Page 52 of Seven of Hearts

But today I wanted to crawl back in bed and sleep. I was waiting for the promised land of nesting energy and better moods, but they were nowhere to be found in week sixteen.

I swung through the grocery store parking lot, thankful for the sweet kid who rolled the bags out on a dolly and loaded them into my trunk so I didn’t even have to walk inside.

Unfortunately, it meant that I sat in my car with the heat pumping for ten minutes, slowly lulling me back to sleep.

I needed caffeine, but I was trying to keep it to a minimum, and I knew I’d need the jolt this afternoon to make it to the end of the day.

When I backed into the DeRossis’ driveway and popped the trunk to start unloading everything, Logan appeared.

“Morning,” he said as he walked across the grass, holding a plate covered in tin foil.

I glanced at the time. It wasn’t quite nine yet, but surely he had work to do. “Hey.”

“Go unlock the door. I’ll carry the bags inside,” he said as he pecked my cheek and handed me the plate.

“What’s this?” I asked as I peeked under the foil cover.

“Breakfast,” he said as he started loading bags onto each arm.

“Well, I can see that,” I said with a laugh. “You don’t have to carry the bags in. I can get them.”

“I’m not arguing that you can’t. But you seem like a one-trip kind of woman, and you’re probably not supposed to be lifting all this.”

I huffed and trudged up the stairs, punching in the code to the electronic door lock with a little more oomph than necessary. The lock chirped and released. Logan waited for me to head inside before following.

“Just set them on the kitchen island,” I said as I turned the lights on.

Luca DeRossi was out of town on a work trip, and Maddie had gone to Revanche, the restaurant where she was a pastry chef, to open up at the crack of dawn. I didn’t mind when they were around, but today the house was blissfully quiet and empty.

“Thanks,” I tacked on, a little sheepish at having someone else do my job.

“Sit. Eat,” he said as he turned to grab the rest of the groceries.

“Logan,” I argued.

But he was already out the door.

I huffed and sat on a barstool that was pushed up to the island and pulled the aluminum foil off the food. A sectioned plate held mini pancakes, a little cup of syrup so the pancakes wouldn’t be spongy, maple-y mush before they were eaten, sliced bananas, and a pile of the crispiest golden hash browns. Little flecks of translucent onions were mixed with the shredded potatoes. It was a beautiful sight.

“Almost forgot,” Logan said as he came in with the second load of bags, unloaded them, and reached into his pocket for a salt shaker. “So you can put as much as you want on the hash browns.”

Now that was suspicious. “The sectional plate was one thing. The syrup cup was another. Two things are a coincidence. Three things are a conspiracy.”

He looked innocent as a baby lamb as he started pulling groceries and household items out of the bags. “It’s just breakfast.”

“It’s a conspiracy,” I whispered as I dipped one of the mini pancakes in the syrup and popped the entire thing into my mouth.

Logan stifled a smile. “You believe in breakfast conspiracies. Huh. I’ll have to add that to my list.”

“Ha! So there is a conspiracy!” I said as I pointed at him. “I’m going to need further explanation of this list.”

He snickered under his breath as he reached over the mountain of groceries and stole a banana slice. “The list that says you hate eggs in nearly all forms. That bananas should never be mixed with anything because they overpower all other flavors. Same with bacon. That sauces should always be on the side, but salads should come pre-dressed, because stirring a salad with a plastic fork to get all the lettuce coated with dressing is a pain in the ass. And speaking of salads, the list also says that everything in a salad should be chopped to the same size so that it’s scoopable and you don’t have giant chunks of iceberg lettuce with tiny toppings that fall off the fork.” Logan nudged the salt shaker toward me. “And that hash browns should be fried in a fifty-fifty mix of melted butter and oil with diced onions, but not to season them until it’s time to eat because you like the crunch of the salt on top.”

I picked up the shaker and gave the hash browns a generous snowfall of salt before taking a bite.

“Oh my God,” I groaned through a mouthful of shredded potatoes. “I don’t even care what kind of espionage you had to do to get that information. Potatoes are my love language. These are the best hash browns I’ve ever had. I could kiss you right now.”

Without warning, Logan rounded the island, slid one hand into my hair, and tipped my chin up with the other.

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