He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Not cheap.”
I groaned.
“But it’s not your car, right?”
“I feel like I’m responsible.”
He shook his head. “It’s a car part. It happens.” He scuffed a sandaled foot on the driveway. “I’ll drive you home, but do you mind if I eat first?”
“You haven’t eaten?”
“No, my food arrived right when you called.”
I processed that sentence. Logan left to come help me with the car when he’d ordered food in and it was hot and ready? I looked down at my wrist, but I wasn’t wearing my watch. “It’s been, like, an hour.” I met his eyes, horrified. “Logan, I could’ve waited.”
He waved me off. “It’s fine.”
“Not fine!”
He ran a hand through his hair, then turned back to his garage. “It’s fine, Crys. Just come inside so my stomach doesn’t eat itself.”
Chapter
Fifteen
Logan closed the garage door,and I followed him up the narrow staircase from the garage to his condo. Hardwood steps. Nice. The building itself was modern and new, the facade in red brick and white trim.
When he pushed open the door at the top, I placed my shoes on the mat and took in the kitchen and living area. It was simple and minimalist. Light wood and chrome accents with a wide open living space flanked by big windows overlooking the street. There was a low-profile grey sofa, glass coffee table, geometric rug, and a large-screen TV.
Logan tossed his keys into the ceramic dish by the door and headed straight for the counter. “It might still be warm.” He flipped open a container of shawarma and pulled two plates from the cupboard. “Want to dish up?”
I wandered onto the tile. “It’s your food, Logan?—”
“I always order too much.”
Truthfully, the scent of roasted meet and warm spices was making me salivate. How long ago did I eat lunch? I wasn’t strong enough to say no. “Sure. I’ll have a little.”
Logan pushed the takeout container and a fork toward me. I scooped out a reasonable portion, then he added another scoop on top despite my protests.
“Want to heat it up?”
I took a small bite. It wasn’t hot by any means, but it wasn’t cold. “No, I’m good.”
He scooped the rest onto his plate and popped it in the microwave. “I like my food cold or hot. Nothing in between.”
“Hm. Why does that not surprise me?” I sat on one of the stools at the island.
He pressed his palms into the counter across from me. “What does that mean?”
“It means you like things a certain way. And you usually get it.”
“Yeah?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t—” I waved my fork at him. “Be all flirty right now. I’m still mad at you.” I stabbed a potato with my fork. It was somehow still crispy on the outside, soft inside. Perfection despite the room temperature.
“Impossible.” The microwave beeped and he took his food out. “I save your life, give you food, and you can’t get over one comment?”
I smirked. “Well, that one comment did make it so I can’t have sex until January, so . . .” Logan laughed out loud, stirring his food around. I grimaced. “What are you doing?”
