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Something about the way he saysplease,with conviction, has me turning around before I know it. I give a shy nod. “Okay.”
He grins. “Alright. Why don’t you wait in the living room? It’ll take me no more than twenty minutes.”
“Why don’t I assist you?” I offer. “It seems rude to have you making dinner for me when I first rejected it.”
Logan thinks about it for a while before he nods. “We’re just two, so I doubt we can spoil the broth.”
The reference leaves me cackling, and my embarrassment dissipates as I follow Logan to the kitchen. When we get there, he puts me on rice cooking duty—with the rice cooker and goes on to make the vegetables. Halfway through rinsing the rice, I stop to look at him, distracted by the sound of his chopping.
I’m entranced by how swiftly his hand moves, chopping the carrots like they don’t stand a chance against his finesse.
The veins in his hands—leading to his palms, stand out as he gathers the chopped pieces and drops them gingerly into the simmering pot.
It hits me—when my eyes trail lower to his shirt, and I notice just how fitted it is to his chest—that I am attracted to Logan.
The man who saved me. Who had a wife… there’s also the chance I have someone out there.
I clear my throat and look away, thankful he didn't notice my obvious ogling the entire time.
“Are you good?” He turns around when I cough for real.
I nod. “Yeah. I am. You said you’re not much of a cook, but that smells amazing. I don’t think I could top the smell of your steamed vegetables. I might have to take cooking lessons from you.”
Careful, Lily, I remind myself. You don’t want to be too eager.
But when he smiles, I lose the voice of caution and smile back.
“Thank you, but Madison would argue that Mrs. Owen’s cooking trumps mine. It’s almost all we have when we come here.”
I shrug. “Well, she’s been in the cooking game well before you came in, but you’re not so bad. I think you should give yourself some credit. What do you say?”
Logan gestures to the pot with a head tilt.
“Why don’t we save the compliments for when you taste it?”
“True. I’ll stay on my end and watch the rice.”
“I’ve got it,” he says. When I try to argue, he raises his hand. “You haven’t fully recovered yet. There is that fading bruise on your forehead, and Doctor Owen specifically instructed me that you should not do anything tasking. Your recovery comes first.”
I find his explanation hard to argue with, even though cooking rice has to be the least tasking job a person can do. When he points to the door, I sigh and take my leave.
Logan brings a plate of rice with accompanying vegetables that smell rich and delicious. He places it on the center table and pushes it closer to me.
“Why don’t I use the dining table?”
“It will mean my effort—the energy exerted from pushing the table will go to waste,” he replies.
I shake my head. He always has a comeback for everything. “You should head on to the hospital. I don’t want to keep you here when Madison needs you more.”
“I might be there all night,” he says. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“Yeah,” I nod, giving him a smile I hope passes off as confident and reassuring. “I will. I know I have to keep the doors locked and the alarm system on.”
Logan gives me a thumbs-up, and it feels a bit like his interaction with Madison, which makes my chest warm for a full second.
“Alright then. I’ll let you be. There’s the house phone in case of emergency,” he points to it. “My number is taped to the phone so you can call me anytime.”
“Noted.”
