“Efficient fun,” I counter, tossing him a grin. “Ready for your next pool party.”
“Those words don’t belong in the same sentence.”
“You say that,” I murmur, stepping past him toward the edge of the pool, “but Flamingo Lagoon isthriving.”
For a beat, his eyes dart from me to the water and back again, the sunlight catching on the edge of his jaw. I have to look away before I melt into the concrete.
He clears his throat. “No brunch today, so I’m gonna head to the gym.”
I hum, still smiling at the floats. “Have fun with your…efficientworkout.”
His hand brushes lightly against mine when he moves past, and he pauses for a beat, just enough that my head snaps toward him. “Trust me, I know more efficient workouts.”
Heat flashes straight through me, hot enough I almost stumble straight off the edge of the pool and onto the flamingo. The corner of his mouth slowly curves, and then he’s striding for the gate as if he didn’t just casually detonate my brain.
When the latch clicks shut behind him, the backyard feels too still, except for Flashy Flamingo and Serious Swan, bobbing side by side like they’ve always belonged together.
I drop into a pool chair, legs curling beneath me as Dusty noses at my knee before sprawling in the sun.
I’ve been chasing fireworks for months. Dates with guys who check the boxes, who smile and talk and maybe even kiss well enough. But every single time, I walk away wondering why it all feels so flat.
Then there’s Logan.
Gruff,efficient, bossy as hell Logan. He doesn’t cut me off, doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t tell me to tone it down. Has matcha express delivered before I can even whine about it. Lets me turn his pool into Flamingo Lagoon. Brushes my hand once, and I’m still thinking about it.
It’s a problem. A big, messy, Eli’s-gonna-murder-me problem.
But the more time I spend with him, the more I wonder if maybe the fireworks I’ve been waiting for aren’t out there at all. Maybe they’re across Birch Lane, glaring at me from behind a coffee mug.
And the worst part is, I already know I’m not done testing how much it takes to crack that calm.
Chapter twelve
You wouldn’t survive one of my workouts
Logan
The clang of weights and the low thrum of bass in my headphones drown everything out but the burn in my shoulders. Reps, sets, and sweat. Simple. None of it asks questions I don’t want to answer. None of it looks at me like I’ve grown a second head for letting Eli’s sister crash in my guest room.
Which is why I almost drop the bar when someone knocks my shoe with the end of a hockey stick.
“Jesus!” I shove it back into the rack and tug my earbuds out. “You trying to take me out before the season properly starts?”
Reid leans on the stick like it’s a cane, expression dry as bone. “If I wanted to take you out, Pookie, you wouldn’t see it coming.”
“Good to know,” I mutter, wiping my hands on a towel. “What are you even doing here? Thought you were at your grandpa’s.”
“Was,” he says. “Stopped in on my way back. Figured I’d get a workout in while I watch you dislocate something trying to impress yourself in the mirror.”
I flip him off, but he doesn’t crack. Just drops his bag, pulls off his sweatshirt, and starts wrapping his wrists.
It takes maybe two minutes before his eyes glance sideways, sharp as a blade. “You’re twitchy.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.” He doesn’t even look up. “What’s going on?”
I could blow him off, but Reid’s the kind of guy who’ll just keep staring until you cave. So I cave. “Pipe burst at Lulu’s. Plumber says it’ll take a few days to dry out, so she’s staying at mine till it’s fixed.”
