Page 14 of Stitch & Steel
Because the air between us?
It wasn’t so innocent anymore.
The drive back from the lake felt shorter somehow, even though I kept my gaze pointed stubbornly out the window and my arms crossed so tight they creaked. My hoodie was soaked and clung to my skin like a second, soggy layer of embarrassment.
I still couldn’t believe he’d actuallyflicked a wormat me.
A worm.
Whodidthat?
Apparently, Logan, “Diesel”—machete-wielding, gravel-voiced, tattooed biker—did that. And then laughed about it with zero remorse as he hauled our gear into the truck like some smug mountain god with a tackle box.
The cab of his truck smelled like cedar and leather. The windows fogged up from our soaked clothes, and the silence between us buzzed with leftover adrenaline and something else I didn’t want to name.
We pulled into the driveway just as Gran was stepping out onto the porch, a dishtowel tossed over her shoulder, squinting into the rising sun.
“Well, would youlookat you two,” she said, hands on her hips, clearly amused. “What happened, did the fish fight back?”
“Fishing turned into swimming,” Logan said, climbing out of the truck.
I followed, shivering. My jeans were glued to my thighs. “More like water combat,” I muttered.
Gran shook her head with a grin. “You two get yourselves out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia. Bella, make sure he has a towel.”
“I’m not his—” I stopped myself, biting down on a sigh. “Sure, Gran.”
Logan opened the back door, grabbed a dry rag from the toolbox, and handed it to me. “Appreciate it.”
“You can shower if you want,” I mumbled, not looking at him. “You’re… soaked.”
“And muddy.”
“And grassy.”
“And slimy.”
His smirk was pure sin. “Damn, Grace. You been cataloging all my sins already?”
I shoved the towel into his chest. “Shower’s down the hall. Door on the right. Try not to break the soap dish.”
I stomped up the steps and left him laughing behind me.
By the time I changed into dry leggings and a soft, oversized tee, Gran was already whistling in the kitchen, the smell of bacon and black coffee thick in the air.
“You makin’ enough for an army?” I asked, tying my damp hair up into a bun.
“Just enough for a man with muscles that size,” she said. “And for you, of course.”
I took the mug she handed me, eyes bleary. “Thanks.”
That’s when I heard the creak of the screen door.
And then I saw him.
Logan. Inboxer briefs. Just boxer briefs.
No shirt. No socks. No shame.
