The Ruthless CEO's Revenge Wife-Chapter 184: Hot wet Kisses

Hannah snorted behind the counter, already sneaking spoonfuls of mashed potatoes into her mouth when she thought no one was looking.

Jean settled onto one of the high stools, watching the scene unfold with a fondness she didn’t realize she’d developed.

There was noise, clattering plates, overlapping voices, Martha threatening Logan with a spatula when he tried to steal a biscuit.

There was chaos... Hannah dancing between cabinets like it was a cooking competition show, Logan sneaking up behind Jean just to kiss the top of her head and nearly getting elbowed.

But most of all...

There was warmth.

Finally, Jean wasn’t thinking about her posture. She wasn’t overanalyzing every bite or rehearsing polite comments.

She just ate.

She laughed.

And she let herself belong.

Dinner was full of stolen bites, stories from Logan’s school days that Martha embellished with flair, and Hannah oversharing about Jean’s low-key cinnamon roll kiss like it was breaking news.

By the time dessert came out warm apple pie with vanilla cream Jean was full.

Not just in the stomach. But in the chest, in the heart.

And when the plates were cleared and Martha and Hannah disappeared into the living room to argue over what movie to watch...

Jean stepped out onto the balcony attached to the kitchen, letting the night breeze kiss her skin.

Logan joined her quietly, holding two mugs of warm chamomile tea.

He handed her one. "No cinnamon rolls. But this might help you sleep."

She took it. "Thanks."

They stood in silence for a moment, side by side.

Then Jean spoke... soft, like she wasn’t sure she wanted him to hear it.

"I don’t remember the last time I felt... full. Without guilt."

Logan looked at her. "You mean emotionally, or..."

"Both," she admitted. "Usually when I eat, I feel like I’m doing something wrong. Like I have to earn it. But tonight..." she paused, fingers tightening around the mug, "your mom just fed me. No conditions. No judgment. She looked at me like I deserved comfort."

"You do."

Jean blinked.

Logan didn’t say it dramatically.

He said it like it was a fact.

She stared down at the tea, then whispered, "Even if I’m still figuring out how to believe that?"

Logan gently placed his mug down and turned toward her.

"That’s what I’m here for," he said, reaching to brush a strand of hair from her face. "I’ll believe it until you can."

Jean’s throat tightened.

No teasing. No flirtation.

Just him.

And in that moment, standing barefoot on the balcony with tea in one hand and his love in the other, she realized something terrifying and beautiful.

She was starting to trust him.

Not just with her body. But with her scars.

__________________________

The house was quiet again.

Martha and Hannah had gone home after a final round of dessert and reluctant hugs. The dishes were done. The night had stretched just long enough to taste sweet without overstaying.

Jean had just stepped out of the shower, her damp hair loose around her shoulders, when she found Logan standing by the window of their bedroom... phone pressed to his ear, jaw taut in the way that said family call.

She paused, towel in hand.

His voice was calm, but clipped. "Yes, Father. I understand."

A beat.

His eyes flicked to Jean.

"Yes. I’ll bring her."

Her brows lifted slightly. Bring me where?

Logan ended the call and tossed the phone onto the dresser with a soft thud. He turned to her with a dry expression.

"That was my father."

Jean wrapped the towel tighter around herself. "He still calls you like a CEO checking in on middle management?"

Logan gave a half smile. "You’re not wrong."

Jean tilted her head. "So...?"

He exhaled, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, looking up at her.

"He’s throwing a yacht party next week. Business and family. Heavy on image. I’m expected to attend."

Jean blinked. "Let me guess, also expected to bring your beautiful blonde wife to charm his overfed friends and gossiping rivals?"

Logan smirked. "Exactly."

She crossed her arms, pretending to consider it. "Will there be free champagne and uncomfortable stares?"

"Guaranteed."

Jean walked over slowly, water still dripping from her hair. "Then count me in."

His brows rose. "That easy?"

"I like yachts," she said with a shrug. "And besides, if your dad’s expecting a picture-perfect wife, I’d love to disappoint him just a little."

Logan’s grin deepened.

But beneath it, there was something thoughtful. Protective.

Because Jared Kingsley didn’t invite people lightly. And if he was asking for Jean by name... there was a reason.

Logan stood up slowly, closing the distance between them.

"If it gets overwhelming," he murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair behind her ear, "you let me know. We’ll leave. No show is worth your peace."

Jean didn’t answer right away.

But she leaned into his touch.

Just enough to tell him she understood. And trusted him.

Even if next week’s yacht party promised champagne, sea views, and slow dancing... it might also bring storms they weren’t ready for.

But tonight?

Tonight was calm.

And she let herself stay in it.

The moment Jean stepped away to grab her lotion from the vanity, Logan’s gaze followed her... a little too intently.

She was still wrapped in that towel, the hem barely reaching her thighs, skin flushed from the hot shower. Drops of water clung to her collarbone, sliding downward, teasing him with gravity’s cruel game.

Logan’s voice was low, amused. "You said yes to the yacht party awfully fast."

Jean didn’t turn. She dabbed lotion on her arms, deliberately slow. "I told you. I like yachts."

"Or maybe..." he said, walking toward her, each step deliberate, slow, hungry, "you like watching me suffer through awkward family events while pretending we’re a happy couple."

She smirked at the mirror. "That too."

Logan came up behind her now, hands sliding onto her bare waist. "So cruel."

Jean’s breath hitched as he leaned down, his mouth brushing her damp shoulder.

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