Semua Bab Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine: Bab 131 - Bab 140

Viola McCoyIt feels… surreal.Standing in the middle of Logan’s huge bedroom with a duffel bag in one hand and a box of my old journals in the other, I’m hit by the quiet weight of it.I’m moving in fully.Not for protection. Not for survival. But because I want to.I set the box down beside the dresser and exhale. “Okay. I think that’s the last of it.”Logan leans against the doorway with a smirk and a water bottle in hand, watching me like I’m some kind of miracle he still can’t believe he gets to keep.“Pretty sure you brought half a library,” he says.“I am a writer.”“And a hoarder,” he adds, nodding toward the second box labeled desk junk.“Excuse you. That’s sentimental chaos.”He laughs, pushing off the wall and walking toward me. His T-shirt is wrinkled, his hair still damp from his post-run shower, and he smells like citrus and something vaguely woodsy. I hate how easily my chest warms when he’s near me. Still.Logan crouches beside the box and picks up a tiny, battered stu

Viola McCoyI knew I shouldn’t have touched the stove.The moment the smoke curls upward in a lazy gray ribbon, I feel my stomach drop. The sizzle is angry now and Logan’s voice cuts in from the sink, low and amused.“Vi…” he turns, wiping his hands on a towel, “why does it smell like a crime scene in here?”He laughs.I don’t.I reach for the pan with shaking hands, flipping what was supposed to be garlic butter shrimp, now charred and clinging to the bottom. The butter is burned. The shrimp’s probably inedible. And I can already hear Amirah’s voice in my head—How do you mess up something as basic as that?Logan moves closer, still grinning, still teasing. “You were gone for five minutes. Did you start a fire or summon a demon?”“Don’t,” I say quietly.He stops. The air shifts.“What?”“I said don’t,” I repeat, sharper this time. I’m gripping the handle so tightly it bites into my palm. I set the pan down, step back, cross my arms. “It’s not funny.”His brows lift, hands held up in t

Viola McCoyThe house feels quiet after Logan leaves. I can still smell the scent of his cologne. He kissed my forehead before he left, told me not to wait up even though I always do. I curl up on the sofa with my knees tucked under me, Logan’s hoodie drowning me in soft cotton and the faint trace of his aftershave. There’s a half-empty cup of tea on the coffee table, and the morning sunlight is spilling through the curtains like honey.I’m staring at absolutely nothing when there’s a knock at the door.It’s sharp. It’s definitely not Logan, he forgets things too often to knock like that.I open it to find Bonnie leaning against the frame, wearing distressed jeans and a leather jacket, sunglasses perched on her head like she’s stepped off a movie set.“Hey,” she says, flashing her usual half-smirk. “You busy being hopelessly in love, or can I crash for a few?”I smile, stepping aside. “Come in before the neighbors think you’re casing the place.”She snorts, brushing past me with her

Viola McCoyI smooth the wrinkles from the soft cream dress Logan laid out this morning. It’s simple. The Shein Publishing building is tall, glassy, and modern. Every surface gleams. It smells like lavender cleaner and new paper.Logan walks with me to the entrance, his hand brushing the small of my back before stepping away with a quiet, “You’ve got this.”I nod, but my stomach flips. I’m not sure if it’s excitement or nausea. Maybe both.I check in at the front desk, give them my name, and wait. My palms are damp. I swipe them against my thighs and stare at the oversized digital art looping on the wall. A waterfall, slow-motion, freezing in midair.“Miss McCoy?” a voice calls, and I turn.A woman in her late thirties, wearing a power suit and bright coral lipstick, extends her hand. “I’m Fallon. Executive editor.”Her handshake is firm, warm.“This way,” she says, leading me through sleek glass doors.Inside the meeting room, there’s a long wooden table with bottled waters neatly pl

Viola McCoyThe sky is gray with that soft kind of light that makes everything feel like it’s still waking up. There’s a breeze slipping through the cracked window, as I carry the cardboard box into the living room.It’s heavier than I remember.Or maybe that’s just because I’ve been waiting for this moment for weeks.“Are you sure you’re ready?” I ask as I drop the box onto the rug in front of the couch.Logan glances up from the kitchen, holding two mugs—mine is the seafoam green one I picked out at that thrift store in Wicker Park. His is black, simple, no logo, just like him.“Absolutely,” he says. “I cleared my whole day for you, Shortstuff. I’m not moving unless you drag me out the door.”I smile, curling my legs under me as I sit on the couch. “You’re such a liar. If Bonnie called and said there was a body in the trunk of your car—”“I’d tell him I’m busy with fan mail,” he interrupts, setting my coffee on the coaster beside me and pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “And yo