Logan:Got a sec this afternoon? Need to show you Dusty’s routine before we’re gone.
My stomach swoops, fast and reckless.
Me:That’s your opener? Not even a “hi”?
Logan:Hi, Ms. Parnell. You coming over or not?
I snort, thumbs flying.
Me:Bossy.
Logan:Organized.
Me:Fine. But only because Dusty deserves the best.
Logan:Obviously. See you soon, Ms. Parnell.
The dots vanish, and I’m left grinning like an idiot in the middle of the sidewalk. If I keep this up, he’s going to notice—and for once, I don’t think I’d care.
Chapter eight
A guy doing the bare minimum but thinking he’s profound
Logan
Dusty’s brushed, the kitchen counter’s wiped down, and there’s a box of macarons sitting dead center, placed to look as though I haven’t spent ten minutes deciding where to put them.
Angled and casual, like I don’t give a shit.
I do give a shit.
It’s logistics, I remind myself for the hundredth time. She needs to know Dusty’s routine before we hit the road. That’s it.
The knock comes earlier than I expect—sharp, not the breezy walk-in she pulls at the others’ houses, where she doesn’t wait, just enters. But she hasn’t done it to me yet, and that irritates me. And it irritates me that it irritates me.
I open the door to find her leaning against the frame, blonde hair pulled back, smile as bright as it was this morning when she came jogging around the bend and knocked daylight into me. I’m not a morning person. But for a moment, when the sunrise glowed in a halo around her, there was absolutely no way I could begrudge the time of day.
“You’re very bossy over text, Miller,” she says in a sing-song. “Summoning me like I’m your personal assistant.”
Her grin stretches in a way that’d fool most people, but not me. I catch the flicker underneath, quick as a shadow, before she pastes it back on.
“Didn’t summon.” I grunt, stepping aside so she can come in. “As mentioned, I gave efficient instructions.”
She slips past me, and a hint of coconut and florals trails after her.
“Uh-huh. If that’s what we’re calling bossy now.”
Dusty skids in, nails scrabbling, tail wagging hard enough to rattle furniture. She drops to her knees, a laugh spilling out as he nearly bowls her over. The sound fills the house, and all of a sudden, it feels different. Fuller, warmer.
Her smile looks real now, the fleeting look she gave at the door gone, or at least buried deep enough that it’s disappeared from the edges.
After several squeaky dog compliments, she straightens and walks into the dining room, her gaze catching on the counter.
“Wait.” She points. “What are those?”
Macarons. Your favorite.
“A thank you,” I mutter, too rushed.
