I stare at him. Because I live here, with Sloane. I rent a room for eight hundred a month, and it’s a steal that I can afford.
But he has a ring hanging from his neck that says he’s not going to want to crash in that bed down the hall all summer, and he thinks we should move in together.
Even though we’re strangers.
I might…live with a man by the summer.
My…man.
He smiles, as if he can read my spinning thoughts. “I thought we could get a place of our own.”
“I’m not going to make that much money as a resident.”
His eyebrows creep up.
“I’m just saying, real estate is expensive here.”
He tilts his head to the side and gets a funny look on his face. Like he’s trying to hold in a laugh.
To his credit, he’s tryingreallyhard.
“Francesca,” he says softly. “I can afford LA real estate.”
“But—” And then I feel like an absolute idiot.
Right. Because Logan is rich. Not justhas a surgeon for a dadwell off like Sloane, orgot to go to a good women’s collegewell off like me.
But genuinelymoney is not an issue on any levelrich. Rich rich rich. He probably has investments that make as much money as his NHL contract makes him. He probably has generational wealth from his parents.
Which is a whole other issue.
“How do you like your eggs?” He nods at his phone in my hands. “And how’s that playlist coming?”
“Fried over easy, and a lot of Lana Del Rey.”
“Yeah?”
“Not exactly pre-game hype songs.”
“I don’t know about that.” He comes over to me and kisses my cheek as he taps play on the screen. “I like the angst. It’s motivating. ‘Happiness is a butterfly,’ huh?”
“This feels like a trick.”
“Maybe. You could take a spin through my playlists to learn more about me.”
I flip over there. “Tate McRae, shocker. Rihanna? Nice.”
“I think you can share those lists…”
As he coaches me through that, he fries two eggs in one pan, and mixes the broth and salsa in another, and suddenly he’s tossing corn tortillas in there, too, and a delicious plate of chilaquiles is being assembled in front of me.
“Wow,” I say as he builds a second one for himself.
“It’s nothing fancy. Cilantro?”
“Yes, please. It’s not that it’s fancy, it’s that it’s…complete. And you used two pans.”
He gives me a teasing look. “Your standards could be higher. But I’m glad you like the look of it. Forks?”
