Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
CASSIE
I set the last cardboard box on my bed and sigh.
This was supposed to be a fresh start. A clean slate. Not a…Logan-laced fever dream.
I flip the flaps open and start pulling out the last of my things—paperbacks, a few framed photos, my college sweatshirt that still smells like youth and possibility. At the bottom, I find the old leather journal I used to keep tucked in my desk drawer.
I open to a blank page, date it, and write:
June 17 – Things I Want From This Life
I tap the pen against my lip, thinking. Freedom. Peace. Maybe a tiny herb garden. A job that doesn’t require a spreadsheet soul-death every Monday, but somehow, some way still makes money.
I start writing.
·Something creative.
·Something meaningful.
·Something that feels like mine.
·A life that makes sense without a man at the center of it.
I pause. Scratch that last one out.
Rewrite it:
·A life that doesn’t fall apart because of a man.
But even as I write it, he shows up. Logan. His voice. That smirk. That look he gave me this morning while offering to make me eggs like it was some kind of foreplay.
I close my eyes and groan. Ridiculous. I barely know the man. He is absolutely blocking the path to my Higher Self.
I shove the journal aside and reach for another stack of books to shelve. As I do, an old envelope slips out from between two paperbacks.
I recognize it immediately.
It’s the letter I never gave to Evan.
My ex.
I sit on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing the worn fold. I know what it says. I wrote it after our third anniversary, right before I found out he was “reconnecting” with his high school girlfriend on the side.
It starts with I love you more than I know how to explain, and ends with I think I might want forever.
God, I was stupid. Well, maybe not stupid.
Maybe just hopeful, and a little naive.
I ball it up and throw it in the trash before I can second-guess it.
Love makes people fools. Dangerous, spinning fools who cook eggs and smile like that one night meant more than it did.
I pick my journal back up and write one final line:
I am never letting my heart out of its box again. No matter how tempting the hands trying to open it might be.
Just then, I hear the front door creak open. Logan’s voice floats in: “Cass? You home?”
I slam the journal shut and take a breath.
I silently pray that my heart listens to what I just wrote.
Early that evening, I kick open the screen door with my hip and step out onto the back deck, margarita in hand, romance novel tucked under one arm. The cicadas are singing like they just got signed to a record deal, and the sun’s melting down behind the trees like butter on toast.
Perfect.
I settle into the deck chair, open the book, and take a sip of my drink. Tart, limey perfection. I exhale, ready to lose myself in fake love that doesn’t implode after three years and an IKEA trip.
I’ve just finished chapter two—where the brooding duke admits he can’t stop thinking about the barmaid’s freckles—when I hear the sizzling. And then there’s the singing.
I frown. It’s coming from the kitchen.
I slip inside, barefoot on the cool, wood floor, and stop in my tracks.
Logan is standing at the stove, barefoot too, in gray basketball shorts that hang low on his hips, a white towel slung over his shoulder like he’s about to deliver a sermon or wipe sweat from a workout.
His torso—good Lord—is all golden skin and flexed abs.
A bottle of beer sweats on the counter next to him.
He’s flipping something in a pan while singing along to the Dust Devils. Off-key. But wholeheartedly.
He looks like a fantasy someone ordered out of a late-night Pinterest board titled Shirtless Domestic Bliss.
“What…are you doing?” I ask.
He turns with a grin, like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Riding a bicycle. You?”
“Jerk!”
He laughs. “I’m making dinner. Obviously. You hungry?”
I blink again. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, casual as hell. “Didn’t you just move here? You’ve got to be stressed. Plus, I like to cook.”
Like that explains everything.
“Do you cook shirtless for everyone you live with?”
He winks. “Only the hot ones.”
“Well, it’s against the rules. Put a shirt on.”
“Oh…my bad.”
I open my mouth to scold him, but a waft of something garlicky and amazing hits my nose.
“Wait. What are you actually making?”
“Lemon butter salmon, roasted potatoes, and sautéed green beans with shallots.”
“You can cook.”
“Duh.”
“Like, you actually know how to cook.”
He grins. “Didn’t think I had it in me, huh?”
“No. I thought for sure your version of dinner was protein powder in a baseball cap.”
“Well,” he says, flipping the salmon expertly, “that’s breakfast. Right now I’m cooking for two. That’s not up for debate. You could use a good meal.”
“What’s…that supposed to mean?”
“It means you must be stressed, what with moving to an entirely new town. I’m used to life on the road. You, on the other hand, are not. So let me cook.”
