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“What is there not to worry about?”
We freeze—Madison with the Scrub Daddy and me with the last plate in my hand. Then, slowly, we turn to the kitchen door to see Logan standing at the doorway, one hand propped on the wooden frame and the other on his hip.
I initially turned because we were busted, but now… I’m staring speechless for another reason. And that reason is the shirtless man standing at the door’s entrance, wet from the hair down.
I don’t know why or how he got wet, but I can’t say I’m complaining about the view.
Chiseled abs, each ab spelled out by hours that must have been spent in the gym to make the body perfect, plus a healthy sprinkle of good genes.
Then the hair—short strands falling wet and framing the top of his face. His damp face emphasizes his lips, the curve of his jaw that it drips off, the slope of his neck…my, my, my.
The image, oblivious of its effect on me, strolls into the kitchen and stops in front of Madison, who's standing beside me. I hold my breath—involuntarily.
“Young lady. What were you talking about?”
“N—nothing.”
“You know, when your words start to get hard to pronounce, it means you’re hiding something from me. Do I have to ask Lily,” he straightens and fixes his gaze on me.
On me.
I, who can't breathe properly because my brain has decided that it's going to use its full capacity to ogle the shirtless man.
“Lily, did Madison say anything I should know about?”
“Nope,” I shake my head, lying for both of us.
He lifts a questioning brow, one that mirrors the one Madison gave minutes ago.
“I see. You’re covering up for her. Or she’s covering up for you. Oh well. There’s no way I can pry the truth from either of you when it looks like you’ve promised to keep quiet no matter the force exerted. All I’ll say is—” He leans closer to me. “You make a mean pasta.”
My heart thumps. Once.
He doesn’t move away, and it thumps again. Twice.
When he finally pulls back, putting some distance between us, I almost exhale in relief. Is he doing this purposefully—trying to make me lose my train of thought, and then tell him what he needs to know?
“You’re wet,” Madison points out. “You said no running in the kitchen, but you’re making the floor wet, and then we’ll fall.”
“Wet?” Logan says. He looks down, looks at himself, and gasps.
“Oh. I don’t have a shirt. Shoot—I thought I’d wiped my hair with the towel when I left the bathroom. Something poured on my hair,” he says to nobody in particular, “so I had to take the shirt off to wash my hair, and then I had a call, so I thought I’d dried the hair. How did I not notice it?”
How did you not notice it?I echo.
He notices me staring at him, and I see his cheeks begin to flush, but he quickly turns away.
“I’ll go put on a shirt,” Logan murmurs as he walks away, and I can't help but chuckle at his discomfort.
“My dad is clumsy,” Madison said, laughing. “You wouldn’t believe the things he forgets. One day, we were in the car, and he wanted to use his pen to start the engine. He was on a call, writing something down when we entered the car, and he thought the pen was the key.”
A clumsy or forgetful Logan is hard to picture but funny, nonetheless.
“And then you had to tell him?”
She nods. “He wouldn’t listen at first, but when he saw it, he laughed.”
“That’s a good story.”
