My knees go weak. “We are literally supposed to be cleaning up.”
“We are,” he says, voice low. “You’re just too distracting.”
We move around the kitchen in sync—bumping hips, trading smirks, sneaking kisses between stacking bowls and wiping counters. A song hums softly from the old radio in the corner—something acoustic and romantic, the kind that makes you want to slow dance barefoot on a porch somewhere.
Outside, a soft breeze pushes against the windows, carrying the rustle of the trees with it. The world feels still, quiet, like it’s holding its breath just for us.
The scent of cocoa and vanilla still lingers in the kitchen air, warm and comforting, like something pulled from childhood dreams. I take the cake out from where I tucked it behind the mixing bowls, brushing a bit of flour from the tea towel I used to cover it.
“Okay,” I say, a little breathless with nerves. “Close your eyes.”
Logan lifts an eyebrow, already grinning. “Am I about to get tackled or seduced?”
“Neither. Just shut up and close them.”
He obeys with a smirk, arms folded across that unfairly sculpted chest, tattoos flexing, messy black hair falling into his eyes. God help me.
I place the cake in front of him on the counter and whisper, “Now open.”
His eyes flicker open—and soften instantly. “Angel…”
It’s a heart-shaped brownie cake, the edges perfectly crisp, the center rich and fudgy. I used my nan’s old recipe, but added my own twist—dark chocolate chips, a pinch of cinnamon, a splash of espresso to deepen the flavor, and a swirl of melted caramel across the top, glittered with sea salt.
He stares at it for a long moment, then back at me, expression unreadable.
“I know it’s kind of cheesy,” I ramble. “But I wanted to make something for you. It’s my Gram’s recipe, but I tweaked it, made it ours, I guess.”
Logan doesn’t say a word.
He steps forward, lifts me effortlessly by the hips, and sets me on the counter like I weigh nothing. His hands stay on my waist, eyes locked with mine, heat simmering behind them.
“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion.
“Maybe not,” I tease, breathless. “But you’ve got me anyway.”
He kisses me like I’m air and he’s been holding his breath—slow, deep, reverent. The kind of kiss that says thank you, I love you, and don’t ever leave me all at once.
When he finally pulls back, he grabs the fork resting beside the plate and tears a bite from the cake.
“For you,” he says, offering it.
I laugh, cheeks hot. “No way. You first. I made it for you.”
I take the fork from him and hold it up to his lips, my fingers brushing his jaw. He doesn’t break eye contact as he leans forward, lips wrapping around the bite of warm brownie—fudgy and still melting at the center.
His groan is low and downright sinful.
“Holy Hell,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut. “I think I just saw God.”
Heat blooms in my chest—and lower.
I laugh softly, brushing a crumb from the corner of his mouth, fingers trailing through his dark hair. “Too much?”
His eyes flick open, smoldering. “Not even close.”
The tension crackles between us like the snap of caramel as he sets the fork down and cups the side of my neck. His thumb strokes the skin just below my jaw, slow and possessive.
“You made me that cake,” he says, voice rough, “and I’m trying to be good, baby. But you’re sitting there with flour on your cheek, wide eyed, heart racing.”
