“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Cassidy.”
Logan crossed the kitchen with his easy, confident stride, leaning down to place a kiss on my mother’s cheek. “You too, Ellie,” he murmured when his eyes found mine. Passing behind me, he gave my hip a gentle squeeze—a brief touch that lingered long after he moved toward the fridge.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs, and then my dad appeared, his messy brown hair streaked with silver at the temples.
“Smells delicious,” he said, kissing my mom’s cheek before pulling me into the same affectionate greeting.
“Boone, grab the salad bowl from the fridge,” my mom instructed. “Logan, the plates are stacked on the counter—set the table, please.”
They moved without question, Boone’s grin already up to something. I dried the last plate, setting it in the rack just as he piped up.
“You’re never going to guess who Dottie let touch her today,” Boone announced smugly.
I tapped my chin, carrying a pitcher of tea to the table. “Rhodes?”
“Nope.”
“Logan?” I jerked my thumb toward him.
“Wrong again.”
“Well, that’s all I’ve got.”
Boone rolled his eyes dramatically, dropping into his seat across from where Logan and I stood. I was secretly glad Loganchose the same side of the table as me. It felt deliberate, like he knew exactly where I wanted him.
My mom swept in with her secret raspberry-sugar sauce and a steaming casserole dish I knew by scent alone—her famous French toast casserole.
“The answer,” Boone said, “is me.”
I reached for my chair, but Logan caught it first, pulling it out with that quiet, gentlemanly ease. He waited until I was seated, pushed the chair in, then took the spot between me and my dad at the head of the table. My mom and Boone sat across from us.
“I’ve touched her plenty,” I teased Boone. “The struggle is getting her to listen and follow.”
“You’ll get there, sweetie,” my mom said, dishing food for herself and then my dad.
“She’s a tough one,” my dad added. “But now that you’re back, I know you’ll break her in.”
The casserole dish landed in front of me, but before I could reach for it, Logan leaned over, serving me first before adding to his own plate. The gesture was subtle, but it warmed me from the inside out. My family didn’t blink. They’d always known how Logan treated me—with quiet, unshakable kindness.
“I can do it,” I said, excitement curling in my voice. “I’ve been doing a lot of research.”
“Oh yeah?” Dad replied, pride lighting his eyes. “That’s my girl. She can do anything she sets her mind to.”
Beneath the table, a hand slid onto my thigh gently. My gaze flicked down to see Logan’s fingers splayed there, his thumb stroking slow, gentle circles. My breath caught, but I forced a calm expression, especially with my father inches away and Boone directly across from us.
“I always can,” I managed, my voice hitching just slightly. Heat pooled low in my belly as his touch inched higher, teasing, before retreating only to settle again.
“Where’s Aspen tonight?” my mom asked, oblivious to the storm brewing under the table.
“She’s at a library fundraiser,” Boone said. “I told her I’d swing by after dinner.”
The conversation swirled on, but I barely heard it. Every nerve in my body was tuned to the slow, maddening drag of Logan’s hand on my skin. I fought to keep my composure, but the second the last bite of food was eaten and chairs scraped back, my restraint snapped.
I didn’t waste time. As soon as our dishes clinked into the sink, I grabbed Logan’s bicep—firm and warm under my hand—and all but hauled him toward the stairs.
“Where are we going?” he asked, voice low, amused.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I shoved him into my childhood bedroom and shut the door behind us.
