Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Serious Swan and Flashy Flamingo
Lulu
The guest room smells like detergent and Logan.
Clean, sharp, faintly cedar in a way that doesn’t belong to me, but clings anyway.
The sheets are crisp, the nightstand bare except for a lamp lined up perfectly square to the edge of the wood.
No stack of half-finished books, no bracelets tangled on the surface, no rogue glitter clinging where it shouldn’t.
It’s him. All neat lines and order, everything pared back to what’s essential.
Which is why the shaggy golden retriever sprawled at the end of the bed feels so wildly out of place—except his tail thumps when I stir, and somehow, that makes it feel less like I’m intruding and more like home.
I flop back against the pillow, exhaling. Betty’s voice echoes in my head from the other day, smug and scratchy with wine: an obvious match.
As if the universe didn’t already have a sick sense of humor.
Because here I am, across the hall from Logan Miller—Eli’s teammate, his friend, the guy I’ve had no business daydreaming about—and I’m wearing his hoodie. Sleeping under his roof. And instead of feeling mortified, all I can think is how ridiculously nice it feels.
I reach for my phone, thumb hovering over Eli’s name. He should probably know his little sister is squatting in his buddy’s guest room.
Me: Pipe burst. Staying at Logan’s till repairs are done. Don’t freak.
The typing dots appear almost instantly, then the screen lights up with his call.
“Lu?” His voice is sharp with sleep and alarm. “You’re what?”
“Relax. My kitchen pipe exploded last night. Logan helped me turn the water off, and the plumber’s coming this morning to check everything. I just…” I chew my lip. “It was late, and I didn’t want to wake you guys or Betty. I knew he’d be up.”
There’s a pause, then a sigh. “Yeah, okay. Makes sense. I’m glad it was Logan who was there.”
Something about the way he says it makes my chest tighten. Like he’s not just relieved the water’s handled, but that Logan was the one who handled it. Or maybe he’s just relieved that it’s not him I came to as a saturated problem last night.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” I say, softer. “Should all be fixed in a couple days.”
“Good. I’ll call a plumber myself, make sure they don’t try to rip you off.”
“Eli—”
“Just let me help, okay? Get some rest, Lu.”
The line goes quiet, and I sink back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. Dusty shifts at my feet with a sigh, as if he agrees with how tangled my brain is on this Sunday morning.
A while later, I finally drag myself out of bed, shove my hair into some semblance of a bun, and pad down the hall barefoot. The house is quiet in that steady, masculine way—no clutter, no squeaky hinges, just the low hum of the fridge and the faint clink of a spoon.
Logan’s already in the kitchen, broad shoulders hunched as he leans against the counter, coffee mug in hand. His hair’s still wet from a shower, shirt clinging in places I really shouldn’t notice this early in the morning.
He glances up, expression unreadable. “Morning.”
“Morning.” I wrinkle my nose as the smell hits me. “Ugh. Coffee.”
One brow lifts. “You say that like it’s poison.”
“It is poison.” I open his fridge, hoping for orange juice, and find nothing but eggs, condiments, and three different kinds of protein shake. “I’ll wait until I can sneak across the street to mine for a chai. Or a matcha. Or literally anything that doesn’t taste like dirt water.”
He takes another slow, deliberate slurp. “Real adults drink coffee.”
“Please.” I fold my arms. “Real adults know not to drink something that makes their breath smell like a tire fire.”
His mouth twitches, but he hides it behind his mug.
Dusty flops dramatically at my feet, clearly with me. “See?” I crouch to ruffle his ears. “Dusty’s on Team Matcha.”
“Dusty’s on whoever’s team will get him fed faster,” Logan mutters.
I roll my eyes and head for the bathroom for a shower, calling back over my shoulder. “Enjoy your dirt water.”
By the time I’ve showered and made it back into the kitchen, something new is waiting on the counter. A small metal tin with a glossy green label, sitting next to an express delivery bag. Matcha.
I blink. “You just… ordered this?”
