And promptly walk straight into a solid wall of chest.
Strong hands grab my arms automatically, steadying me before I can go tumbling on my ass.
“Whoa-”
I freeze.
Logan freezes.
His gaze drops.
Right to my very naked chest.
“Oh,” I say, way too casually for someone standing very much not dressed. “I threw everything in the washer.”
“Of course you did,” he mutters, but it comes out strangled. This isn’t exactly the first time I’ve walked around the housenaked after throwing everything to wash but this is the first time he hasn’t followed suit and carried me off to the bedroom.
Logan’s eyes flick over me again before he forces himself to look over my head.
I’d take it badly if his gaze didn’t keep drifting back.
Hope blooms in my chest.
He wants me.
Like, really wants me.
This past week had seriously planted some doubts about that.
How could it not?
Logan and I have always been cuddly sleepers. Real cuddly not fake Ross cuddly. But lately, he’s been so far on his side of the mattress you’d think I had the plague.
But this?
The rigid shoulders. The clenched jaw. The way he suddenly looks like he’s fighting himself?
Maybe things aren’t as final as I’d assumed.
“So,” I say lightly, pretending I don’t notice any of it, “did you need something?”
“Huh?” he asks, still very focused on not looking at me while very clearly looking at me.
“Laundry-wise,” I clarify. “Anything you need washed?”
“Uh-no,” he says quickly. “No. I’m good.”
Then, like snapping out of a trance, he steps away from me and heads straight back toward the living room.
I bite back a smile.
Huh.
Dropping the empty basket to the floor, I walk into the bedroom and open my dresser.
I have plenty of options, oversized T-shirts, cozy pajamas, sweatshirts that could swallow me whole.
But my hand lands on a different drawer entirely.
