LOGAN
Mom’s making lasagna.
Dammit. Lasagna is my favorite.
Way to deflect, brother.
Logan knows exactly how to play me. My stomach grumbles at the mere thought of our mom’s lasagna with its perfectly crispy, cheesy edges and gooey center.
Fine. I’ll text him.
I navigate to Rowan’s contact, my thumb hovering over the screen and take a deep breath.
Family dinner tonight. Lasagna. Wanna carpool?
His response comes almost instantly.
ROWAN
Sure. I should be done here on set by five.
*thumbs up emoji**
I’ve barely finished pullingup my jeans when there’s a knock on my door.
“Coming!” I yell, yanking on my combat boots and giving myself a quick once-over in the mirror. My hair is kind of a mess, but there’s no time to fix it now.
I swing open the door to find Rowan wearing dark jeans and a navy Henley stretching perfectly across his upper body. His hair is artfully tousled, and he smells really fucking good, damn it.
“Ready?” he asks as his eyes scan me from head to toe.
“Yeah, just a sec.” Quickly, I turn away in a hopeless attempt to ignore the way my body is reacting to his proximity and grab my jacket.
Two minutes later, we’re headed down the stairs and outside, keeping a careful distance between us. The evening air is crisp, making me pull my leather jacket tighter around me.
“Mind if we take my Jeep?” I ask, nervously swinging my keys around on my finger.
“Nope,” he says with a shrug.
As he climbs into the passenger seat, I slide behind the wheel, grateful for something else to focus on besides the man sitting next to me. The engine roars to life, and I crank up the heat before backing up and out.
The sun is hanging low, casting long shadows across the road. We’ve got maybe thirty minutes before sunset hits, and the temperature has dropped significantly since this morning.
Neither of us mentions what happened in the shed, the elephant in the car growing bigger with every passing mile.
“So,” I finally say, desperate to break the silence. “How’s filming going?”
“Good,” he replies, staring out the window. “We’re ahead of schedule now, actually.”
“That’s... great.”
More silence.
“I take it your mom still makes the best lasagna in the world?” he asks a couple of minutes later.
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “What do you think?”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Remember when we tried to surprise her on Mother’s Day by making it ourselves?”
