But then Dusty sighs at my feet, and Logan’s standing there, calm and impossible andclose. And I think about every date that fizzled flat, every almost-kiss that felt like nothing, every time I faked coming to get it over and done with. And I can’t stop myself.
The words are fizzing up, too sharp to swallow. “Depends. You ever teach private lessons?”
His brows notch. “In running?”
“Not exactly.” My pulse skips, but I lean into the pause, letting the flirtation live right there in the space between us. “I’ve been thinking… maybefireworksaren’t about the right restaurant or the right guy on paper. Maybe they’re about chemistry. Technique, too, but mostly chemistry.”
Silence hums and his throat works, and I can almost hear the thoughts crashing into each other behind his eyes. For a second, I think I’ve actually broken him.
“Lulu—” he starts, voice rough.
My heart kicks hard, panic and thrill tangling, so I laugh lightly to cover it. “Relax. I’m not asking you to”—I circle a hand vaguely in the air, my grin too bright, too shaky—“be a one-night stand. I’m just saying maybe you could… show me how it’s supposed to be.”
Logan goes stock still, bracing for impact.
I lean my hip against the kitchen counter, pretending I haven’t been rehearsing this in my head. He’s standing there, broad shoulders and crossed arms filling the space like he’s physically blocking whatever I’m about to say.
“Most guys would be flattered if a woman said she wanted to… you know…learnwith them. Discover what they like.” I keep my voice light. Casual, like I’m not dangling dynamite between us.
His eyes narrow. “Most guys aren’t trying to avoid a slow, painful death.”
“You really think my brother’s that scary?”
“He’s a forward—he hunts people for sport.”
“But…” I let the pause linger, smile tugging slow. “You haven’t said no.”
His mouth tips like he might smile, and for a second, something shifts in his gaze—heat, maybe. Or hunger. The kind that could ruin us both.
Then it’s gone, replaced with that maddening, careful calm.
“I’m still weighing up whether it’s worth the funeral.”
I should laugh. I do, a little. But the sound doesn’t hide the way my pulse thrums. “So maybe not lessons…”
Chocolate eyes holds mine, sharp enough to pin me in place. “But how about questions?” His voice drops low. “Questions, I can handle.”
I arch a brow, finding bravado because if I don’t, I’ll crack wide open. “Can you? Because if you're offering, I plan to be very thorough.”
His jaw flexes, and the air tightens the way it does before a storm—the huge sky, the crackle. He doesn’t step back, though. Neither do I.
A knock carries from the door, and we both jerk.
“That’ll be PuroClean,” I say, grabbing my keys and tugging on his hoodie I haven’t given back. “Day two dry-out check.”
“I’m coming,” he says immediately, already reaching for his shoes.
“That’s whatIwant to do.” I grin, reckless, because I can’t help it.
I watch as he visibly pales, then head for the front door before I can take it back.
We cross the street to my house. The crew measures, nods, promises one more day for the floors, maybe two, then the plumber swaps the split line under the sink. They leave behind the low thunder of fans and a neat invoice on the counter.
“Couple days,” Logan says, scanning the paper. “Tops.”
“Couple days,” I echo, trying not to listen to the part of me that is relieved and disappointed in the same breath.
Back at his place, I linger in the doorway to the guest room, fingers worrying the edge of his hoodie. I quickly get myself organized for work, then head back to the living room to say goodbye.
