Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
LOGAN
I throw on gym shorts and a T-shirt, drag a hand through my hair, and head downstairs—fully expecting to be alone, maybe scrounge up some oatmeal like a sad monk.
Instead, I walk into the kitchen and see her.
Cassie is at the stove.
Hair tied up. A mug in one hand, spatula in the other. Wearing—Jesus Christ—a soft, slightly oversized vintage Iowa T-shirt and these tiny cotton shorts that should be illegal in at least 14 states.
Fuck me, it’s hot. Look, there’s something so domestic about seeing her casually in the kitchen in the morning that makes me do a double take.
She turns slightly, revealing just a little curve of hip under the hem.
I blink.
Not thinking dirty thoughts. Not thinking dirty thoughts. Just a woman. Standing there. Making eggs. And thighs. I mean, eggs. Focus.
“Morning,” I manage.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hey. You’re up early.”
“You’re…you know. Also awake.” Wow. Nailed it.
She smirks. “Yeah, I tend to wake up before seven. Blame capitalism.”
I nod, like that makes sense, because my brain is currently somewhere between eggs and oh my God, those shorts.
“Want some coffee?” she asks.
Do not mention how hot she looks in those casual short shorts, Logan.
“Sure,” I say in the calmest, chillest voice of all time, as if I’m not currently panicking because her shirt is riding up just enough for me to see a part of her thighs that I haven’t seen since the hotel night. And the way the sun hits her skin? Rude.
She pours me a mug, then hands it to me with a smile that might be innocent or might be designed to ruin my life.
“Thanks,” I say. “I, uh…was gonna make eggs.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I was gonna offer you some. Just being polite.” I clear my throat. “Not trying to imply anything.”
She raises a brow. “You think offering me eggs is a euphemism?”
“No! I mean yes. I mean no.” I inhale deeply. “Just…literal eggs.”
She laughs and takes another sip of her coffee. “Relax, future husband. I’m just messing with you.”
I flinch. “Please don’t say ‘future husband’ while wearing shorts like that. Unless you mean it.”
Her eyes sparkle. “Why not?”
“Because I am hanging on by a thread, Cassie. And you’re the one who made the no flirting rule.”
She lifts one shoulder, totally unbothered, and turns back to the stove. I can’t help but steal a long, hard glimpse at her.
Not. Thinking. Dirty. Thoughts.
“I can do toast,” I offer. “I’m great at pushing buttons.”
“Shocking,” she deadpans.
We move around the kitchen like two people pretending not to have seen each other naked. Which, to be fair, we did. Thoroughly. Although, yeah, it was kind of dark in that hotel room.
But now there are rules. And I’m nothing if not a respectful, rule-abiding houseguest.
Even if I’m staring at the way she flips those eggs like she’s on the goddamn Food Network.
Do I have a kitchen kink? I do now.
“So,” I say, cracking two eggs into the pan beside her, “big plans today?”
“Thinking about writing. Or avoiding writing. Depends on my mood. You?”
“Gotta meet the team over at Riverbend Stadium this afternoon.”
“Ah, yes. The glamorous life of professional baseball.”
“Minor league baseball,” I remind her. “We don’t get glamour. We get four-hour bus rides and no dental.”
She laughs. “So hot.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Maybe a little.”
We eat together, side by side at the kitchen island like we’re a couple on a Saturday morning while Jack Johnson plays—which we’re definitely not. I’m not allowed to think that.
“No flirting, Logan.”
She says it too quickly, like it’s rehearsed.
Maybe she’s already had to say it to herself a few times.
I lift my hands in surrender. “Not flirting. Just stating a fact. You’re…pleasant company.”
She narrows her eyes. “Pleasant?”
“Well now I am flirting. Because that was a lie. You’re chaotic. You hoard coffee mugs, your alarm is a screaming goat, and I’m pretty sure you just used vanilla oat milk in your coffee.”
