Page 198 of It Should Have Been You

“You live here?”

It’s amazing. The city lights drift in from the large, steel-framed windows, lining the brick walls. The ceilings are high, with exposed wooden beams. He goes ahead, switching on a lamp in the living room.

It’s a bachelor pad, but there’s photos on the walls, a desk littered with papers, and his scent lingers in the air, making it homely and essentially Logan.

The open floor plan gives the loft an even more spacious feel, with the kitchen flowing seamlessly into a living area.

“You should get dried off,” Logan suggests, snapping me out of my stupor. He disappears into what I assume is his bedroom. When he doesn’t return, I tentatively follow.

He hands me a black T-shirt that I’m sure will fall to my knees. “Here. I’ll dry your clothes. Bathroom is right in there.”

I take the offered shirt with a mumbled thanks, feeling oddly self-conscious. I disappear into the bathroom, and when I emerge with my damp clothes bundled in my arms, he’s already changed into a fresh white T-shirt and black jeans.

He’s mouth-watering.

Handing over my soaked clothes, I can’t help but follow him curiously with my gaze as he takes them, disappearing briefly into another room before returning. By the time he’s back, his hands are empty, and the faint hum of a dryer resonates from the room, accompanied by the soft warmth that wafts into the open loft.

Logan goes straight to the fridge, pulling out ingredients before getting to work on chopping.

“You’re making the tacos?”

He grins at me over his shoulder, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “I told you I knew a place with great tacos.”

Of course he can cook.

“You’re quite sure of yourself.”

He does nothing but wink at me in response.

I take the opportunity to explore his apartment, curiosity guiding my steps. The loft is big, an artist’s sanctuary, and somehow, I feel like an intruder tiptoeing around his world.

As I inspect the photos lining the walls, my gaze is drawn to one picture in particular. It’s a stunning woman with a radiant smile. The eyes are familiar because they match that of the man cooking like a professional behind me.

“She’s beautiful. Who is she?” I ask, unable to look away from the picture.

Logan pauses, following my gaze to the photo. “My mother. She passed away when I was fourteen. My aunt and uncle practically raised me.”

He leaves it at that, offering no further explanation. There’s a raw vulnerability in his admission, and it’s clear he doesn’t like to talk about it. I decide to respect his silence.

My exploration takes me to his desk, littered with sketches that showcase a skill and talent beyond tattoos. I run my fingers over the pages until I skim across another photo printed on a sheet of paper.

“What is this?”

I hold up the picture of two identical houses side by side, obviously in need of restoration with overgrown grass and secluded in forestry. Even in their dilapidated state, the scenery is heaven.

“A project,” he simply answers.

I roll my eyes.

“You flip houses?”

“No.”

I hold my hands out and squint at him, imploring him to go further. I almost miss the satisfied smirk on the corner of his mouth as he lowers his head and gets back to cooking.

“I bought the houses a couple of years ago. I’ll get to it someday.”

It looks like an amazing place to raise a family. I hide my smile and the warmth in my chest. He hasn’t showed that side of him until now—the side planning for a future.

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