Bright blue eyes flutter up to mine, softer than I expect. “Thanks, Logan. Really.”
I nod, pushing off the frame. “Get some sleep, Lu.”
The house settles into silence as I pull back, but it doesn’t feel empty anymore.
Chapter eleven
Serious Swan and Flashy Flamingo
Lulu
The guest room smells like detergent and Logan. Clean, sharp, faintly cedar in a way that doesn’t belong to me, but clings anyway. The sheets are crisp, the nightstand bare except for a lamp lined up perfectly square to the edge of the wood. No stack of half-finished books, no bracelets tangled on the surface, no rogue glitter clinging where it shouldn’t.
It’s him. All neat lines and order, everything pared back to what’s essential.
Which is why the shaggy golden retriever sprawled at the end of the bed feels so wildly out of place—except his tail thumps when I stir, and somehow, that makes it feel less like I’m intruding and more like home.
I flop back against the pillow, exhaling. Betty’s voice echoes in my head from the other day, smug and scratchy with wine:an obvious match.
As if the universe didn’t already have a sick sense of humor.
Because here I am, across the hall from Logan Miller—Eli’s teammate, his friend, the guy I’ve had no business daydreaming about—and I’m wearing his hoodie. Sleeping under his roof. And instead of feeling mortified, all I can think is how ridiculously nice it feels.
I reach for my phone, thumb hovering over Eli’s name. He should probably know his little sister is squatting in his buddy’s guest room.
Me:Pipe burst. Staying at Logan’s till repairs are done. Don’t freak.
The typing dots appear almost instantly, then the screen lights up with his call.
“Lu?” His voice is sharp with sleep and alarm. “You’rewhat?”
“Relax. My kitchen pipe exploded last night. Logan helped me turn the water off, and the plumber’s coming this morning to check everything. I just…” I chew my lip. “It was late, and I didn’t want to wake you guys or Betty. I knew he’d be up.”
There’s a pause, then a sigh. “Yeah, okay. Makes sense. I’m glad it was Logan who was there.”
Something about the way he says it makes my chest tighten. Like he’s not just relieved the water’s handled, but that Logan was the one who handled it. Or maybe he’s just relieved that it’s not him I came to as a saturated problem last night.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” I say, softer. “Should all be fixed in a couple days.”
“Good. I’ll call a plumber myself, make sure they don’t try to rip you off.”
“Eli—”
“Just let me help, okay? Get some rest, Lu.”
The line goes quiet, and I sink back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. Dusty shifts at my feet with a sigh, as if he agrees with how tangled my brain is on this Sunday morning.
A while later, I finally drag myself out of bed, shove my hair into some semblance of a bun, and pad down the hall barefoot. The house is quiet in that steady, masculine way—no clutter, no squeaky hinges, just the low hum of the fridge and the faint clink of a spoon.
Logan’s already in the kitchen, broad shoulders hunched as he leans against the counter, coffee mug in hand. His hair’s still wet from a shower, shirt clinging in places I really shouldn’t notice this early in the morning.
He glances up, expression unreadable. “Morning.”
“Morning.” I wrinkle my nose as the smell hits me. “Ugh. Coffee.”
One brow lifts. “You say that like it’s poison.”
“Itispoison.” I open his fridge, hoping for orange juice, and find nothing but eggs, condiments, and three different kinds of protein shake. “I’ll wait until I can sneak across the street to mine for a chai. Or a matcha. Or literally anything that doesn’t taste like dirt water.”
