, and fierce. So fiercely that her knees went weak, and she sagged against him.
Behind them, someone cleared his throat. “This is really quite moving,” Griffin said in a cultured voice. “But you seem to forget the implications for the rest of us. We’re not in love with her.”
She turned to look at them, unhappy that this moment of trust was going to cost Logan so much. “You’re all such close friends—I don’t want this to be a problem.”
“Too late,” Jonathan said flatly.
Brontë looked at Logan. “Is there something I can sign
that would prove it? That I can stay quiet? That you can trust me?”
“A nondisclosure agreement?” Logan asked.
“Yes, that’s it,” she said with a nod, glancing back at the table. “Would a nondisclosure agreement work?”
“It depends,” Reese said. “Exactly how many other women are we going to be dragging in here and sharing all our secrets with?”
“Only this one,” Logan said, grinning. “I’m not in love with anyone else.”
A warm feeling swept through her, and she couldn’t stop smiling.
“Oh, jeez,” Reese said. “They’re so cute together I want to puke.”
“Be nice,” Cade said. “I’m happy for you both, Logan and Brontë. Come have a seat. We’ll get things worked out as we play.”
Logan moved to the table and pulled out his chair for Brontë, motioning for her to sit down. She did, pretending she didn’t see the wary looks on the men’s faces. While Logan had invited her in for the evening, it was clear that she still wasn’t exactly “invited” in their eyes. “Get an extra chair,” Logan said.
“There are no extra chairs,” Griffin pointed out succinctly. “There’s never anyone else down here but us.”
“We need to get another chair for in the future, then,” Logan said.
It got very quiet. Cade began to push some chips toward her, but Brontë shook her head. “I don’t know how to play poker,” she lied, sensing that her playing would push a few of the men past their comfort zone. “And I don’t think I’ll be coming back.” She smiled at Logan reassuringly. “Just because we’re a couple doesn’t mean we have to be together every moment. This is your time with your friends.”
“Marry this one,” Reese proclaimed, picking up his cigar again.
“I plan on it,” Logan said.
Brontë blushed, getting up from the chair so Logan could sit down. Was that just more guy talk? It was far too early to be thinking about marriage. But their banter and her backing off from the table had the desired effect. She immediately sensed a bit of the tension easing off the table and knew she’d made the right decision. These were Logan’s friends, and Logan’s club. He was welcome to it, and she wouldn’t share the secret.