Instead, I walk into the kitchen and seeher.
Cassie is at the stove.
Hair tied up. A mug in one hand, spatula in the other. Wearing—Jesus Christ—a soft, slightly oversized vintage Iowa T-shirt and these tiny cotton shorts that should be illegal in at least 14 states.
Fuck me, it’s hot. Look, there’s something so domestic about seeing her casually in the kitchen in the morning that makes me do a double take.
She turns slightly, revealing just a little curve of hip under the hem.
I blink.
Not thinking dirty thoughts. Not thinking dirty thoughts. Just a woman. Standing there. Making eggs. And thighs. I mean, eggs. Focus.
“Morning,” I manage.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hey. You’re up early.”
“You’re…you know. Also awake.”Wow. Nailed it.
She smirks. “Yeah, I tend to wake up before seven. Blame capitalism.”
I nod, like that makes sense, because my brain is currently somewhere betweeneggsandoh my God, those shorts.
“Want some coffee?” she asks.
Do not mention how hot she looks in those casual short shorts, Logan.
“Sure,” I say in the calmest, chillest voice of all time, as if I’m not currently panicking because her shirt is riding up just enough for me to see a part of her thighs that I haven’t seen since the hotel night. And the way the sun hits her skin? Rude.
She pours me a mug, then hands it to me with a smile that might be innocent or might be designed to ruin my life.
“Thanks,” I say. “I, uh…was gonna make eggs.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I was gonna offer you some. Just being polite.” I clear my throat. “Not trying to imply anything.”
She raises a brow. “You think offering me eggs is a euphemism?”
“No! I mean yes. I mean no.” I inhale deeply. “Just…literal eggs.”
She laughs and takes another sip of her coffee. “Relax, future husband. I’m just messing with you.”
I flinch. “Please don’t say ‘future husband’ while wearing shorts like that. Unless you mean it.”
Her eyes sparkle. “Why not?”
“Because I am hanging on by a thread, Cassie. And you’re the one who made the no flirting rule.”
She lifts one shoulder, totally unbothered, and turns back to the stove. I can’t help but steal a long, hard glimpse at her.
Not. Thinking. Dirty. Thoughts.
“I can do toast,” I offer. “I’m great at pushing buttons.”
“Shocking,” she deadpans.
We move around the kitchen like two people pretending not to have seen each other naked. Which, to be fair, we did. Thoroughly. Although, yeah, it was kind of dark in that hotel room.
