On the plane, I can finally relax. First class means wide seats and attentive flight attendants who don’t bat an eye when he orders sparkling water with lime and an extra blanket.
“Diva,” I say, looking over the menu options, which are vastly superior to economy offerings.
“Comfort is my love language,” Logan replies, squeezing his cute butt right next to me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, scooting over. “You have your own seat over there.”
“I told you I’m all about comfort.” His eyes meet mine. “There isn’t anywhere more comfortable than right here.”
I bury my face in the menu, not wanting him to notice the flush in my face.
Somewhere over Kentucky, Logan’s head droops onto my shoulder, and unruly strands of dark hair tickle my neck. My fingers twitch with the urge to brush it back, but I don’t want to wake him. After five minutes, I’m more than willing to endure the stiffness developing in my neck for the scent of his oceanic shampoo—it’s like a saltless sea breeze carrying a hint of cucumber. Every whiff I take is more pleasant than the previous. I gently press my cheeks to the top of his head to get more.
After we land, Logan arranges an Uber to take us to his lake house. Except at the drop off area, there’s no house—just a narrow trailhead disappearing into dense woods. Sunlight dapples through the leaves, painting the forest floor in shifting patterns of gold and green.
“Um . . . did the driver drop us at the right place?” I tug at the rim of my lavender-flowered sunhat as a sudden gust of wind tries to steal it. My wedge sandals sink slightly into the soft earth, and I look at the uneven trail ahead with growing alarm.
“It’s just a short hike through the woods.” Logan hoists both our suitcases like he’s carrying grocery bags with two items in them. “Trust me.”
The forest smells amazing—pine and earth and something sweet like wild honeysuckle. Birds call to each other overhead, and somewhere in the distance, I can hear water lapping against a shore. It would be dreamlike if I wasn’t worried about twisting my ankle with every step.
“Are you absolutely sure we’re not trespassing on someone’s property?” I glance at a gnarled root stretching across the path in front of us like nature’s own tripwire.
“Positive.” Logan doesn’t even look winded, carrying our luggage like it weighs nothing.
A bird flutters overhead, and I look up at the beautiful canopy of trees. Then my foot catches on something, and I let out a clumsy wail and go flying forward with all the grace of a chimpanzee.
The world tilts, blurs, then solidifies against something warm and firm.
Logan’s chest.
My fingers have somehow found their way to his back, clutching the soft fabric of his T-shirt like a lifeline. Which, to be fair, it probably is at this moment.
“Whoa there,” he says softly against my ear, sending little electric shocks down my spine. His hands, strong yet gentle, steady me at the waist, and my gaze travels upward to meet his. I’ll never not be enthralled by his sumptuous eyelashes or the deep blue of his eyes. I could lose myself in them. I could lose myself in his arms.
“I’m starting to think this was all a ploy to get me to fall for you.” The words come out before I can police them.
The corner of his mouth quirks upward, revealing that dimple I like so much. “Can’t say I’m disappointed by how it turned out.”
The teasing lilt in his voice shouldn’t affect me—after all, I’ve been the subject of it for many weeks now— but it absolutely does. I push away from his chest, trying desperately to regain composure.
Logan drops to a crouch, his back facing me, and pats his shoulders. “Wanna keep going on foot, or should I carry you? Piggyback special.”
It’s just like him to add to my embarrassment. “I’ll be fine—”
“If you twist your ankle, I’ll never forgive myself.” There’s no teasing in his voice now, just concern wrapped in that unmistakable don’t-argue-with-me-on-this tone.
Grumbling under my breath, I surrender to his logic and climb aboard this broad back. My legs squeeze around his waist, and I’m immediately aware of three things: how effortlessly he stands with me on his back, how the muscles in his shoulders shift beneath my arms, and how absolutely right it feels to be pressed against him. He somehow manages to grab our luggage in each hand, like some romance-novel lumberjack who moonlights as a celebrity.
My arms loop loosely around his neck, and I allow myself the indulgence of resting my cheek against his hair once more, breathing in the scent I can’t get enough of. My eyes close for just a moment, savoring this closeness.
“You okay back there?” His voice vibrates through his back and into my chest.
“Couldn’t be better,” I answer truthfully, breathing him in once more. “Thanks for the lift.”
Logan hikes us through the last stretch of forest, the path gradually widening as trees thin out. Then suddenly, we break through the tree line, and the world opens up before us in a panorama so stunning I nearly lose my grip on his shoulders.
A vast lake spreads out like liquid sapphire, mirror-still and reflecting the cloudless sky with photographic precision. At the water’s edge sits a two-story cabin that belongs in a travel magazine—all honey-colored wood with oversized windows and a wraparound porch that practically begs for morning coffee and sunset cocktails. A weathered dock stretches into the lake like a welcoming handshake, and nearby, a tire swing hangs from an ancient oak.
