The car is predictably ridiculous—a matte black Land Rover. The valet bows when he sees Logan and practically sprints to open the door. The entire drive home takes place wrapped in leather and silence, every second is thick with exquisite tension. When his knuckles brush mine on the console and linger there, my stomach flips.
At my apartment, Logan kills the engine but doesn’t move. For a moment it feels like the whole city is holding its breath. Then he reaches out, brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, and says, “I had a really good time tonight, Reese.”
My name in his voice is enough to tip me over. “Do you want to come up?” I ask, barely more than a whisper.
His smile answers for him.
When we get to my door, my shaking hands fumble in my purse for my keys. When I pull them out, he gently takes them and opens the door for us. He puts his warm hand on my lower back as we walk in.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, as we turn to face each other. This time he doesn’t hesitate—he just kisses me. Not polite or restrained, but real and hungry, the kind of kiss that makes me forget we’re in a dim hallway with a neighbor’s dog barking two doors down. He tastes like wine and spices, and I grab his lapels to pull him closer. I’m greedy for the weight and heat of his body. Logan groans, low and reverberating, and deepens the kisswith a flick of his tongue that sends a shock through my thighs, melting my knees.
When I slide my hands up his chest, I’m not prepared for how solid he is under his tightly fitted shirt. I feel the breadth of his shoulders, the solid weight of him under my hands, my fingers winding into his hair, and he responds with a nip at my lower lip that makes my entire core clench in anticipation.
When we finally break apart, I’m dizzy, breathless, and absolutely certain my life just changed.
Chapter 6
Reese
My phone buzzes against my desk, and I nearly knock over my coffee reaching for it. Logan’s name lights up my screen, and the flutter in my stomach is immediate and embarrassing. It’s been less than twelve hours since he dropped me off at my apartment, since our goodnight kiss that left me dizzy, and already I’m acting like a teenager with her first crush. Twenty-nine years old, and I’m checking my phone every three minutes like it might sprout legs and bolt.
Good morning. Sleep well?
I bite my lip to keep from grinning too hard. I glance at the clock—fifteen minutes before my kindergartners arrive, enough time to reply without feeling rushed.
Like a rock. You?
His response comes immediately:Barely slept. Kept thinking about you.
The honesty stuns me. My cheeks warm before I can stop them. Before I can overthink my response, I type:
Same. Especially your laugh.
Is that too much? Too earnest? I consider deleting it, but before I can second-guess myself further, I hit send and the classroom door swings open, and my teaching assistant walks inwith a stack of construction paper. I quickly set my phone face-down, hoping my blush isn’t as obvious as it feels.
“Morning, Miss Thompson!” sings Mateo, the first student to arrive. His mom waves from the doorway, and I wave back, shifting into teacher mode.
I’m desperate to keep texting with Logan.
It’s going to be a long day.
The week unfolds in a series of stolen moments. Tuesday morning, I check my phone between helping Zoe tie her shoes and mediating a dispute over who gets the red marker. Logan sent me a photo of his morning view—dawn breaking over Lake Michigan, the water a sheet of hammered gold. Thinking of you while I skate, the caption reads. I save it immediately, this little window into his world.
By Wednesday, we’ve established a rhythm. He texts in the early morning before practice; I respond during my prep period. He calls during his lunch break, which lines up perfectly with my students’ independent reading time. I step into the hall with my phone pressed to my ear, speaking in hushed tones while twenty-two small bodies sprawl across rugs and beanbags with books.
“You should see them,” I whisper, peeking through the door window at my class. “Liam’s got his tongue sticking out while he sounds out words. Sophie’s clutching this ratty stuffed rabbit that’s missing an ear while she turns pages.”
“They sound cute when they’re focused,” Logan says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Much better than my teammates. Kovy calls it ‘independent reading’ when he studies the flight safety card and demands to know why the plane’s floating in the water.”
I snort-laugh, then quickly cover my mouth when Zoe looks up from her book. “Stop making me laugh during reading time.”
“Can’t help it. Love your laugh.”
There it is again—that disarming honesty. It slips between us so naturally, like we’ve known each other for years instead of days.
Thursday brings a rainstorm that has my students bouncing off the walls, their energy magnified by the thunder rumbling outside. By dismissal time, I’m exhausted, hair frizzed from humidity, cardigan stained with what I hope is just apple juice. The last parent finally leaves at 4:15, and I collapse into my chair, pulling out my phone to find three texts from Logan.
Practice ran long. Coach is in a mood.
