Page 64 of Perfect Playbook

Soon enough, Logan and I are alone. We are alone and he’s half naked. Interesting how I can’t force my mind to think he’s half-clothed instead. I’ve never been the glass-half-full type, but never have I thought of that as a weakness before. But now, keeping my gaze fixed on his gray sweatpants instead of his cut abs is as silly a choice as the water in a cup. There’s the same amount of water no matter how you look at it, and there’s the same amount of sex appeal to Logan whether I stare at his perfect pecs and that delicious tattoo on his rib cage or if I fixate on the bulge beneath the cotton.

There is no decent place for my eye line in this kitchen.

“Well,” I slap my hands on my skirt. “I need to get to work.”

“You can take my office.”

I don’t want to face him so I go to the fridge to grab an apple I don’t need. I don’t even like apples. They’re themost boring fruit in the world. “That’s your space. I’m cool here at the kitchen table.”

“I’m not in my office much,” he insists, sauntering up next to me, dick swinging.

Or at least I imagine it does. I bet it’s long and heavy and hanging down in there, rubbing lightly against the gray seams of his sweatpants.

I rush with my apple toward the kitchen table. “I’m fine here.” I point to my open laptop. “There’s plenty of space, and it’s quiet. Thanks, though. For the offer.”

“Okay. It’s fair game anytime.” He opens the fridge and dips his head in, stretching his torso and giving me a better view of the tattoo he got while we were apart.

I didn’t think he could get any hotter than back then.

I take a seat in front of my laptop so I have something else to look at. Anything else will do. But I truly don’t know what image could replace his steely body in my mind’s eye. I’m staring right through my computer screen, and despite trying to blink it away, his abs and that shadowy trail of hair leading down into his pants are all I see.

A cool sensation overwhelms my breasts, and my nipples peak. Logan really does hit the spot. It’s hard to believe there’s a woman alive who wouldn’t desire him because he has something for everyone. You like the boy next door? His dimples will do you in. You like bad boy? His hooded, amber eyes will mesmerize you like a wolf staring through the trees. You want sporty? Cowboy? Entrepreneur? Fun friend to go out with until you’re the last man standing? He. Is. Everything. He’s a ubiquitous fantasy and right behind me he fulfills one that’s timeless in those loose pants clinging desperately to that V between his hips.

I can’t help but laugh inwardly at the irony. The only thing Logan isnotis husband material. And yet, he’s mine.

My body simmers with electricity. He is absolutely clueless I’m at my boiling point. Do men know about the sweatpants thing? Did he do that on purpose? Surely not. No. Because if he wanted me turned on, he would have taken a second kiss at the arena. I knew it was for the best, stepping away and not touching each other if unnecessary. Even so, part of me wanted him to tap into that reckless side of himself and ease his lips onto mine again. Maybe even dive his tongue into my mouth.

Metal cutlery clinks on a plate behind me, waking me up from this daydream. I try to ignore him putting something together for breakfast. The noise doesn’t bother me. As a mother, I’ve learned to work through a two hundred decibel typhoon if required, so a tiny clank of silverware, the fridge, a toaster… that’s not a bother. What’s bothering me is that being with Logan was supposed to allow me more focus. Not worrying about the money for a short period of time was to give me freedom from that one distraction. It’s only given me another.

I mean, put on a t-shirt already.

I click on my graphics creator and get to work designing images to schedule for the week. When, next thing I know, he’s standing by me and his hip height is face-level. As if teasing me visually wasn’t enough, Logan’s fresh shower smell is as attractive as the woodsy musky one he’ll spray on later.

“Whatcha doing?” he asks, leaning over slightly.

I need to work. And I’d like to do it alone.

“Trying to work,” I say with the voice I learned as a mom. It isn’t mean, but a sort of exasperation that contains a message to leave me alone.

“I was thinking,” he says, and apparently takes a bite out of his breakfast because his next words are muffled. “I should go through the contacts list with you this morning and tell you who I’ve already talked to.”

I am going to call some of these people today. And that would help. “Sure.” I move my cursor but over what, I don’t know. “Why don’t you get dressed first?”

He sets a plate with a peanut butter bagel on the table then slides a chair next to me. He sits close. Too close. Enveloped-in-his-manly-body-wash-smell close. His leg bumps into mine, which he doesn’t seem to notice, but I do. A shiver skates up my spine, and the image of his naked dick punches through my resolve again. I bet it’s flopping right down his center. Maybe it’s touching his thigh? Lord have mercy.

I reiterate. “Finish breakfast and get dressed. Do what you have to. I’ll be here. Enjoy your breakfast.”

“It won’t take long.” He takes another crunchy bite. “We can just do it now if that’s okay?”

I am very grateful for Logan’sfriendlyhelp. I just wish he felt more like one right now instead of someone ensnaring me in dirty thoughts. But I need the help, and Logan’s time is precious, so if now works, now it is.

“Okay.”

I pull up the spreadsheet Tom sent me that matches the one he printed.

Logan leans closer into my space to see the screen. He points to a contact, and his forearm grazes mine. Logan’s arm is weighty and masculine against me, even in that subtle, quick moment. Thank God I’m wearing a bra because the impact of his inadvertent touch is embarrassing.

“This guy here. Lambert? He’s having a renewal of his vows after this season.”

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