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“You should add blossom trees.” I love blossom trees.
He dips his chin. “Noted. Why don’t you pick the music?”
“You sure?”
He finally meets my eyes as he rests his hands on the counter and leans in. “Have at it.”
I glare at him with so much intensity, I feel the burn. “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath, ignoring his quiet laugh.
His record collection is a surprise. Old school vinyl’s, a collection that would make any music enthusiast green with envy. My fingers trail over the worn covers, lingering over each title until one familiar record stops me in my tracks.
Nothing Can Change This LovebySam Cooke. I pull it out, placing it onto the player.
The soulful melody fills the loft, and I can’t help but sway to the rhythm, a soft smile on my lips as the familiar tune washes over me. His brows lift, a silent appreciation in his gaze.
He doesn’t ask, but I tell him, “My father used to play this every year on my birthday.”
He keeps his gaze on me but allows me to remain in the music. I sway my hips, acutely aware of Logan’s watchful eye. It’s not oppressive, nor is it uncomfortable. It’s a silent appreciation, a curiosity, a desire. Even as he focuses on preparing theWorld’s Greatest Tacos, I feel the heat of his lingering stare, a tangible connection between us that sets my nerves on fire.
Unable to resist, I find myself moving toward him. Approaching from behind, I peer over his shoulder, curiosity getting the better of me. His muscles tense slightly, but he doesn’t stop, not until he sets the knife down and turns to look at me with an unreadable expression.
Without a word, he wraps a strong hand around my waist, lifting me with surprising ease, and placing me on the edge of the kitchen counter. The sudden shift from standing to sitting stuns me for a moment, my thighs becoming exposed as the T-shirt rides up. I quickly tug it back down, cheeks burning.
He traces his thumb along my chin. “If you’re going to watch, you might as well have a front row seat.”
∞∞∞
As the taste of spicy beef, fresh cilantro, and tangy lime hit my palate, I can’t help but close my eyes, savoring the flavors.
This wasn’t the plan. I intended on telling him it tasted like shit just to get him back for his earlier statement, but I can’t. There’s an orgasm happening on my tongue, and I’m practically salivating.
“Okay, I can admit, these are amazing,” I mumble between bites.
A triumphant smirk plays on his lips. I want to slap it off, but that would mean leaving my food, and wild horses wouldn’t have a hope of doing that.
“Didn’t realize you were a man of many talents.”
He winks at me, and I melt all the way to my curling toes.
“Do you always cook for women you barely know?” I ask. “Because Logan, you bought me dinner—”
“Breakfast.”
“Breakfast, whatever. I’ve met your family, you danced with me, and you cooked for me. I should let you know; this feels like a date.”
He shakes his head with a laugh under his breath and chooses not to enlighten me with a response to this being a date. “I only cook for the ones I find interesting.”
“What makes me interesting?”
He takes a moment to study me. “I’m usually pretty good at reading people. You… you’re a bit of a puzzle.”
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment, but I’m going to take it as one.”
“Good for you.”
He ignores my responding glare.
The conversation shifts to my photography. He’s curious about my work, asks about the places I’ve been, the people I’ve photographed. The warmth in his gaze as I speak, the interest in his voice, it’s flattering. I tell him how I’m going to miss my random shoots around the city, and how I regret not doing it one last time before I leave.
