He deposits me on the bed and kisses my stomach, his head disappearing under the shirt. “You realize, Dr. Greene, that now I have to give you as many birthday orgasms as you want,” he murmurs between kisses.
I laugh, deep and delighted. “That’s ambitious, Dr. Whitman. You sure you’re up for the challenge?”
He pulls his head free from the shirt to look me in the eye, hand splaying over my ribcage like he wants to memorize the feel of every breath. “I’ve been preparing for this my whole life,” he deadpans, then surges forward, mouth open and hungry against my neck.
The birthday thing used to feel like a loaded gun—pointed right at the soft, childish part of me that still missed her. But right now, with Logan pinning me to the mattress, that old grief feels almost quaint—like another childhood tradition, faded at the edges, re-contextualized by something messier and more real. I don’t have to be the good sport at the party table or the engineer who fixes what can’t be fixed. Logan is here, and he’s the only thing in the world calibrated precisely to me.
“Logan,” I gasp, arching into him. “The cake is still on the table.”
“It’ll keep,” he murmurs against my skin.
“It’s ice cream cake. It’s literally melting.”
He lifts his head just long enough to look me in the eye, completely serious. “Audrey. I am trying to give you birthday orgasms. The cake can wait.”
I laugh so hard I snort, which only makes him grin wider and kiss me harder, and I decide he’s right.
The cake can wait.
CHAPTER 21
Audrey
The buzzer jolts me out of my sugar coma.
I’ve been alone since 5 a.m, when Logan kissed my forehead and mumbled something about server maintenance and vendors who don’t understand business hours. That was three hours ago. I’ve since managed to shower, consume an inadvisable amount of leftover birthday cake, and stare at my laptop without doing any actual work before deciding to just go back to bed until I had to get up to go into the lab.
With only thirty-eight days left on the FDA clock, I should be panicking about the clinical protocols. Instead, I’m contemplating whether eating a second slice of ice cream cake counts as breakfast this time, or if the first slice was breakfast and this one would just be a snack.
The buzzer sounds again.
“Delivery for Audrey Greene?”
I’m not expecting anything, but I buzz them up anyway, curiosity winning out over caution. When I open the door, a delivery driver is holding a massive bouquet of sunflowers and a pink bakery box that smells like heaven.
“Sign here?”
I scrawl something illegible on his tablet and carry the haul inside, already searching for a card. I find it tucked among the sunflowers—bright yellow paper with familiar handwriting.
Happy Unbirthday, you hermit. We know you’ve been ‘busy’ (we see you, girl) but we miss your face. None of this delivery counts as a birthday gift—we know you hate that. So the flowers are just because. And the cinnamon scrolls are a bribe so you’ll actually call us with a life update.
Love, S & L
I laugh out loud, the sound startling in my quiet apartment. I’ve been a terrible friend lately—I know I have. Between the FDA deadline consuming every waking hour and Logan consuming most of the others, I’ve let everything else slide. Texts go unanswered for days. Plans get rescheduled, then rescheduled again, then quietly forgotten.
But Serena and Layla haven’t forgotten me. They never do.
I open the bakery box and find six of the most gorgeous cinnamon scrolls I’ve ever seen—the fancy kind from that place in Lincoln Park, all gooey and frosted and probably worth more per ounce than gold. I take a picture, send it to the group chat with a string of heart emojis, and then hit the video call button before Layla decides to send an extraction team.
She answers on the second ring, her face filling my screen. She’s clearly at home still, standing in her massive custom wardrobe with all of her clothes color-coded behind her.
“Merry Unbirthday, Audrey!” Layla singsongs, while Serena connects and says, “The hermit has emerged from her burrow!”
“I’m not a hermit,” I protest, settling onto my couch with the bakery box balanced on my knees. “I’ve just been?—”
“Busy banging your boy. Yes. We know.” Serena appears to be walking down the street, drinking her morning coffee, undoubtedly on her way to an early work meeting.
“Speaking of Logan,” Layla puts in. “How are things going between you two? Bennett said there was some server emergency, which is how we knew we could ambush you with flowers and baked goods this early on a Monday morning.”