A half hour later, we’re sitting out on the deck under twinkle lights, the sky darkening to periwinkle. A bottle of white wine sits between us, and my plate is empty because holy hell, he’s good.
“This is…actually delicious,” I say.
He leans back in his chair, beer in hand. “You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
We’re quiet for a beat. Then he glances over at me.
“So…how was your day?”
I swirl the wine in my glass. “Just trying to figure out what I’m doing with my life.”
He nods, doesn’t press. That’s somehow worse.
“I found this old letter,” I say. “One I wrote to my ex. Never gave it to him. I thought…I don’t know, that we were going to get married. Have kids. Be that classic story.”
“And then?”
I shake my head. “And then one day, poof, it was over. And so were my twenties. No wedding, no kids. Just me, starting over in a town I never thought I’d return to.”
My voice wobbles. Damn it. The wine.
“I’ve always wanted a big family. Like me and my brothers. Now I don’t even know if that’s in the cards anymore.”
He looks at me, really looks at me. “It still could be.”
I scoff, half-laughing. “Sorry. Wine. Ignore me.”
“I’m not ignoring you,” he says. “I get it.”
I look at him. “How many kids did you want?”
He tips his head. “Used to be four. Big house. Big family.”
“And now?”
He pauses. “Now? I think I just want to love someone so much it makes my brain melt. If we end up with kids, great. If not…just give me the real thing.”
My chest tightens.
“What about you?” I ask. “The majors. Still chasing the dream?”
“I don’t know. I always thought I’d make it.
Since I was nine, I’ve had this picture in my head of me in a major league stadium, name on the back of the jersey.
But I’m twenty-nine. And sometimes I wonder if I’ve been holding onto a ghost.” He takes a long sip of his beer.
“Like maybe I should just give up. Become a coach at some junior college. But once I have my sights on something, it’s never been easy for me to give up. ”
I watch him for a long moment.
“You’re good,” I say. “And you’re not done yet.”
He looks at me with something soft and heavy behind his eyes. “Neither are you.”
And just like that, we’re sitting in silence. The wine low in the glasses. The space between us warm and fragile. Like maybe neither of us is as far off course as we thought.
We’re two glasses into that bottle, the kind Jackson keeps on the top shelf and claims is “for guests,” which apparently includes stray minor league baseball players now.
I’m in my pajamas—okay, technically, my old high school softball tee and a pair of cotton shorts that I forgot were this short—and Logan’s lounging on the opposite end of the couch in a pair of athletic shorts, long legs sprawled like he owns the place.
He doesn’t.
But he sort of does.
“What about The Notebook?” I offer, trying not to grin as I top off my glass.
Logan groans, head falling back dramatically against the cushion. “Absolutely not. I don’t need to cry in front of my future wife this early in the game.”
I roll my eyes. “You’ve been pushing the fake husband thing way too hard.”
“Is it fake if the chemistry’s real?”
I toss a pillow at him. He catches it effortlessly, like it’s a foul ball lobbed straight into his glove.
“I’ll watch your little sad romance at some point,” he says, smirking. “If we can watch Bull Durham tonight.”
I blink. “Wait—you want to watch a baseball rom-com?”
“It’s not a rom-com. It’s a baseball classic. A film. An American institution.”
“Right. With Susan Sarandon seducing pitchers.”
“Exactly,” he says, pointing at me. “She’s hot. It’s educational. Not to mention inspirational.”
“Fine,” I say. “But next time, it’s Notting Hill. Or While You Were Sleeping. I get full rights to the popcorn and emotional manipulation.”
He grins like he’s just won the World Series. “Deal.”
I hit play, trying not to focus on the fact that we are now officially watching a movie together. On a couch. In pajamas. With wine.
As the opening credits roll, Logan shifts and stretches one arm along the back of the couch.
Not touching me. Not yet.
But close enough that I can feel the warmth of him radiating like a campfire.
I focus hard on the screen. On Kevin Costner. On not the way Logan’s thigh keeps brushing mine whenever he laughs.
This is fine.
Totally fine.
Just a movie.
Just a roommate.
Just…a really, really hot roommate with stupidly nice forearms and a voice that makes wine feel stronger than it is.
And when I glance sideways at him, just for a second, he’s already looking at me.
He doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
Bull Durham plays on.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I already know what movie we’re watching next.
Even if I pretend I don’t.
I’m dangerously close to forgetting that Logan is my roommate and not, say, my extremely flirty, extremely shirtless boyfriend.
