Page 124 of Ghost Hunted

Before I can protest or try to do it myself, Logan pulls the red dress down over me. It’s very form-fitting, and I grimace when I catch sight of myself in the mirror over the sink. I probably should’ve worn a bra. My breasts have never looked fuller, but they don’t have much perkiness left to them. After two kids, they definitely sag.

“You look beautiful,” Logan murmurs in my ear, leading me into the living room and parking me in front of a full-length mirror.

“Oh, Logan, I can’t wear that…”

I blush, turning away from the woman in the mirror whose appearance makes my face flame. As I’d feared when Logan first showed me the dress, the fabric hugs every one of my curves. And my rolls of fat. It’s tight around my waist, keeps me from being able to hide the softness of my stomach, and I can just tell it’s made my thick ass look positively obscene. A fact Logan confirms the very next minute when he flips me around so I can turn my head and see it. And then, for good measure, he grabs onto my butt cheeks and… jiggles them.

“You need to stop doing that,” I groan. “It’s so embarrassing. It makes me feel fat.”

He takes me by surprise by apologizing. “Okay. Sorry. I don’t want to make you feel fat. You’re the sexiest girl I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I’m glad Everest forced me to bring you to this stupid gala so I could see you in that dress.”

“I didn’t realize he’d forced you,” I taunt him. “I didn’t think anyone could force you.”

“Forced in a manner of speaking. I knew I’d never hear the end of it, about how you were miserable and I was an asshole for keeping you locked up, and yada yada…”

“Well, he’s right,” I mutter.

“Hmm. I have a good mind to keep you here, after all, in that sexy red dress, and…”

“And make me come?” I ask hopefully, because he’s definitely not overly generous with his orgasms. He seems to prefer edging me.

He smacks my ass. “Well, one of us would come, that’s for sure, but it wouldn’t be you. I’d keep you on your knees all night long, using that sexy mouth of yours, and never once letting you…”

Making a face, I cut him off. “Thanks, but I’d rather go to the gala.”

He huffs out a sigh. “Fine. Come on.”

_

On second thought, I probably would have preferred staying in Logan’s apartment and getting edged all night long.

I feel pretty overwhelmed as we enter the large ballroom in Mrs. Everton’s home. It’s packed with socialites, politicians and businessmen. For a relatively small town like Astley, there sure are a lot of them.

It’s a painful reminder of how trapped I’ve been since high school. Any social skills I once had are long gone, and even in high school, I probably wouldn’t have been able to handle this glittering, stifling environment.

Logan comes across as perfectly chivalrous, his arm bent, his hand resting over mine where it loops through his. His hold is as firm as steel, though, and at first, I’m thankful for it. I lean on him, letting him do all the talking and socializing.

And damn, does he do that well. A layer of shiny veneer has smoothed out the rough edges of the hard mafia guy, and it feels like only I know the cruelty he’s still capable of.

More than ever, I struggle with the jealousy that’s been sitting with me ever since I saw what he’s built for himself in my years of absence. There’s no doubt about it, he’s the most important man in the room, and I don’t know if I feel proud or want to cry.

He’s thrived without me, while I’ve… stagnated.

He’s powerful and free… I’m trapped.

A little thrill courses through me when I realize he’s deep enough in conversation with a group of businessmen that I can slip away unnoticed. I hurry to the other end of the room, grabbing the first drink I find at the bar—a bright red cocktail with a Maraschino cherry—I eat that first, then down the glass hurriedly. He’s still on the other side of the room, fully engrossed in his conversation, unaware I’ve slipped away.

The little thrill deepens, and nervous exhilaration overtakes me as I suddenly realize I’m free... even if it’s just for a few moments. I grab another drink and choke that down too, and then, my head buzzing a little, I stand awkwardly in the center of the room, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do now.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Mrs...” a woman a bit older than me stops in front of me, smiling.

“Oh! Uhm...” I cough. “Lia. Lia... Cabello.”

“Lia Cabello,” she repeats, smiling politely. “Nice to meet you. I don’t remember...”

“And who are you?” I ask, wincing at the blunt-sounding question.

“I’m Mrs. Everton,” she says.