Page 45 of We Were Something
But when our eyes lock, I turn away, trying to respect the privacy he was concerned about earlier.
“Paige Andrews,” he says, his voice coming out in a teasing lilt that I haven’t heard from him before. “Am I making youblush?”
I grin but shake my head, keeping my eyes locked on the handful of ties on the table in front of me. “Nope. Just trying not to ogle you.”
“Well, maybe it’s the whiskey talking,” he continues, “but I’m thinking I might not mind it so much. You know…if you want to ogle me.”
I turn my head in his direction and enjoying the nervous shiver that rolls through me at what I find.
Logan. Staring straight at me. Leaning his hip casually against the arm of the couch. As he undoes the last few buttons at the bottom of his shirt.
And then he watches me as he tugs it off.
I swallow thickly, my eyes taking in even more of his smooth skin. In general, I know doctors like to stay physically fit. I mean, it’s theirjobto be healthy, right? To convince us non-medical folk that our bodies are temples we have to take care of and all that?
But I wasn’t expecting the type of…chiseled muscles his sudden striptease has revealed, the contours of his physique like something out of a handbook for how to build the perfect body.
He reaches over and grabs the shirt he arrived in, then—sadly—pulls it over his head and covers up all that delicious skin.
When he laughs, my eyes fly up to his.
“What?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so much like they’ve been presented with a birthday cake only to have the candle snuffed out right in front of them.”
I giggle. “Well, I’ll be certain to remember that you consider yourself to be a birthday cake,” I tease.
Logan flushes slightly, but the smile doesn’t leave his face.
“But,” I add, stepping over to where his pants are folded over the back of the couch and picking them up, “you may have hit the metaphor dead on the head.”
I step closer to him, enough that I can smell the hint of cologne he’s wearing—something crisp and clean that reminds me of being outdoors and surrounded by trees—and hand him his jeans.
He eyes me for a long second before he turns and steps into the changing room.
“When I was sixteen, I had a huge crazy party,” I tell him, leaning back on the arm of the couch and thinking back to my favorite birthday party. “It was Cirque du Soleil themed and there were performers from Vegas under this massive tent on the lawn at Valley Park. The big moment came for the cake, this three-tiered, cranberry chocolate…masterpiecemy dad hired François Payard to create for me. François Payard! The most famous, amazing pastry chef in the world, though I didn’t appreciate it nearly enough at the time.”
The changing room door opens, and Logan steps out wearing his jeans and holding the tan slacks and belt over one arm.
“I’ve always said birthday cake is my favorite and nothing else can top it, is my point,” I continue, watching as he sets his new clothes down on the couch then turns to look at me, just a foot away. “And now I can sayyourbirthday cake has topped it.”
His lips tilt up at the sides and something sweet takes over his expression. But then his eyes drop to my mouth. Again. I wonder how long I’ll have to fast from my typical ‘birthday cake’ consumption before I’m given even the teensiest morsel.
Without warning, I feel Logan’s hands grip me at the waist. His skin is just as warm as I thought it would be as his fingers clasp my hips, his thumbs stroking up and down.
My hands come up to rest on his biceps on instinct, and I can’t help but gently squeeze the lean muscle I feel under the soft cotton of his shirt.
I’m suddenly almost overwhelmed by his presence, like my senses are soaking in all things Logan. The sight of his eyes on my lips. The scent of his deliciously clean cologne. The feel of his warm hands on my hips. The sound of his soft breaths filling the room.
“I’m not trying to push you, Logan,” I whisper.
He nods. “I think that whiskey I had is what’s giving me the little push.”
“You’re sure you won’t regret making a move?” I try to tease, try to give him one more out. “I don’t want to take advantage of you in a vulnerable state.”
Logan chuckles then bends down so his face is closer to mine.
“I feel vulnerable every time I’m around you, Paige,” he tells me, his eyes on my lips. “Please take advantage.”