His arm is still draped behind me. Not quite touching me, but if I leaned back even a little…
Nope. Bad idea. Bad brain.
I reach for my wine instead.
Just as I take a sip, my phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Logan glances down at it, eyebrows raised. “Boyfriend checking in?”
I shoot him a look and snatch it up.
Jackson.
My thumb hovers over the green button for half a second too long.
“Hey,” I answer, sitting up straighter. “What’s up?”
His voice crackles through the speaker, chipper and full of Big Brother energy. “Hey, just checking in. Wanted to see how you’re doing. Everything okay with the new houseguest?”
I glance sideways at Logan, who’s smirking like he knows.
“Yep,” I say, maybe a little too quickly. “All good. Totally normal. Very…wholesome.”
Logan silently mouths the word wholesome, then bites his knuckle to keep from laughing.
I swat at him and miss.
Jackson doesn’t seem convinced. “You sure? I know he can be a handful. The guy once stole my truck to impress a girl.”
Logan leans in and whispers, “She loved that truck.”
I cover the receiver. “Shut up.”
Jackson pauses. “Wait—was that him? Are you two hanging out right now?”
“Watching a movie,” I say casually. “Nothing major. Logan convinced me to watch Bull Durham.”
“Cass.” His tone shifts, just slightly. “You remember the rules, right? I vouched for him. I’m just saying. Don’t make things complicated.”
I bristle. “I’m not. We’re just roommates. Promise.”
There’s silence on the other end for a beat.
“Alright. Sorry. Just looking out for you. And him, too, honestly. He’s got a big shot this season, and distractions…they don’t help.”
“I get it.”
We say our goodbyes and hang up.
I set the phone down, feeling Logan’s eyes on me.
“Well,” he says. “That was subtle.”
I exhale and lean back against the couch.
“He just wants to make sure we’re behaving.”
Logan grins, slow and wicked. “We are.”
Then his eyes drop to my legs. “For now.”
I shake my head. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet, you’re still sitting next to me.”
I groan and grab the remote. “Shut up and watch your stupid baseball movie.”
But I can’t help the smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Jackson might’ve called just in time.
But I’m starting to worry even time might not save me from this one.
The credits roll, and Logan stretches out on the couch, his arm grazing mine just slightly. Casual. Dangerous.
“What’d you think?” he asks.
“I think I…better go to bed! Big day tomorrow.”
“Big day of…being unemployed?”
I narrow my eyes. “Look, unemployment is stressful. I’m in a reinvention era, okay? I’ve got to figure out my life.”
He nods, teasing grin softening. “Okay. Well…it was good talking tonight. Seriously. I liked it.”
That catches me off guard. I’m so used to him being cocky or flirty—it throws me a little.
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
I pad toward the stairs, wine glass still in hand, until I hear his voice behind me.
“And hey, Cass?”
I glance back.
“I hope you get what you want. Every last thing. You deserve it.”
My chest tightens.
“I do?”
He nods, earnest and steady. “Yeah. Of course you do.”
I toss. I turn. I flip my pillow over. I count ceiling tiles. I try every sleep hack known to woman.
But nothing works.
Not when he is just downstairs, probably shirtless, definitely smug, and somehow…sweet?
Ugh.
Eventually, somewhere around 3 a.m., I finally doze off.
And that’s when it happens.
The dream.
In it, I’m in the kitchen. Logan’s behind me, hands on my hips, mouth on my neck, voice low and ragged in my ear.
He’s whispering things I should absolutely not want to hear.
Things that make my thighs clench and my breath hitch.
I turn to face him, and he lifts me onto the counter like I weigh nothing, pushing my sundress up with his knee—
I bolt upright in bed.
“Absolutely not,” I whisper into the darkness, heart pounding. “No. Nope. I’m not doing this.”
I toss the blankets off and creep down the stairs, desperate for cold water, or maybe just some distance from my own overactive imagination.
That’s when I see him.
Logan.
On the couch.
His head tipped back, his jaw tight, one hand buried under the waistband of his shorts.
And then—God help me—he moans.
“Cass…mmm.”
My name.
My actual name.
I freeze.
Heat floods me from head to toe, as if the universe is laughing and fanning the flames. He shifts slightly, still half-asleep—or maybe not asleep at all—and murmurs something else under his breath. Something filthy and sweet and so Logan it makes my knees wobble.
I clamp a hand over my mouth and tiptoe back up the stairs.
I shut the door.
I lock it.
And then…
Well.
Let’s just say I take care of business.
And I sleep like a damn baby after that.