“This place is like a museum.”
I pivot to see what he’s up to. From the nightstand he picks up my stuffed owl that I like to lodge between my knees during sleep, and I resist the urge to snatch it from his hands.
He then turns my way, his gaze passing over my sleeping companion in appraisal. “Exhibit A seems to have been punched in the stomach one too many times.” His eyes shoot my way. “Letting off some steam?”
“Enough about my things,” I say sharply, walking over to pry my plushie from his fingers and force him into the chair at my desk. Logan drops into it like it’s been a tough day carrying around that ego. The chair creaks more than I expected beneath his weight.
“Don’t touch anything,” I warn, in desperate need to escape his presence for a moment to collect myself. “I’ll be right back.”
I rush downstairs to grab a plate of leftover pretzels and hummus, wishing I had more to offer. My fingers tremble as I arrange the snacks. I have a celebrity hanging out in my room. The absurdity of the situation hits me like a water balloon to the face.
Compose yourself, Maisie. You’ve known him since kindergarten. Nothing to it.
Yes, but he’s no longer the boy I remember. He’s all grown up—with those shoulders and that jawline and those eyes . . .
I pace at the bottom of the staircase, contemplating if I should go up there or cook him dinner, or maybe just run out the front door and never come back. I decide to take the snack to him, drawing a deep breath that does little to steady me.
When I return, his eyes light up at the sight of food. “Is this for me?”
“Knock yourself out,” I say, setting the plate on the desk.
He dives in like he hasn’t eaten since Granny Jo’s, which, from the looks of it, might be true. In less than ten seconds, the pretzels vanish and he’s licking his fingers, looking rather satisfied. There’s something strangely intimate about watching someone enjoy food so unreservedly in your bedroom.
“So, how exactly do you propose we do this?” I ask, perching on the edge of my bed, keeping a safe distance.
He plucks a napkin from a Kleenex box on my desk and wipes his fingers before leaning back in the chair like a man about to pitch a million-dollar startup. “Since we’re entering afake relationship for mutual benefit, we have to establish some ground rules.”
My brows lift of their own accord. “Okay . . .” This should be good.
He grins, dimples appearing on his face making my body fidget and feet twist inward. Even I can’t deny the charm of his good looks. “Can I get a pen and paper?”
“For what? You taking notes on how not to annoy me?”
“Nope.” He spreads his hands like he’s unveiling a grand vision. “We’re drawing up a contract.”
I stare at him intently. “Is that really necessary?”
Logan nods, and his expression tells me he’s as serious as a librarian during hush hour, which somehow makes this whole situation even more ridiculous. “If there’s one thing the music industry has taught me, it’s the importance of contracts. Everything’s easier when it’s in writing.”
“This is a fake relationship, not a business merger,” I say, wondering if I’ve accidentally stepped into an alternate reality where this conversation makes sense.
“Exactly,” he says, completely unfazed by my skepticism. “And the last thing we want is a fake relationship that ends in a court of law.”
I roll my eyes so hard I swear I see last Tuesday. “Oh, come on, it’s not that serious. I’d never take you to court over a contract I willingly signed.”
“What if I did something stupid?”
“Like what?”
His face turns ponderous. “I don’t know . . . like kiss you without permission. You might take my ass all the way to Judge Judy.”
“Please,” I say with a dash of resentment, “I have other ways of dealing with despicable behavior.”
“Oh, yeah?” He rises from the chair. “What would you do then?”
“I’d knee you in the privates and call it a day.”
“Ouch.” He sits again, face squirming as he no doubt imagines the scenario. “So, there’s a violent side.”
