Free Wild: The Ivy Chronicles by Sophie Jordan Page A

tightness in my chest.
    When I’d pulled it out of my dorm closet, I had almost forgotten its existence. I hadn’t left it at home because I was worried Mom would get rid of it. She had tried to cart it off to Goodwill a few times over the years, but I had stood my ground and insisted on keeping it. For some reason, she had always capitulated. Mostly, I think, because she never saw me pull it out and play it anymore. That would have concerned her and forced her hand. So I ignored it for many years. Forgotten like an old pair of shoes.
    Sinking on the couch, I pulled it out of the case and brought the comforting weight of it across my lap, my fingers caressing the colorful blue-and-green-patterned strap before moving to the strings. I plucked one. The out-of-tune twang filled my ears, and my fingers instinctively went to the knobs, strumming strings and rotating the knobs until the sound was just right.
    When I had it perfect, I played a few chords of “Landslide.” I smiled, losing myself in that part of me that I had buried for dead long ago. I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t stop myself. For a moment, I let myself go. Surrendered to that part of me . . . the part of myself that reminded my mother so much of my father. The part that terrified her.
    At the sudden thought of her . . . and him, I slapped a palm over the strings, effectively killing the music my fingers had created so effortlessly from them.
    My heart ached, but I forced the guitar from my lap. Forced it from my hands like another moment in my clasp might somehow poison me. I set it down beside the futon, against its case, not even taking the time to put it inside. Later. I would touch it later. Right now I just needed distance.
    I turned off all the lights except for the small light above the stove. At the bed, I pulled back the covers. I had one knee on the mattress and was arranging my multitude of pillows to my liking when I heard footsteps, growing in volume.
    I froze, eyeing the opening that led to the stairs, wondering who was coming up here this time of night. Surely not Pepper or Reece. The bar had quieted in the last hour and I assumed it was closing up for the night if not already fully closed. The bottom door that led to the stairs had a lock, which I had utilized, but clearly that hadn’t stopped this person.
    I managed to push up off the bed, but couldn’t move otherwise. I stood frozen—prey caught in the crosshairs as Logan ascended the steps to the top floor of the loft.
    I recognized him even in the dim light. The long, lean lines of him. The broad shoulders. The weak light limned his hair like sunlight and cast one side of his face in a golden glow. My heart squeezed tightly as I drank up the sight of him, eyes trailing over the square-cut jaw, the shadowed slant of his lips.
    I reached for my bedside lamp, fumbling to turn it on.
    He beat me to it, flipping the switch on the wall where he stood a split second before I turned on the lamp. Light from both sources flooded the room.
    It was inescapable. The blast of light. Him. The full impact of his face. The deeply set eyes with criminally long lashes. The strong angles that my fingers itched to trace. And the dark blue eyes drilling into me.
    “Fuuck,” he breathed, dragging a hand over his close-cropped hair as his gaze swept over me.
    Heat scored my face. I didn’t do obscenities all that often. I grew up in a household where the word crap got you grounded. With that kind of upbringing, curse words tend to get stuck in your throat. But yeah. That word about summed up my feelings on seeing Logan Mulvaney standing in my doorway when I wasn’t wearing anything more than panties and a tank.
    My chest locked up, not even lifting to draw air as our stares collided.
    I unfroze. Straightening, I brought both feet down to the ground gingerly. Like too sudden a movement might break the spell and spur either one of us into movement. And I wasn’t certain what that movement would be.