Seeing her like that—alive, messy-haired, dusted in flour, smiling like the world might actually be okay again—it’s a sight to behold.
One I’ll never stop wanting.
She even started making healthy treats for Sam, per his request. He was floored after his first batch of protein bites. He’s been hovering around the kitchen more since, pottering around like he’s helping. But I’m not fully convinced he’s not just checking she isn’t sneaking in something “unhealthy” to make it taste better.
For some reason, you can throw just about anything into a blender—as long as there’s a base of apple juice or orange juice, you’re good to go.
Mac’s something else these days. Full of this wild grace and soft fire.
If Patty’s not careful, Mac might just give her a run for her money.
And honestly? I think Patty would be proud of her for it.
The house is quiet, except for the hum of the old fridge and the soft crackle of the radio playing something smooth and smoky—like honey poured over a knife’s edge. It wraps around me as I lean in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, watching her.
My angel.
She doesn’t see me yet. She’s barefoot, dancing in the soft morning light, wearing nothing but one of my old tees and a pair of shorts so small they could be illegal in most states. The shirt hangs off one shoulder, giving me a perfect view of that olive skin I want to trace with my tongue. There’s flour on her thigh, a smudge on her cheek, and her hair’s in one of those messy top knots that drives me out of my mind.
She hums under her breath, swaying her hips while stirring something in a bowl, and it’s not fair.
She has no idea what she does to me. No clue how hard it is to just stand here and not touch her.
Some girls set your heart on fire. Mac? She burns the whole damn world down, smiling like she doesn’t even notice the ashes.
I shift my weight, boots scuffing against the floor.
She whirls, eyes wide. “Jesus, Logan—warn a girl.”
I smirk, stepping into the kitchen. “Didn’t want to interrupt the show.”
Her eyes narrow, but her lips twitch. “It wasn’t a show.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” I drag my gaze down her body slowly, deliberately. “You always bake like that?”
She glances down at herself, the curve of her smile turning wicked. “Why? Distracted?”
“More like tortured,” I murmur, stepping in close. “You’ve got no idea what it does to me… seeing you like this. Happy. Barefoot. Covered in flour and wearing my shirt.”
Her breath catches. I’m close now. Not touching her—yet—but close enough that the air between us crackles.
I dip my head and brush my lips against her flour-dusted cheek, then trail them lower—just barely grazing her jaw.
“Logan,” she whispers, voice catching.
“You smell good enough to eat...”
She stares up at me, her fingers curling into the front of my shirt, dragging me closer until we’re chest to chest. The bowl hits the counter with a soft thud.
“Yes. Right now,” she says, soft but demanding.
I grin, wicked. “Bossy.”
“Desperate.”
And God, that does something to me.
I wrap my arms around her waist and lift her onto the counter like she weighs nothing. Her legs spread instinctively, pulling me between them as I press my body into hers. Her lips find mine, urgent and hot, tasting like vanilla and citrus. My hands slide beneath the hem of my shirt she’s wearing, fingertips skimming the bare skin of her thighs as she gasps into my mouth.
