Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
CASSIE
By the time I walk out of the bathroom, my pulse has only slightly returned to baseline.
My lipstick is reapplied, the sundress neckline is…
somewhat tamed, and I’ve coached—aka tricked—myself into believing I’m a competent adult who can sit at a dinner table like a normal human and not relive every filthy second of last night with the guy across from me.
I turn the corner into the kitchen and freeze.
Logan’s leaning against the counter—looking hot as hell, I might add. His white T-shirt clings to his abs in that special I’m a full-time athlete way.
I still can’t really believe he’s in my house.
Hair still damp from a shower, button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, arms flexed casually as he passes Jackson the bread basket, like he’s starring in a Pinterest ad for hot home stay guests.
I grab the casserole dish with both hands. Do not drop it. Do not combust.
And above all, do not let Jackson know what happened the other night.
“There you are,” Jackson says, smiling. “You good, sis?”
“Oh, totally,” I say, voice three octaves too high. “Just had to…um…freshen up.”
“Smells amazing,” Logan says, meeting my eyes as I set the casserole down. His voice is low and rich, and I swear there’s a smirk hidden in the corner of his mouth.
I pretend not to notice.
We all sit. Or, rather, Jackson sits. Logan reclines like some kind of relaxed Greek god with his hands behind his head for a moment. And I do an impression of a malfunctioning robot, scooping corn onto my plate with the grace of a fork-wielding toddler.
“So,” Jackson says, digging in. “How’s Davenport? Everything cool with the team?”
“Yeah,” Logan says. “Season’s starting to pick up. Got promoted from Double-A, so…you know, big summer incoming.”
“That’s awesome,” Jackson says.
I nod, chewing. Do not make eye contact. Do not think about his mouth. Or any other body part.
“What about you, Cass?” Logan asks.
I blink. “What about me?”
Jackson laughs, then looks at Logan. “Cass is on a ‘sabbatical.’ That’s what she calls quitting her job and moving back home after her boyfriend dumped her.”
I shoot Jackson a look. “Thank you for that helpful context, kind brother.”
“Hey, honesty is the foundation of all good home stay arrangements. I thought he could use the info.”
“Is that what this is?” I mutter.
“Speaking of honesty,” Jackson says, eyes narrowing. “Why are you two acting so weird?”
I drop my fork. “What? We’re not—”
“You’ve barely looked at each other. Except when you think the other one isn’t looking.”
Logan’s mouth twitches. “Maybe we’re just shy.”
Jackson scoffs. “You? Shy?”
Logan shrugs. “New leaf.”
“That’s cute,” I say too fast, too sharp.
Jackson looks between us, suspicious now. “Wait. Do you guys know each other?”
“No,” I say, at the same time Logan says, “Kinda.”
I whip my head toward him.
He lifts his hands. “I mean, we crossed paths. Briefly. At a…bookstore.”
I stare at him.
“A bookstore,” Jackson repeats.
“Yep,” I say brightly. “He recommended me a book about…um…minor league salary negotiations. Super sexy stuff.”
Logan clears his throat and takes a sip of water, clearly fighting a laugh.
Jackson is still staring. “Okay…?”
“Yep,” Logan confirms.
“Which bookstore was this?”
That’s when the oven timer dings. I stand abruptly. “I’ll grab dessert!”
Except in my flustered state, I forget that I’d set the peach cobbler on broil for a quick finish.
I open the oven—and smoke bellows out like I just summoned a demon.
“Shit!”
I grab the mitt, toss the cobbler onto the counter, and start waving a towel around like it’s a sword.
Jackson bolts up. “What the hell—”
“It’s fine! I’m fine! I meant to do this. It’s, um, smoked cobbler. Very artisanal.”
Logan coughs, hiding his laugh behind his napkin.
Jackson opens a window. “Seriously, are you okay?”
I nod, eyes watering. “Totally fine. Just, you know. New leaf. Still getting used to the Riverbend fresh air. Such a change-up from Dallas. All that…oil.”
Logan meets my eyes and grins. That smug, I-know-what-you-look-like-under-that-dress grin.
I am going to murder him.
Jackson stands by the door, grabbing his keys off the hook, and slinging his bag over his shoulder. There’s a pause—one of those slightly too-long ones—where he glances between me and Logan.
“Hey,” he says, softer now. “Thanks again, Cass. Seriously. You didn’t have to say yes to this, and I appreciate it.”
I nod, trying not to blush. “It’s fine. I mean, I’ve hosted worse, I’m sure.”
Jackson huffs a laugh, then turns to Logan and clasps a hand on his shoulder.
“And you. Big day tomorrow, man. First workout with the Riverbend squad. Go show ‘em what you’ve got. Congrats again on getting called up to Triple-A.”
“Thanks, Jackson,” Logan says, his voice steady but his eyes flicking toward me for just a second. “I will.”
Jackson notices. Of course he notices.
“You two gonna be alright?” His gaze lingers on me.
“We’re great,” I say a little too fast.
“Totally,” Logan adds, just as awkward.
Jackson raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Well, try not to burn the place down. Maybe you can talk about…books or something.”
I hold my breath, praying that he doesn’t ask us which bookstore and corroborate our stories.
Then, with a grin and a wink, he opens the door and heads out into the warm June night.
“Have a good night, y’all.”
The second the door closes behind him, the air between me and Logan practically crackles.