“It was all I had!” she defends, laughing.
“You’re a menace.”
She smirks and takes another bite of toast. “And yet here you are. Volunteering to make me eggs.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Still not sure what that says about me.”
Silence stretches between us. The space is comfortable—but charged. I take another sip of coffee just to have something to do with my hands.
She finally speaks.
“I meant it, you know. About the rules.”
“I know.”
“I’m serious, Logan. This whole thing—us living here together—it’s already complicated. I’m trying to start over. I left a whole life behind in Dallas to do that.”
I nod slowly. “I get it. Not trying to rain on your parade.”
“I just…need this house to feel like mine again. I need to feel like I’m not about to fall for someone who—”
She cuts herself off. Her face flushes.
I stare at her. “Who what?”
“Who sleeps down the hall and has stupidly nice shoulders,” she mutters into her mug.
I grin. “You think my shoulders are nice?”
“That’s your takeaway? I said stupidly nice. It’s a burden, really.”
I lean forward just slightly, keeping my voice low. “If it helps, I think about your legs every time I blink.”
Her eyes flick to mine, wide and wild.
“Logan.”
“I’m just being honest.”
She exhales hard, standing up and collecting the plates. “Okay. That’s it. Breakfast is over. I’m going to take a shower and pretend none of this happened.”
“Need help with that?”
She shoots me a look that could kill.
I grin.
“Joking. Sort of. See? I can do neutral.”
She shakes her head as she heads toward the stairs, muttering, “This is going to be a long season.”
And as I watch her disappear, all I can think is:
God, I hope so.
I should’ve known I was in for it the second I walked into the Riverbend Rivets locker room and see streamers taped to my locker like I’m some damn debutante.
“Fresh meat!” someone yells.
Then comes the clapping. Slow, sarcastic, echoing off the concrete walls.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” another voice booms. “Please welcome Mr. Double-A himself—Logan freaking Wade!”
I force a grin, sling my gear onto the bench, and brace for the gauntlet.
A pair of boxers tied in a bow greet me inside my locker, alongside a bottle of baby powder, and a Sharpie. Rookie hazing: minor league edition.
“You’ll need that later when we autograph your ass,” says a guy with too-white teeth and a surfer accent. “Team tradition.”
“Cute,” I mutter.
“Don’t worry,” another adds, “we only haze the ones the coaches actually like.”
I give a little salute. “Appreciate the warm welcome.”
Honestly? I’m fine with all of it. I’ve been around long enough to know how this works. I’m not here to make best friends. I’m here to move the hell up.
And then she walks by.
Blonde hair. Familiar sway in her hips. A fitted team polo and a pencil skirt.
I know her. It’s Maddie.
She doesn’t even flinch when she passes me, eyes fixed on her phone like I’m a ghost. But I feel the punch in the gut anyway.
One of the players whistles. “That’s our media girl. Bit of a heartbreaker.”
I keep my jaw tight. “Cool.”
“You know her?”
“Barely.”
Lie.
We dated for six months before she dumped me over text the day I got sent back to Double-A a few years ago. But I’m not even considering going down that road again.
Another guy claps me on the back. “Forget her, man. You’re up here now. Time to eat.”
The door to the coaches’ office swings open.
Coach Riley steps out, chewing gum like it owes him money. “Wade. Let’s go.”
I grab my glove and jog after him.
“We’ve got you starting at third base tomorrow night,” he says without looking at me. “You’ll take grounders with the infielders now. Show ‘em you’ve got hands.”
“Yes, sir.”
He slows, then glances at me sideways. “And Wade?”
“Yes?”
“This ain’t your last shot…but it might be your best. Don’t screw around.”
“Roger that, Coach.”
Message received.
As I head out to the field, Maddie’s perfume still lingers in the hallway.
But all I can think about is Cassie.
In that damn Iowa tee.
Smiling at me like she doesn’t even know she’s already ruined me.