He doesn’t look up from rinsing his mug. “Figured you’d want it.”
My brows lift. “Logan, I literally live across the street. I could’ve just gone home.”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, nonchalant. “But you’re here now. Might as well have some at both.”
My chest feels cracked open, air rushing into places I didn’t know were empty.
His words shouldn’t do anything. It’s just a tin of tea powder, just a small purchase on a delivery app accompanied by a shrug.
Other guys would’ve rolled their eyes, called me woo-woo, or made some crack about how high-maintenance I am.
Efficient. He’s always so damn efficient.
And I can’t stand it. Can’t stand how resolute he’s being when all I want is to shake him until that calm cracks.
So I lean against the counter, my smile slow and deliberate. “Careful, Pookie. This is dangerously close to boyfriend behavior.”
That gets his attention. His head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “It’s tea.”
“It’s thoughtful,” I counter in a sing-song, watching his jaw tighten. “Pretty soon, you’ll be offering me drawer space and we’ll really be in trouble.”
A faint flush creeps up the back of his neck, and my grin sharpens. Got him.
He grunts, clearly refusing to take the bait, and tosses the delivery bag into recycling. “You want some or not?”
“Oh, I want some,” I say sweetly, just to watch his ears go pink.
Dusty thumps his tail against the floor as I train my face to stay neutral and busy myself by making my matcha while Logan busies himself with the recycling, no doubt pretending I haven’t flustered him.
The knock comes ten minutes later when I’m mid-mug of matcha, and Logan’s already moving before I can set it down.
“Relax,” I say, catching up to him at the door. “It’ll be the plumber. Eli said he’d sort it.”
That makes him pause, hand hovering on the knob. “Eli knows you’re here?”
“Of course he knows.” I take a sip of my tea, casual as I can manage. “He called when I texted him to let him know what happened. Didn’t seem too freaked out.”
His brows knit, still weighing that, still not sure Eli wouldn’t storm down the block brandishing a hockey stick.
I grin, unable to help myself. “Relax, Pookie. It’s not like we slept together.”
His jaw ticks, eyes narrowing at the nickname. “Don’t call me that.”
That only makes my grin spread wider as he yanks the door open.
Two men in navy coveralls stand on the porch, PuroClean stitched across their chests. One carries a clipboard, the other hefts a heavy orange dehumidifier.
“Morning,” Clipboard Guy says. “Pipe burst on Birch? We’ll take a look, set up some drying equipment.”
Logan jerks his chin toward me without answering. I shoot him a look and step forward. “That’s me. Kitchen sink decided to impersonate Old Faithful.”
Clipboard Guy chuckles, but his partner lingers a beat too long when his eyes meet mine. Not overt, not inappropriate, just noticeable.
Logan notices, too. His shoulders stiffen, and he takes a step closer to me, though he doesn’t say a word.
We cross the street together, Dusty trotting while Logan stalks next to me. Inside, the kitchen is still damp, tile cool underfoot. The guys get straight to work—checking the cabinet, measuring moisture with a little handheld meter, setting up the industrial fan so it roars to life.
“Good news,” Clipboard Guy says over the noise. “It’s mostly surface. Keep this fan running for a few days, and you’ll be dry. Once the pipe’s replaced, you’re back in business.”
Relief floods me. “That’s it?”
“Yep. Three, four days tops,” the other guy says, checking the dehumidifier once more, then glancing up. “You’ll be out of the house in the meantime, right?”
I nod. “Guest room across the street.”
His grin widens, eyes dragging down. “Lucky neighbor.”
I laugh, heat rising in my cheeks, but Logan steps in. “Yeah. Lucky me. You done?”
The guy blinks, a little taken aback, then clears his throat. “Yeah, just need a signature.”
I sign, thank them both, and see them out. The second my front door shuts behind them, Logan mutters, “Guy needs to learn where to put his eyes.”
I glance sideways at him, biting back a smile. “Pretty sure he was looking at the leak, not me.”
“Pretty sure he wasn’t.” His voice is flat, dark enough to make something flip low in my stomach.
