I slip inside, barefoot on the cool, wood floor, and stop in my tracks.
Logan is standing at the stove, barefoot too, in gray basketball shorts that hang low on his hips, a white towel slung over his shoulder like he’s about to deliver a sermon or wipe sweat from a workout. His torso—goodLord—is all golden skin and flexed abs. A bottle of beer sweats on the counter next to him.
He’s flipping something in a pan while singing along to the Dust Devils. Off-key. But wholeheartedly.
He looks like a fantasy someone ordered out of a late-night Pinterest board titledShirtless Domestic Bliss.
“What…are you doing?” I ask.
He turns with a grin, like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Riding a bicycle. You?”
“Jerk!”
He laughs. “I’m making dinner. Obviously. You hungry?”
I blink again. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, casual as hell. “Didn’t you just move here? You’ve got to be stressed. Plus, I like to cook.”
Like that explains everything.
“Do you cook shirtless for everyone you live with?”
He winks. “Only the hot ones.”
“Well, it’s against the rules. Put a shirt on.”
“Oh…my bad.”
I open my mouth to scold him, but a waft of something garlicky and amazing hits my nose.
“Wait. What are you actually making?”
“Lemon butter salmon, roasted potatoes, and sautéed green beans with shallots.”
“You can cook.”
“Duh.”
“Like, you actually know how to cook.”
He grins. “Didn’t think I had it in me, huh?”
“No. I thought for sure your version of dinner was protein powder in a baseball cap.”
“Well,” he says, flipping the salmon expertly, “that’s breakfast. Right now I’m cooking for two. That’s not up for debate. You could use a good meal.”
“What’s…that supposed to mean?”
“Itmeansyou must be stressed, what with moving to an entirely new town. I’m used to life on the road. You, on the other hand, are not. So let me cook.”
A half hour later, we’re sitting out on the deck under twinkle lights, the sky darkening to periwinkle. A bottle of white wine sits between us, and my plate is empty because holy hell, he’s good.
“This is…actually delicious,” I say.
He leans back in his chair, beer in hand. “You sound surprised.”
