Chapter Twenty-Three
EVELYN
I said we wouldn’t have sex. But the way Logan kissed me, the way his hands roamed my body—even over my clothes—should have been classified as a quasi-sexual act.
We spent hours like that, and he, without a word, seemed to dare me to go back on my decision. I could feel him, hard as rock beneath his pants, and it took every ounce of my self-control not to give in.
I’d never been a prude. But we’d only shared our first kiss that morning; jumping into bed together just a few hours later was far too rushed by my standards.
Especially since we couldn’t just go our separate ways the next day.
We were sharing a roof, with over two months left in our agreement.
I couldn’t risk letting something so intimate create an awkwardness that would poison the time we had left.
Although those kisses felt intimate enough to be dangerous.
Although they weren’t nearly enough to satisfy me.
And they clearly weren’t enough for him, either.
When we finally decided to sleep, he muttered something about needing a shower and disappeared into the bathroom. I settled into bed, thinking I might be asleep by the time he returned.
I wasn’t. So when I saw him leave the bathroom and then the bedroom entirely, confusion curdled in my stomach.
Had it been so bad that he’d chosen the couch?
Or had it been so good that the cold shower hadn't been enough to cool him off?
Or, worst of all, had that intimacy already created the exact awkwardness I was trying to avoid?
I was still turning the questions over in my mind when he returned, coming straight to bed. The lamp on his side was still on, so he saw I was awake.
“I thought you’d be asleep by now,” he said.
“And I thought you’d gone to sleep on the couch,” I confessed.
He laughed softly. “Why would I do something stupid like that? I just went to check on the girls.”
Damn. That didn’t help at all. The devoted father version of Logan was dangerously sexy.
“I don’t know,” I murmured. “Maybe you regretted what we did.”
“Technically,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “we didn’t do much.”
“Oh. Sure.”
I could barely keep the discouragement from my voice. Of course, a few kisses and some heavy petting meant nothing to him. How could I have been so foolish to think otherwise? But he was right—wasn't that what I wanted? For it not to be a big deal?
Then he leaned over, cupped my face with one hand, and kissed me again. This one was slower, softer than before, yet it still sent a jolt through every nerve ending.
As he pulled away, he declared, “What we did is nothing, Evelyn. Nothing compared to what I still want to do to you. And I know you want the same, so we’d better go to sleep now before we both lose control.”
He gave me one last, fleeting peck before turning off the light and settling on his side. I turned to face him in the darkness. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel the warmth of his breath.
“Evy…” he whispered. It was the first time he’d used my nickname.
“Yes?”
“Merry Christmas.”
I smiled, even though he couldn’t see me.
“Merry Christmas, Logan.”
*****
When I woke, the bed was empty beside me. But as I opened my eyes, I was granted the best view possible. Logan stood before the closet, already changed into his pants but still shirtless, his bare back on full display as he searched for a shirt.
A flicker of frustration shot through me. If only I’d woken a few minutes earlier, I might have seen him without his pants, too.
He seemed to sense he was being watched and turned to face me, a shirt in his hands. I tried to disguise my blatant staring, but it was too late.
“Good morning?” he said, his tone laced with teasing amusement.
“Ah… good morning,” I replied, throwing back the covers and scrambling out of bed, trying to act as if the sight of him hadn’t short-circuited my brain. “It’s Christmas morning. I’m going to make some special breakfast for the girls. After that, we’re baking cookies. If you want to help…”
“Christmas cookies?” He smiled, finally pulling on his shirt and blocking my view of his defined abs. My God, such a shame. “I haven’t done that in years. My mom used to make them with us when we were kids.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. It was one of the best parts of the season.”
“It’s hard to imagine diva Trinity Turner in an apron, baking cookies.”
“Oh, my mother was terrible in the kitchen. But the cookies were our tradition. I can’t even say if they were actually good, but… we loved them.”
“It’s a good tradition for you to start with your daughters.”
I was near the door by then, and I heard the one across the hall open, followed by the sound of little, hurried footsteps on the floor.
“They’re awake,” I declared.
Another smile touched Logan’s lips. I was about to ask why, but I was cut off by the sound of screams from the living room.
My eyes widened in worry, and I didn't hesitate—I yanked the door open and ran down the hall.