I let it slide, but tuck his reaction into the mental drawer marked Things I’ll Tease Him About Later.
By the time the plumbers have driven off, Logan’s nudging me back across the street. Dusty bounds ahead, tongue lolling, and clearly happy he has his two favorite people with him.
When we get back, I make a beeline for the back doors, opening them wide and letting the Sunday morning light stream through.
There’s no family brunch today. Charlie has Noah and Meadow at a friend’s birthday party, Hutchy has gone to visit his grandpa, and Zoe and Chase are… probably still tangled in their sheets. Which means it’s just me, the late fall sunshine, and Logan’s pool.
The sunlight hits the water, and I nearly choke on my own laughter as the flamingo bobs lazily beside the massive white swan, their rubbery heads dipping like they’re deep in conversation. Serious Swan and Flashy Flamingo, ruling over Flamingo Lagoon.
“Your pool’s basically the Denver Zoo now,” I say, grinning as he moves to stand beside me. “I’m thinking I’ll bring in an alligator next. Maybe a hippo, if shipping isn’t too steep.”
Logan’s mouth pulls tight, but there’s no real bite to it. “You’re banned from Prime.”
I press a hand to my chest. “Banned? Harsh. Even Eli only grounds me from Target.”
He cuts me a dry look, one corner of his mouth twitching in that way that lets me know he’s fighting a smile.
I shade my eyes with one hand, squinting at the floats. “Actually, you know what’s missing? A giraffe. Something tall to keep watch. Or maybe a kangaroo. Then it could be an international exhibit.”
“Christ.” He drags a hand down his face, but his voice is more exasperated affection than anything else. He’s not storming over there with a knife to pop them; he’s just standing with me in the sun, letting me rattle on like he always does.
“Fine,” I say, tilting my chin. “But if you wake up one day and there’s a zebra out there, don’t act surprised.”
“You’re a menace.”
“I’m efficient,” I sing-song, just to needle him.
His gaze snaps back to me. “A circus in my pool is the least efficient thing I’ve ever heard of.”
“Efficient fun,” I counter, tossing him a grin. “Ready for your next pool party.”
“Those words don’t belong in the same sentence.”
“You say that,” I murmur, stepping past him toward the edge of the pool, “but Flamingo Lagoon is thriving.”
For a beat, his eyes dart from me to the water and back again, the sunlight catching on the edge of his jaw. I have to look away before I melt into the concrete.
He clears his throat. “No brunch today, so I’m gonna head to the gym.”
I hum, still smiling at the floats. “Have fun with your… efficient workout.”
His hand brushes lightly against mine when he moves past, and he pauses for a beat, just enough that my head snaps toward him. “Trust me, I know more efficient workouts.”
Heat flashes straight through me, hot enough I almost stumble straight off the edge of the pool and onto the flamingo. The corner of his mouth slowly curves, and then he’s striding for the gate as if he didn’t just casually detonate my brain.
When the latch clicks shut behind him, the backyard feels too still, except for Flashy Flamingo and Serious Swan, bobbing side by side like they’ve always belonged together.
I drop into a pool chair, legs curling beneath me as Dusty noses at my knee before sprawling in the sun.
I’ve been chasing fireworks for months. Dates with guys who check the boxes, who smile and talk and maybe even kiss well enough. But every single time, I walk away wondering why it all feels so flat.
Then there’s Logan.
Gruff, efficient, bossy as hell Logan. He doesn’t cut me off, doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t tell me to tone it down. Has matcha express delivered before I can even whine about it. Lets me turn his pool into Flamingo Lagoon. Brushes my hand once, and I’m still thinking about it.
It’s a problem. A big, messy, Eli’s-gonna-murder-me problem.
But the more time I spend with him, the more I wonder if maybe the fireworks I’ve been waiting for aren’t out there at all. Maybe they’re across Birch Lane, glaring at me from behind a coffee mug.
And the worst part is, I already know I’m not done testing how much it takes to crack that calm.