Someone yells Logan’s name again. He looks up, waves, and the girl actually squeals.
“Think I should be jealous?” I tease, bumping my hip against his.
Logan doesn’t answer—just catches my chin between his fingers and kisses me right there in the middle of the crowd, like I’m air and he’s been holding his breath.
When he pulls back, his voice is gravel wrapped in honey. “Not a chance in Hell.”
My knees go weak.
“Logan!” a festival staffer calls from near the VIP gate. “We’ve got soundcheck scheduled in ten. You good to head in?”
“Yeah,” he nods, then looks at the rest of the guys. “Let’s go.”
We move toward the gated entrance with a security escort, but Logan still doesn’t let go. His fingers stay laced with mine, thumb sweeping over the back of my hand like a secret only we share.
Trey slings an arm over my shoulders once we’re inside the quieter backstage area. “You ready to watch your man destroy hearts and melt panties all over again?”
I roll my eyes, but my smile gives me away. “Always.”
I stand off to the side, just out of the crew’s way, hugging Logan’s hoodie tighter around me, letting it swallow me whole.
The boys fall into rhythm without hesitation, like this is their real language. The one they were born speaking.
Logan takes his guitar from one of the crew, slinging the strap over his shoulder in that easy, confident way that makes my heart kick. He rolls his shoulders back, fingers adjusting the tuning pegs with a precision that has no business being that hot. Then he steps into his spot near the mic, adjusts the height, and his fingers begin to move.
God. His fingers.
They fly over the strings—steady, sure, fast in the places that demand it, and slow in others, dragging the sound out like he’s teasing the notes to the edge before letting them go. Every movement is precise. Purposeful.
I bite my bottom lip, watching the way the veins flex in his forearms, how his grip shifts, knuckles tightening, how his hands work that instrument like it’s an extension of his body. And all I can think is those hands have been on me. On my hips. My thighs. My face. Between my legs.
The way he plays—how skilled, how focused—it’s downright indecent.
I clench my thighs, feeling heat swirl in my belly. My cheeks flush, and it has nothing to do with the Montreal chill.
I know exactly what those fingers can do. The pressure, the control, the way he knows when to go soft and when to grip just right. Watching him play like this is almost too much—it’s intimate, but on display. Like he’s performing for me, and no one else knows it.
He looks up suddenly—like he feels me watching—and meets my eyes from across the stage.
And that smirk?
That slow, wicked curl of his lips that says he knows exactly what I’m thinking?
Yeah. I’m definitely in trouble.
Logan leans into the mic, voice low and teasing, “Check, check—hey, baby, can you hear me?”
My stomach flips.
The sound tech’s voice crackles over the headset: “Loud and clear, Romeo.”
Trey snorts. “Better get used to that. He’s all kinds of sappy now.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I call back, still breathless from the look Logan just gave me.
Chace starts the count with a knock of his sticks. “One, two, three—”
The first notes punch through the chilly morning air like fire. Sam’s bass rumbles beneath it all, a thick, sensual pulse, and Chace lays down a beat so tight it drags my heart into sync with it.
