Page 91 of Bad Love

"You can help me plate," Logan says as we head up the stairs. "I also wanted your professionalopinion."

"About what?" Iask.

"Not yours. Rory's. I'm working on some ideas for recipes for thebrewery."

If there was a way to make my kid light up even more, that wasit.

"As long as there's no beer drinking for my eight-year-old. You can't drink alcohol until you're at leastten."

Logan chuckles, and Rory shoots me alook.

Inside the apartment, we dig into the food, which is so good I could cry. My son is a good chef, but these ingredients are nextlevel.

Rory teaches Logan “Which of these things?”, and Logan plays along. More than that, he’s kick-ass at it. Logan has the most fascinating way of looking at the world and can find something wondrous in even the simplest things. I would’ve figured a man who’s seen the world would have high expectations, but he seems content to sit here in my kitchen, debating whether a fork or a napkin is less likecheese.

Afterward, I insist on doing the limited cleanup while Logan sits at the table with a bunch of paper and a tablet withRory.

Most kids his age don’t spend their evenings writing recipes with men their moms are sleeping with. But now that it's happening, I can’t lookaway.

I finish cleaning the kitchen, appreciating that Rory's engrossed in something with another person. I put in a load of laundry and even check my work email before the clock reminds me it's Rory'sbedtime.

"Let's go," I tell himfinally.

He groans, which says something considering he was half-asleep on the train two hours ago. "Will Logan be here in themorning?"

"I don't think so, honey," I say, ushering him to the bathroom to brush his teeth before changing intopajamas.

Once he's in bed and the light’s switched out, I pull the door almost shut and return to the living room. Logan's leaning against the wall, watchingme.

I nod toward the two unopened bottles on the counter, which must’ve been in the brown paper bag because I didn’t notice thembefore.

"It’s in my blood, Peach. I can’t enter someone’s home without it." He winks, and I hold one up, inspecting the lack oflabel.

“Sure this isn’tmoonshine?”

“We should findout.”

I understand he’s asking a question. One I debatebriefly.

"Openit."

He grins, probably because we haven’t drunk together since the first day he came over here. The warmth in his expression relieves some of my exhaustion. This guy has some kind of magic overus.

"The opener's inthe—"

He goes for the correct drawer, which throwsme.

Because he's been here multiple times, I remindmyself.

I'm not sure what to do with that, so I take the beer that's offered. I take a long drink. "Mmm, that's good.Strawberry?"

His expression lights up. "Yeah, it is. You’re a goodstudent.”

“You’re a goodteacher.”

I cross to the couch, and he follows, sinking into it. Because screw it. He's not staying over, but having an hour with someone who gets me how I am and doesn't expect me to be different is too tempting toignore.

"Tell me about your day," Loganmurmurs.

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