The Ruthless CEO's Revenge Wife
Chapter 142: What Kiss really Feels Like

Chapter 142: What Kiss really Feels Like

"You look awful," she said, deadpan.

He glanced at her, one brow raising. "Thanks, sweetheart. Just what every man wants to hear."

She tilted her head with a teasing smirk. "I’m just saying... you look like a CEO who’s been through a war zone."

"Maybe I have," he said quietly, almost to himself.

She caught the shift in his tone but didn’t pry.

Then Logan turned toward her, a faint smirk curling on his lips. His voice dropped to that familiar, playful drawl.

"Maybe..." he leaned a little closer, "you should kiss my worries away."

Jean blinked at him, caught off guard... not by the words, but by the way he said it. Like a challenge. Like a dare wrapped in warmth.

She scoffed, quickly recovering her composure. "Maybe I should slap you instead. Would that work just as well?"

Logan chuckled low, leaning back again, but his eyes never left hers.

"Only if it comes with a kiss after."

Jean shook her head and looked away, hiding the way her lips curved. But for a fleeting second, she didn’t feel like the broken girl from the hospital.

Not the heiress, not the businesswoman, not the survivor... just a woman, sitting beside a man who somehow always got under her skin.

And that night, under the soft glow of the chandelier, surrounded by sleeping sisters and empty wine bottles, Logan Kingsley didn’t press further.

He simply sat there, quietly thankful, because she hadn’t pushed him away.

Not this time.

____________________________

Jean stood by the door, watching Logan effortlessly lift Emma in his arms and carry her toward the guest room. She followed closely behind, her own steps light and cautious, making sure he didn’t bump Emma’s head on a doorframe.

"I don’t usually do this," Logan muttered, slightly breathless, as he carefully placed Emma on one side of the guest bed.

"Oh? What do you usually do when you find passed out women on your couch?" Jean teased, folding the blanket over Emma’s shoulder.

He shot her a crooked grin. "Tuck them in and leave before they wake up."

Jean rolled her eyes but her smile lingered.

Next came Hannah... Logan’s expression softened into something gentler. He carried her with an ease that spoke of years of familiarity. Once he laid her on the bed, he leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, brushing a loose strand of hair away.

Jean paused.

Something in her chest twisted... tight, unfamiliar.

After pulling the covers up over Hannah, she gently closed the door behind them. They stood in the quiet hallway.

Logan turned to head back to the living room, but Jean stopped him.

"Wait." Her voice was quiet.

He turned, brows raised.

"That..." She hesitated, then looked directly at him. "You kissed her forehead."

Logan nodded, a little confused. "Yeah?"

Jean tilted her head, trying to piece it together. "Is that... normal?"

His brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... I’ve seen people do it in movies. But you do it like it’s second nature." Her arms crossed over her chest, defensively casual. "You just... kissed her. Like you’ve done it a hundred times."

"Because I have," he replied gently, studying her. "She’s my sister."

Jean looked away.

"I guess I wouldn’t know."

There was a heaviness in her voice, one she tried to cover up with a shrug, but Logan caught it... like a blade slipping between ribs. He stepped closer, not invading but grounding her.

"You’ve never had anyone kiss your forehead?"

Jean shook her head and gave a brittle smile.

He sighed quietly. That ache in his chest... that frustration he felt at the hospital, seeing her closed off, refusing help... it made sense now. Piece by piece, Jean’s emotional puzzle was falling into place.

"She’s lucky," Jean muttered after a beat, eyes fixed on the carpet. "To have you."

Logan looked at her, something flickering in his gaze. "You’re lucky too."

Jean’s eyes snapped to him, stunned.

He didn’t explain further. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he turned and began walking away, his voice steady behind him.

"Come on. I’ll make you something to eat. And I’ll let you mock my cooking if you hate it."

And just like that, the hallway wasn’t so cold anymore.

The quiet hum of the fridge was the only sound breaking the stillness of the dim kitchen. Jean sat on the counter, legs dangling, while Logan stirred something in the pot, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled... homey and intense all at once.

The warm aroma of garlic and herbs filled the air. Jean couldn’t help but stare at him, not just at his hands or his form... but the way he moved with intent. Like he wanted to take care of her. Like he meant it.

"You look like you know what you’re doing," she said softly, voice still slightly husky from earlier.

Logan glanced over his shoulder with a smirk. "That’s because I do. Contrary to popular belief, I can cook more than revenge and corporate takeovers."

Jean chuckled... quiet and real. It was the first time she felt the silence wasn’t heavy between them.

He plate a simple pasta and placed it on the island. "Try it. It won’t kill you. Probably."

She took a bite, and her brows lifted in surprise. "It’s actually good."

Logan leaned on the counter, proud. "Of course it is."

She took another bite, slower this time, savoring it.

And then she paused... feeling the weight of his gaze. When she looked up, Logan was standing in front of her now, closer than before, eyes searching hers like he was reading a story he hadn’t dared to open in years.

"What?" she asked quietly.

He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he reached out and gently tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering at her temple... then sliding to her cheek.

"Can I show you something?" he asked.

Jean blinked. Her throat tightened, but she nodded.

He leaned in... delicately, as if she were made of porcelain... and kissed her forehead. It wasn’t quick, nor hesitant. It was a deep, lingering kiss that carried a weight words never could.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

"You asked earlier what that feels like," Logan murmured, still close. "This is what it feels like... when someone means it."

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