Page 19 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

“What are you doing?”

“Stretching.”

“I can see that.” She huffs. “I mean, why are you stretching here?”

“I live here.”

“You … ?”

I turn to face her. Her mouth pops open. Her brows draw in.

“You—you live here?”

“Yes. I just moved in. Last week. When I came back into town. Why?” I search her face.

Then I know. Without a doubt, I am certain. “Do you … live here too?”

She nods, her mouth still slightly agape.

“I moved in last week too.”

Chapter Seven

Olivia

Mister Rogers did not adequately prepare me

for the people in my neighborhood.

~ Unknown

I stare at Logan.

He stares back at me.

How?How did we both end up living at The Serendipity?

Granted, it is one of the most desirable buildings in this area of town. And there’s the lore regarding the supposed luck that befalls people who live here. That’s nonsense, obviously. We’re also relatively close to the Barnes offices. Of course Logan would want to live here.

And we both just moved in last week.

And, the apartment I wanted … the apartment I was meant to have, as if it had been bequeathed to me by my gran … nooooo.

“Which apartment do you live in?” I ask Logan.

Half of me knows already. The other half is hoping and praying I’m wrong. Maybe just this once Logan Alexander won’t be the dream-crushing, glory-hogging, overbearing limelight-stealer he’s always been. Maybe just this once someone else will have ended up with a perk, benefit, and blessing that was meant to be mine. Because I will be able to forgive a stranger if they inadvertently ended up in Gran’s place. But if it’s Logan? I can’t even go there.

“2B.” The address slips out of his mouth so effortlessly. He moves to switch the foot resting on the step so he’s stretching his left calf now. His demeanor is calm and reserved, as if he didn’t just pull the cord on his own guillotine.

“What about you?” he asks, so nonchalantly, without even deigning to glance my way.

I pull my ankle up to my rear to stretch my quads, but mostly because it’s impossible to strangle someone with one hand, especially while trying to balance on one leg.

“2O.” I attempt to make my voice as neutral as Logan’s.

He turns toward me, and his eyes catch mine and hold me, pinned in his gaze like a butterfly to a cork board display. I study his face. There’s an intensity in the grey-blue of his eyes today, making his features appear like a rugged and refined landscape with two storm clouds looming beneath his brow.

Then he smiles at me. A rare smile, like the sun breaking through. And I have no SPF. Why does he have to look like that? It would be so much easier if looks reflected character. Then Logan would be a slimy ogre with moles the size of prunes and bug eyes, with five coarse, rogue hairs coming out of his head. Instead, he’s deceptively attractive.

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