He grins at me.
“A bookstore? Really?” I say, hands on my hip. “That was the lie you came up with?”
“What? Jackson was getting suspicious. I had to say something. He noticed our vibe.”
“Our vibe?”
“Yeah. There’s definitely a vibe going on here.” He points back and forth between the two of us. “You’re telling me you don’t feel it?”
I step forward. “Listen. That was one night. An exception. And it’s not happening again.”
His expression steadies on me, head tilting slightly like he’s studying something interesting.
“There’s no vibe here,” I add quickly, my stomach clenching. “That was a one-and-done.”
His mouth twitches, and he raises his eyebrows. “No vibe.”
“You’re saying you didn’t…like the vibe?” he asks, insinuating, his voice lowered.
“As my brother said, please be a respectful guest. Thank you for your time. Your room is upstairs.”
“Cass, look, I—”
“It’s Cassie. I’ll also accept Miss Knox.”
His grin flattens. “You really want to play pretend? Like nothing happened.”
“There’s no playing pretend, because there is nothing—was nothing—going on here.” I shake my head. “I’m going outside for a moment. For some alone time. Thanks.”
A half hour or so later, I’m back inside and Logan comes downstairs from where he was bringing his things up to his room.
“Need some help with the cleanup?” he asks.
“This place doesn’t have a dishwasher, actually. You know how these old houses are.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“Are you…always this helpful?”
“Well, I’m your future husband. So yes.”
I roll my eyes. “There’s no chance of that, just so you know.”
“Why not?”
“For many, many reasons.”
“Please, enlighten me. You…don’t want to start a relationship on the basis of mind-blowing sex?”
“I know your type. I have three athlete brothers. Remember? They weren’t exactly the settling down type for a very long time.”
“Well, when I know what I want, I know. If you need a slow burn starting now, I can do that.”
“We literally met not even three days ago. It was one night. Get a grip.”
I turn toward the sink, trying to ignore how close he’s standing. And how he smells like cedar soap and trouble.
He steps beside me, sleeves pushed up, forearms casually flexed as he grabs a plate. “One very memorable night.”
I huff, rinsing a glass like it personally offended me. “Let it go.”
“Oh, I have,” he says. “Totally. Fully. Completely.”
I glance at him.
He’s smirking.
Not even trying to be convincing.
I shake my head and turn back to the counter, reaching past him for the dish soap, just as he shifts slightly.
My hand brushes something solid.
And warm.
And unmistakably…his ass.
I freeze.
He smirks without even looking. “So it’s like that?”
My hand jerks back like I touched a stovetop. “No! I—I was reaching for—God, shut up.”
He finally turns, drying his hands with the dish towel, way too casually. “Thought that was a one-night-only special.”
Before I can get a grip on myself, I make the mistake of looking up at him.
He’s close. Closer than he should be. And I still haven’t backed away.
Then his hands slide under the hem of my dress, rough palms on my thighs, and I suck in a sharp breath. He lifts me with one smooth motion and presses me against the wall like I weigh nothing.
His mouth crashes into mine.
Hot, desperate, way too familiar.
I kiss him back.
For a second.
Or a minute.
Maybe a year.
Until my brain catches up with my hormones.
“Stop,” I gasp, turning my face away. “Seriously…stop.”
Immediately, he sets me down like he’s been burned. His hands hover, then drop.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice rough with concern.
I nod, too quickly. “Yeah. No. I mean—I’m fine. It’s just…”
I step back and pull my dress down like that’ll somehow fix the last thirty seconds.
“This is real life now. Okay? Not a vacation. Not some spontaneous hookup with no strings and no future.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me. “Didn’t feel string-free.”
I glare. “I’m serious.”
“I am, too. Serious about how that wasn’t an ‘average night’ for me.”
“We need ground rules.”
“Ground rules?” He raises an eyebrow. “Is this where you break out a whiteboard and a chore chart?”
I fold my arms. “Rule one: no flirting.”
He grins. “Define flirting.”
“You know what flirting is.”
He nods, mock-thoughtful. “So like…what we just did? That’s out.”
“You’re a smart one. Yeah. No making out.”
“Got it. What about eye contact?”
“Logan.”
“Okay, okay. No flirting. What else?”
I take a deep breath, trying to get my heart rate back under 300 beats per minute.
“Rule two: no more…physical stuff. Not even accidental.”
He eyes me. “You mean like grabbing my ass?”
“I didn’t—shut up!”
He holds up his hands in surrender, laughing quietly.
“Honestly, you can grab my ass whenever you want. Fair game.”
“Rule three,” I continue, ignoring his snide comment. “You clean up after yourself. I will buy food per the home stay agreement but I’m not your cook or your maid or your therapist. You’re renting a room here, not joining a sorority.”
His face softens just a little. “Did you say ‘therapist’ because you think I need one?”
“No,” I mutter. “Well. Maybe. Depends how long you keep trying to get under my dress.”
“That was more like up your dress, technically.”
“Logan.”
He gives a mock-salute. “Alright. No flirting, no touching, and no inappropriate charm. Noted.”
“And I swear, if you walk around shirtless, I’ll spray you with the garden hose.”
He laughs again. “That’s oddly specific. And kind of a hot idea.”
I throw the dish towel at him.
He catches it one-handed, still smiling.
And the worst part?
Even with every rule I just laid down…I can already feel myself breaking them.