“We can run a little farther,” I say quickly, trying to cover the thrum in my voice. “Then loop back.”
“You’re really gonna make me earn breakfast, huh?”
“Already earned,” I say, starting down the path. “I’m making smoothies when we get home. Green ones.Efficient.”
He groans like I’ve suggested we sprint to Wyoming, but he falls into step, close enough that our arms brush every few strides. I don’t apologize.
Neither does he.
By the time we push back through his front door, the house is awake enough to feel lived-in but not loud. I toe off my shoes, peel out of my jacket, and head for the kitchen island. Logan disappears down the hall toward the shower, and I’m left alone with Dusty, who looks at the blender hopefully.
“Not for you, sir,” I tell him, dropping spinach into the pitcher with banana, frozen mango, Greek yogurt, a splash of milk, a scoop of protein powder, and a scandalous squeeze of honey.The blender purrs to life, loud and cheerful against the early morning light.
Logan reappears right as I’m pouring—hair damp, clean shirt clinging in ways that should be illegal before seven a.m. He looks less like a complaint and more like a problem now.Myproblem.
“What’s in it?” he asks, suspicious of anything not beige and chicken-shaped.
“Hope,” I say solemnly. “And also spinach.”
He eyes the glass. “You trying to convert me?”
“To joy? Always.” I slide him one. “Just try it.”
He does, warily, then takes a second sip, then a longer one as if he’s unwilling to concede defeat but also unwilling to stop enjoying it. The corner of his mouth does that nearly-smile again.
“It’s not terrible,” he admits.
“High praise,” I deadpan, and raise my own glass. “To efficient mornings.”
He clinks his against mine. “To not dying on hills.”
We drink. We don’t look away. A ridiculous amount of static hums between us while I pretend to be very invested in the way some spinach is stuck to the side of a glass.
On the counter, my phone buzzes. A dating app notification banner slides across the top.
Evan, 31:Let me take you out this week? Winky face emoji.
Of course. The universe, with its sick sense of humor.
Logan’s gaze snaps to the screen, then back to my face. “You’ve got a message.”
I thumb the notification away, going for nonchalant. “Mm. Evan thinks Topgolf counts as a personality.”
His voice goes lighter than the words. “You’re still dating.”
“Yeah…” I turn to rinse the blender pitcher. “I’ve got nothing to lose, right?”
He doesn’t answer, and I scramble for something to say. The quiet stretches, fine as thread, and then Dusty breaks it by nosing Logan’s elbow for the last inch of smoothie.
“You looked…” I start, then stop. Too close. I soften it. “You ran well.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Wow. A gold star from Coach Parnell.”
“Please, I don’t give out gold stars. I give participation stickers.”
“And what do I get?” He leans on the island, arms crossed, eyes heated and honed in on me.
Dangerous. That’s what that look is. Enough to warn me off, enough to remind me he’s Eli’s teammate and best friend, and therefore, the last guy I should be circling like this.
