IknewI should have stuck to myno-men-for-one-yearpledge.
Apparently I would never make it as a nun.
I stare into the mirror like maybe it’ll give me an escape route. Perhaps some sort of trapdoor or a new dimension.
But no. This is real life. I’m wild-eyed and lightly flushed. With my lip gloss smudged. My cherry-brown hair is barely clinging to the loose ponytail I threw it into twenty minutes ago. And the sundress?
The sundress is feeling like way too much right now.
Thin straps, low neckline, little white flowers scattered across a background of soft blue. It was supposed to sayapproachable small-town hostess.
Now it saysremember when I rode your face last night?
“God,” I palm my face, embarrassingly. “You couldn’t have worn jeans and a hoodie like a normal emotionally damaged woman?”
I adjust the neckline, which of course makes it worse. My nipples aredefinitelysaying hello. I grab a paper towel, dab at my cheeks, then try to smile at myself in the mirror.
I get a quiet knock at the door.
“Cassie?” Logan’s voice. “You alright?”
Nope. Not even close.
But I plaster on a voice that sounds like someone who totally has their shit together.
“Yep! Just had to…reapply deodorant. You know. For ambiance.”
“Right.”
His voice is warm. Way too warm.
And from behind the door, I swear I can hear him smiling as I hear his steps carry down the hall.
Chapter Eight
CASSIE
By the time I walk out of the bathroom, my pulse has onlyslightlyreturned to baseline. My lipstick is reapplied, the sundress neckline is…somewhat tamed, and I’ve coached—aka tricked—myself into believing I’m a competent adult who can sit at a dinner table like a normal human and not relive every filthy second of last night with the guy across from me.
I turn the corner into the kitchen and freeze.
Logan’s leaning against the counter—looking hot as hell, I might add. His white T-shirt clings to his abs in that specialI’m a full-time athleteway.
I still can’t really believe he’s in my house.
Hair still damp from a shower, button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, arms flexed casually as he passes Jackson the bread basket, like he’s starring in a Pinterest ad for hot home stay guests.
I grab the casserole dish with both hands. Do not drop it. Do not combust.
And above all, donotlet Jackson know what happened the other night.
“There you are,” Jackson says, smiling. “You good, sis?”
“Oh, totally,” I say, voice three octaves too high. “Just had to…um…freshen up.”
“Smells amazing,” Logan says, meeting my eyes as I set the casserole down. His voice is low and rich, and I swear there’s a smirk hidden in the corner of his mouth.
I pretend not to notice.
