Page 86 of Pretty Dark Vows

No one does, and being so close to Logan, being alone with him, has my heart beating in overdrive.

“Why are you doing this?” I blurt when he silently sets the items down in front of me and then turns away to pull something out of the oven.

He looks up at me, a faint wrinkle between his eyebrows, as if the question confuses him.

I clear my throat. “I mean, why did you make me… breakfast?”

“I knew you’d be hungry. You haven’t eaten anything substantial in the past thirty-six point nine hours.”

The specificity of his answer, right down to the last time I ate a real meal, throws me for a loop, and I have no idea how to respond. It doesn’t answer the question I was really asking, and unless he’s just completely clueless when it comes to all social norms, he has to know it.

But he’s not wrong. I really am hungry.

What happened between us the night he snuck into my room had me too freaked out to come near any of them yesterday, so after coming down to ask for new clothes, all I had to eat was the last of those crackers in my room from the first night I was here.

The idea that Logan might know that even though I’ve barely seen him over the past thirty-whatever hours he just rattled off weirds me out almost as much as the fact that he prepared my coffee exactly as I take it. And, of course, this whole Top Chef act of his.

But now he’s back to ignoring me, methodically turning out perfectly rounded muffins onto a cooling rack, and hunger overcomes my fear.

The plate I grabbed has two photoshoot-worthy pieces of perfect French toast on it, complete with a sprinkling of powdered sugar and juicy, perfectly sliced strawberries fanned out on top. I load up my fork with a large bite, careful to get a little bit of everything, and moan at how fucking good it tastes.

Logan freezes at the sound, his back stiffening.

His eyes snap up to meet mine, and something flickers behind the eerie blankness—a heat that I’ve seen before a few times, like he’s got an inferno raging inside him, hidden behind the walls of ice he wears.

“Um, it’s really good,” I tell him, trying to dispel the tension in the air.

He nods as if that’s a given, then jerks his chin toward one of the tall stools set around the island. “Sit,” he says. “It’s better for your digestion.”

I slide my plate over a little and settle onto the stool, wincing when my welted ass makes contact with the hard wood.

Logan notices that too, and this time, the heat in his eyes lingers longer before he shutters his expression again.

He goes back to cooking, and I get down to eating it, filling my belly after the past few days of not enough food and way too many emotional ups and downs. I sample a few more of the amazing dishes he made and allow myself to enjoy the pleasant silence for a few minutes.

“Are you going to eat too?” I ask as he drizzles something sweet and creamy over mixed fruit, then swiftly and efficiently turns it into some kind of fruit salad masterpiece that he adds to the buffet.

“No. I already did,” he says, aligning the bowl and then brushing some invisible crumbs or something off the counter.

“But you’ve made so much, and it’s… it’s really good, Logan. I’m sure I won’t be able to finish all of this. Sit down with me.”

He hesitates, his face still blank but his body language clearly conflicted.

I swallow, not quite sure why I’m working so hard to convince him as I add, “Please?”

Finally, he nods, one jerky motion of his chin. He finishes cleaning a few parts of the kitchen that already look spotless to me and brings the fruit salad over to the island, placing it near my plate and then sitting stiffly on the stool across from me.

I’m getting close to being full, but everything really is delicious, so I spoon some of the fruit salad onto my plate, then nudge the bowl toward him. “Are you going to have some?”

“I told you, I already ate,” he says, his back ramrod straight.

He looks so uncomfortable just sitting here with me that it almost makes me grin. This man is either terrifying or the king of awkward, with no middle ground. But for some reason, I don’t want to hurry up and leave anymore. I’m not even hoping for Maddoc or Dante to walk in. Logan has the same mesmerizing quality that any deadly predator has, and I can feel it luring me in, tempting me to get closer. To learn more about him.

“You must cook a lot,” I say. “You’re really good at it. Are these your favorite recipes?”

That line appears between his eyebrows again as he frowns. “I don’t… this isn’t for me. I don’t need a favorite. I always start the day with a balanced meal.”

“Sounds boring,” I say with a chuckle before I remember who I’m talking about. I’m not sure Logan is the type who enjoys being teased.

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