Page 42 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

“I think it might just be kindness—without the killing.”

“No. Nope. Lynette. This is Logan we’re talking about.”

“Logan two-point-oh. He’s six years older. Haven’t you changed in six years?”

“Yes. But fundamentally? No. I’m still me. And … he’s still him.” I look at my sister imploringly. “I still don’t trust him. After all we’ve been through, he seems … maybe different? But I should know better. Every time I ever let my guard down with that man, he swooped in and dominated, and I ended up losing something to him.”

“People change, Olivia. And sometimes they aren’t what we think they are. Maybe he’s just good at things.”

“Oh, he’s definitely good at things. He’s amazing. The best. That’s what’s so unnerving.” Lynette just stares at me.

“What? Why are you staring at me like that?”

“He’s the best?” She smiles a smirky smile.

“He’s the best, and that’s what makes him completely suspicious.”

“Mm-hmm.” She nods as if she has me figured out.

She doesn’t. Loganisperfect. And he’s up to something with that letter. I just don’t know what yet.

Thankfully, we drop the subject of Logan Alexander for the rest of our shopping trip and dinner date. I drive home with a few new things and a belly full of good food.

I stop at my mailbox to collect my mail. The door to The Serendipity opens, and I turn to see Logan walking in with Rhett.

That sweet puppy starts wagging his rear and whining at me, straining on the leash to come greet me.

You know what I love?

Dogs.

You always know where a dog stands. They don’t leave you notes full of compliments written in a clever and winsome ways that would be adorable if they weren’t rabid. No. If a dog is rabid, you know. And if they love you, you know. Dogs do not give mixed messages.

“You can come say hi,” Logan says to me. “Rhett won’t bite.”

“It’s not the dog I’m worried about,” I tell him.

I shut my mailbox and lock it.

Logan walks up next to me. I bend down and scrub Rhett behind his ears. He plops to the ground and makes a whining noise followed by a snorting sound while he rolls over and shows me his belly.

I plop down next to Rhett, setting my stack of unopened mail to the side and forgetting my surroundings as I fold my legs crisscross on the tile floor of the lobby.

“Such a sweetie,” I coo.

Rhett makes an impersonation of a coo. It’s more of a howl, but I swear he’s trying to copy me. He splays wider, as if to say,please, please, please don’t ever stop rubbing my tummy.

“I wasn’t going to stop, silly willy,” I tell Rhett.

He flips over onto all fours, and in the blink of an eye he’s in my lap, rubbing all over me and wagging with joy. I giggle. Rhett tucks his head under my arm and leans his whole body into me, giving me the best version of a dog-hug.

“Oh, you’re a cuddler, are you? Well, I love a cuddly man,” I coo to Rhett.

Then I look up along the pant leg in front of me, up past the belt, past the button-down shirt Logan wore to work today, to the stubble along his unfairly sharp jawline, past his full lips, which are tipped up in a soft smile, over those Grecian cheekbones to those eyes, which are studying me curiously.

“A cuddly man-dog,” I clarify when my eyes meet Logan’s. “I love a cuddly man-dog.”

As if that makes any sense whatsoever.

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