I can hear sounds from beyond the room. Logan must be up andabout. Oh, God, I must have fallen asleep on the sofa last night. Did anythinghappen between us? No, definitely not. I wasn’t that affected by the gin that Iwouldn’t recall something like that!
And then Logan knocks softly on the door.
Quickly, I run my hands through my hair and call for him tocome in.
‘Hi, sleepy-head. You were out for the count last night. Ihad to carry you to bed.’ He’s bearing a mug of tea which he places beside meon the bedside table.
‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise.’ Smiling, he sits down on the bed. ‘Ioffered to get you a taxi but you mumbled something about not wanting to goback to an empty house.’
‘Did I?’ I grimace, embarrassed. ‘That’s terrible. I can’teven remember.’
‘You needed to sleep. You’ve been through a lot lately.’
‘Still am,’ I murmur, thinking of Dad. I grab my watch.‘What time is it? I need to collect him at ten from the hospital.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s not even eight. You’ve...got time for breakfast before you go?’ He stands up, a note of uncertainty inhis voice, as if he thinks I might be planning to leave as soon as I’m out ofbed.
But the opposite is true. I can’t think of anywhere I’drather be right now. I smile. ‘Breakfast would be lovely.’
He nods. ‘Have a shower if you like. Help yourself to cleantowels and shampoo, whatever.’
‘Great.’
‘And while you’re busy, I’ll investigate breakfast options,’he adds, and goes out whistling.
After my shower, I tie my hair up loosely and join Logan inthe kitchen. He’s sitting at the table in jeans and T-shirt, socked feet up onanother chair, flicking through a hotel and catering magazine. He looks up witha smile when I enter, throws down the magazine and springs to his feet.
‘Right. Breakfast options are eggs and more eggs. Out ofbread, I’m afraid. Another omelette?’
I laugh. ‘Much as I enjoyed it last night, I think I’llpass.’
‘Aye, fair enough.’ He looks around. ‘There is one otheroption.’ He opens a cupboard and brings out a box. ‘I got carried away in thesupermarket,’ he says, showing me the picture of a mouth-watering, fancy-lookingchocolate cake on top of the box, from a popular retail store famous for verydelicious and calorie-laden food. ‘I know you love cake. Fancy a piece?’
My stomach grumbles. ‘No. Definitely not.’ I shrug.‘Chocolate. You know?’
‘A trigger?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Damn.’ He grins. ‘I was looking forward to breaking intothat with my coffee.’
‘Well, you can.’ I point out. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’
He looks at me, considering, then he shrugs. ‘Okay.’
I watch him open the box and unwrap the cake. The scent ofchocolate rises up and flirts with my nose. He lays the cake on a plate andcuts it in half with a large knife, then he stands back and contemplates hiswork.
I laugh. ‘One half now, saving the other half for later?’
‘Please.’ He pretends to look offended. ‘This isn’t any oldcake. It needs to be appreciated. I’m just wondering how many slices to cut.’
‘Just quarter it. You know you want to.’
He frowns. ‘Eighths, I think,’ he decides, and proceeds tocut the slices as I watch his hands. He has lovely, strong hands. Clean,trimmed nails. I smile to myself. Logan’s sexy hands getting to grips with achocolate cake could easily become my all-time favourite fantasy.
‘What are you smiling at?’
