Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 63: Coffeeshop Invitation

My phone rings, startling me out of my thoughts. I fumble for my phone, nearly dropping it between the seats. A string of unknown numbers flashes across the screen. Curiosity wins over caution, and I answer.

"Hello?"

"Is this Nicole d’Armand?" A crisp, professional voice inquires.

"Yes, this is she." My grip tightens on the steering wheel.

"Ms. d’Armand, my name is Marcus Ashby. I’m Logan Everett’s attorney."

My heart skips a beat.

"I was hoping we could meet to discuss some matters regarding Mr. Everett’s case. Are you available?"

"Um, sure. When and where?"

"There’s a café called Flava Bean on 5th and Oak. Are you familiar with it?"

Interesting. Not a choice I’d think a richie rich lawyer would choose. "Yes, I know the place."

"Excellent. Could you meet me there in, say, fifteen minutes?"

Fifteen minutes? I glance at the clock on my dashboard. It’s cutting it close, but...

"I can make that work," I hear myself say, even as a part of me screams that this is a terrible idea.

"Perfect. I’ll see you then, Ms. d’Armand. Thank you for your time."

The line goes dead, leaving me with a surge of adrenaline and a thousand questions. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.

Marcus Ashby is my line to Logan. I don’t know if there’s any way I can help him, but at least I can send him a message.

I merge into the left lane, preparing to turn around. Flava Bean is in the opposite direction of my new apartment—another fun thing that’s happened in the last two weeks, because apparently it’s easy to get out of your lease when your apartment’s a freaking crime scene—but home is a lot less appealing than this new and unexpected meeting.

Did they find new evidence? Or maybe they found something that could exonerate him?

The familiar storefront of Flava Bean comes into view, its warm lights a beacon in the growing twilight. I pull into a parking spot a few blocks down, my hands shaking slightly as I turn off the engine.

Then I take a deep breath, straighten my jacket, and step out of the car. Autumn’s in full force. Everyone’s huddled against the wind as they rush through the streets, heading to wherever they’re going.

The bell above the door chimes as I enter, and the familiar aroma of coffee assaults me as soon as I walk in.

"Ms. d’Armand."

He sees me before I see him, and my heart stutters when I glance in his direction.

My world narrows to two brilliant green eyes, glinting with a hint of gold.

Logan. My breath catches in my throat as our eyes lock across the café. The relief that floods through me is so intense it’s almost painful.

"Ms. d’Armand?" A crisp, cultured voice cuts through my daze. "I’m Marcus Ashby. We spoke on the phone."

I tear my gaze away from Logan to face the lawyer. Ashby stands before me, hand extended, the picture of polished professionalism. His suit, probably more expensive than my car, is tailored to perfection. Not a single hair out of place. Expensive-smelling cologne.

"Nice to meet you," I manage, shaking his hand. My voice sounds distant, distracted. Because it is.

My attention magnetizes back to Logan. He leans against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, a slight smile playing on his lips. He’s amused. After two weeks in jail, he’s amused.

His cocky attitude should infuriate me, but I’m too distracted with appreciating him to care.

He looks... good. Too good. There’s a bruise high on one cheek, and a cut on his lip. His handsome face is otherwise unmarred, except by that cocky grin of his. His golden hair is slightly tousled, as if he’s run his fingers through it recently. It’s a habit of his.

But it’s his eyes that draw me in. Those striking green eyes that can shift from icy to molten in a heartbeat. Right now, they’re warm, amused... and hungry. The intensity of his gaze sends a shiver down my spine.

He’s ditched the orange jumpsuit for dark jeans and a forest green sweater that clings to his muscular frame in all the right places. The color makes his eyes pop even more.

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way my body responds to his presence.

Not appropriate, Nicole. You’re in public!

But his pheromones wrap around me like a warm, inviting embrace, teasing me into wanting more.

"Please, have a seat." Ashby’s voice breaks through my Logan-induced haze. He gestures to the empty chair at their table.

I slide into the seat, hyperaware of Logan’s proximity as he sits beside his lawyer. My skin prickles with awareness, especially when his foot nudges against mine.

"I’m glad you could join us on such short notice, Ms. d’Armand," Ashby says, his tone smooth and practiced. "I thought it would be beneficial for all parties if we had a frank discussion about recent events."

I nod, not trusting my voice. My body’s all about things that aren’t professional at all, a victim to Logan’s pheromones, but my brain’s trying desperately to stomp on the brakes and listen to the lawyer.

Important stuff.

Sex is not important. Sex can happen later.

Logan shifts slightly, drawing my attention once more. His eyes never leave my face, studying me with an intensity that makes my cheeks flush.

"Hey, Nikki," he says softly, his deep voice sending another tremor through me. He’s never called me that before. Has he?

The sound of my nickname rolling off his tongue has me clenching my thighs together. Such a simple thing, and yet its effect is extreme.

"Logan," I breathe, hating how breathless I sound. Get it together, Nicole. You aren’t a vapid schoolgirl.

He smirks, clearly aware of the effect he’s having on me. Smug bastard. I narrow my eyes at him, which only makes his grin widen.

"As I was saying," Ashby continues, either oblivious to or choosing to ignore the crackling tension between Logan and me, "there are some matters we need to discuss regarding Sergeant Everett’s case."

I force myself to focus on the lawyer, even as Logan’s presence thrums through my veins. His foot nudges mine again. "Of course. What can I do to help?"

Ashby leans forward, steepling his fingers. "First and foremost, we need to establish a clear timeline of events leading up to Scott Bower’s death. I’m aware you’ve been through this several times with the police, but I’ll have you go through it again with me."

"Okay. I’m not sure how that will help. I haven’t remembered anything."