All My Friends Say I Shouldn't

CHAPTER 1

MADDIE

I knew I hit rock bottom when I found myself crying into a three-dollar gas station burrito in the backseat of a rideshare that smells like Axe body spray and regret.

Chicago looms outside the window like a glittering promise I’m not sure I believe in anymore. I tuck my knees to my chest, hoodie pulled tight, phone clutched in a death grip, waiting for a reply that hasn’t come.

Emma: You better still be coming. Logan owes me one.

That was an hour ago. No address. No update. Just a promise made on a voice call when I was too tired to argue. “Stay with Logan until you figure it out,” she said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like Logan Hart isn’t the man who’s lived rent-free in my head since puberty.

Like Logan Hart isn’t the most emotionally constipated, overprotective, six-foot-three, NHL-playing storm cloud I’ve ever known.

The rideshare pulls up to a sleek, high-rise building that might as well be made of ice. Steel, glass, sharp lines—just like the man inside. I thank the driver, grab my duffel, and step into the kind of lobby that makes you check if your shoes are clean before walking across the marble.

The doorman eyes me like I’ve shown up to the Oscars in pajamas. Fair. I probably look like I got dragged backward through a thrift store. Makeup smudged, curls frizzed, hoodie stained with salsa. I square my shoulders anyway.

“Maddie James. I’m… here for Logan Hart?”

He checks a tablet, presses a button, and gestures me toward the elevator without a word. Classic.

The ride up is silent. I can hear my own heartbeat thudding in my ears. I shouldn’t be nervous. I’ve known Logan forever. Grew up next door to him. Called him Logey when I was four and he still had braces.

But I haven’t seen him in two years. Not since Emma’s birthday dinner when he showed up late, said exactly ten words, and left before dessert. I remember because I’d worn red. The kind of red that makes jaws drop. His didn’t.

The elevator dings. I step out. Penthouse. Of course.

I knock.

The door swings open a second later.

Holy shit.

Logan stands there, barefoot in low-slung sweats and a black hoodie, hair wet like he just stepped out of the shower. He doesn’t smile. He never does. But his eyes pause on me, sharp and unreadable, and something low in my stomach flips.

“Maddie.”

My name sounds like gravel in his mouth. Rough. Unused. Like he forgot how to say it.

“Hey,” I croak. “Surprise.”

He steps aside silently, letting me in with a jerk of his head. The penthouse is everything I imagined. Cold. Perfect. Like it was staged for a magazine shoot and no one’s ever lived here. Not a blanket in sight. Not even a photo on the wall.

I drop my bag. It lands with a thud that echoes too loud in the sterile quiet.

“This is temporary,” Logan says, still not looking at me.

I bristle. “Good to see you too.”

He finally meets my gaze. And I hate that my stupid heart leaps, even as his face stays blank.

“You can stay in the guest room. Don’t touch my stuff. Don’t leave dishes in the sink. And no guys over.”

“Jesus. You rehearsed that, didn’t you?” I fold my arms. “You forgot ‘no breathing loudly’ and ‘no looking at me with those filthy commoner eyes.’”

His mouth twitches—almost a smirk. But it dies before it blooms.

I move past him, letting my fingers trail along the edge of the leather couch just to spite his rules. “Don’t worry. I won’t be a problem. I’m a delight. Just ask your sister.”

“I’m not worried,” he mutters, walking toward the kitchen. “You were always loud. That hasn’t changed.”

“I was also ten.”

He pauses. Just for a beat.

“And now?”

I smile, slow and deliberate. “Now I’m twenty-two. And way hotter.”

Logan’s jaw ticks. He grabs a glass, fills it with water, doesn’t drink.

“You’re still a kid.”

My smile falters. The words hit like ice water down my spine. But I laugh anyway, because I won’t let him see it sting.

“Sure. Just a kid with no home, no plan, and a suitcase full of bad decisions.”

Silence stretches.

“You can stay as long as you need.”

I blink. Not at the words, but at the way he says them. Like they cost him something.

“Thanks, Logan.”

He nods. Leaves the room. And I’m left standing in a penthouse that feels more like a mausoleum, wondering how long I can survive living with a man who’s made an art of shutting me out.

And why, after all this time, he still makes my heart race like he’s the only danger I’ve ever wanted to touch.