I froze, caught off guard. Then I narrowed my eyes and strode past him. “You get on my case for not giving you enough of a heads-up about the book rally, then you commit me to a protest onlive TV. Without even telling me.”
“Oh, good, you saw the news. Hey, aren’t you supposed to be at school right now?”
I waved. “I have a half day. It’s a cost-cutting measure so the school district can keep our hours down. Don’t try to distract me. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Logan looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “I guess I’d say...” He sounded way too happy. “I’m sorry for not telling you, but I’m not sorry I did it. It was the right thing to do.” He grinned at me.
Using my own words against me. “So is this what we’re doing now? Tit for tat?” I folded my arms over my chest, emboldened as always by his shamelessness. “Okay, then. Game on.” I frowned. “Wait, what areyoudoing home? I just saw you in a suit on the news.”
Logan sauntered into the kitchen, but his voice carried. “I had an early town hall—pancake breakfast, though of course I didn’t get to eat. Now I’m taking a reading day. Prepping for my first debate with Mane.”
I shivered at the idea of having to debate someone on TV. That ranked high on my list of personal nightmares. Now that I took stock of his living room, I noticed his armchair and coffee table were buried in stacks of paper, notebooks, and highlighters. Serious debate research.
He returned sans sandwich and stopped a few feet in front of me, sticking his hands in his pockets. Now that my indignation was fading, I realized this was the first time I’d seen Logan out of a suit. His gray T-shirt was stretched taut over his biceps. His joggers hugged his athletic thighs, ending right above his bare feet, which were surprisingly...elegant. In casual clothes, it was easy to tell he played soccer. He had a body built for power.
I twisted my hands together, face heating. Seeing Logan like this felt as intimate as watching him undress in the hotel. “I’ll get out of your hair. Though consider this my formal complaint about the march. I’ll go, but I’ll hate every minute of it. Or probably not, because it’s a good cause. But I will be highly annoyed for at least the first third.” I turned to leave.
“Wait,” he said. “Stay.”
I looked at him, standing there all casual and beautiful, and my heart pounded traitorously.
“I was just about to make tea. Do you have any work you need to do? We could keep each other company. I promise I’m a quiet reader. I won’t bother you.”
The same warning bells that had gone off at the Hideaway went off now. I should probably leave. At the very least, put some distance between me and the sight of Logan’s chest in that shirt. But it would be nice to have company instead of working alone in my apartment. And I’d been doing a good job keeping my instinct to romanticize in check.
“I do have some book catalogues to read.” I lifted my tote bag, where they were stuffed.
His face brightened. “Really? Great.” He suddenly looked at a loss for what to do next. “Uh. You want Earl Grey?”
“Sure,” I said, and he sprinted for the kitchen.
I put my bag down and sank into Logan’s couch. Worn, but comfy. I could work with this. There was even a cream blanket draped over the back, an unexpected touch of cozy. In fact, Logan’s entire house—as much as I could see—was unexpected. Given the amount of time he spent working, I’d assumed his place would be barely furnished, or dominated by the campaign: whiteboard, posters, three-ring binders, you name it. But this was different—lived-in and nice.
I am sitting in Logan’s house.Each new thing—the blanket, the stack of vinyl records in the corner, the fact that he seemed to like warm colors—was a piece of Logan trivia I memorized to dissect later.
I was still cataloguing when he rushed back, holding two steaming mugs. “I remembered your coffee order from that day Cary got us Starbucks. Splash of milk and spoonful of sugar. Hope that works for tea.” He set the mug on the coffee table and I blinked at it.
“That’s perfect, actually.” It was hard to forget the day Cary had been sent to get us coffee because he’d complained so loudly about being an errand boy. But I hadn’t thought Logan was paying attention to me.
He settled in his armchair, kicking one leg over the other. “I’m going to dive in on some economic impact studies. You good?”
I nodded, bending over and pulling out my children’s literature catalogue. Muriel had turned over most of the book buying to me because she said I had a better sense of trends. I studied the catalogue. “Looks like it’s a lot of tiny witches solving crimes in my future.” I looked at him. “I’m feeling very smug about my career choices relative to yours at the moment.”
His smile was instant and warm. “Little do you know bemoaning your career choices is the first step of all debate prep, so I’m right on target. Come talk to me when you need to know the economic impacts of tiny witches solving crimes. Obviously, the decreased crime rates will improve living conditions, but on the other hand, the magical security industry takes a hit.”
I shook my head and uttered the word I’d recently learned was a grievous insult in the political world. “Wonk.”
Logan clutched his chest like I’d shot him in the heart. I smiled and we got busy reading. There really were a lot of upcoming children’s books about young witches solving crimes. Funny how these things always seemed to come in waves. Absently, I tugged the cream blanket off the back of the couch and unfolded it, wrapping myself in the soft, fuzzy layers. Then I froze. It smelled so powerfully like Logan, so richly of that peculiar mix of woods and berries, it was like being folded in his arms. I reached for the other pillows on the couch and pulled them closer.
“Are you cold?” he asked. “I can turn down the AC.”
I shook my head. “I just like being cozy.” His look of concern relaxed into a small smile, and I pulled the blanket higher under my chin. A Logan-scented cocoon was almost as good as a Logan-scented embrace, and far less complicated.
“Have you ever thought about writing books?” he asked abruptly.
I lowered the catalogue. “What?”
“It’s just, you love them.” He leaned forward. “You’re so well-read. And you’re a really good writer. All your speeches have been great. And you seemed so happy that night at the bar, inventing those stories.”
