Page 38 of Life After You

Logan clinks his glass against mine. “Here’s to Patty knowing best.”

“She always does,” I mutter, and Logan’s chuckle rumbles through me, warm and familiar.

A smirk tugs at his lips as he lifts his glass, plucking the straw out and resting it on the side before taking a deep, unbothered sip. His eyes widen slightly, then flutter shut as he savors the taste. I take a sip of mine as well, groaning in appreciation as the creamy chocolate coats my tongue.

A giggle bubbles up when I glance at Logan again. He’s got a perfect whipped cream mustache. He opens his eyes at the sound of my laughter, brows lifting in question.

"What?" he asks, and I bite my lip, pointing at his face.

He swipes a hand over his upper lip, blinking as he realizes what happened. Then, instead of wiping it off, he tilts his chin up and wiggles his nose. "It suits me, no?" His voice is playful, but there’s an edge of mischief there, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

I shake my head, sipping my own shake daintily. "Oh, definitely. Very distinguished."

Logan chuckles, the sound rich and lazy, before finally licking away the lingering cream from his lips with a slow, deliberate sweep of his tongue. My stomach dips. He sighs dramatically, stretching back against the booth like a man utterly satisfied.

“I will not be able to come here often, angel,” he muses, tapping his stomach with faux regret. “I will get too fat.”

I snort. “Please. I’ve seen you inhale a double burger and fries with a milkshake after a two-hour set. You’ll survive.”

His lips twitch, eyes gleaming with amusement, but before he can argue, Patty swoops in, setting our plates down with a knowing shake of her head.

“Dig in and enjoy.” She gestures toward my bowl. “Oh, and Kayla, that white ceramic thing is called a chirirenge. It’s for the broth—try some.”

“We most assuredly will. Thank you, Patty.” Logan dips his head in a small bow, his voice all deep, velvet appreciation.

The scent of buttery crust and rich, slow-cooked filling drifts between us, curling into the air like a temptation all on its own. Logan eyes his plate with reverence, the golden chicken pot pie practically taunting him with its flaky perfection. Steam rises from the buttery mashed potatoes pooled with thick gravy. My own bowl of beef and noodles is just as inviting, the dark broth shimmering with sesame seeds and finely chopped spring onions.

I slide my mostly drained shake to the side, Logan mirroring me, and dig in. The first spoonful is heaven—savory, rich, and deep with flavor. The warmth of the broth spreads through me, a stark contrast to the lingering sweetness of the milkshake. But it works, the balance unexpectedly perfect.

Silence settles between us, comfortable and easy, punctuated only by the soft clink of my spoon against the bowl and the crisp crackle of Logan breaking into his pie. The quiet doesn’t feel awkward—it feels intimate, like we’re wrapped up in something neither of us is willing to break.

At one point, I glance up and catch him watching me. His fork hovers midair, forgotten, his green eyes hooded and smoldering, tracking the way I lift the spoon to my lips. My breath hitches. Heat licks at the back of my neck, pooling low in my stomach.

“Angel…” His voice is thick, slow, like he’s still lost in the taste of it. “That was…”

I swallow, suddenly shy. “I’m right there with you.” I gesture to my bowl. “I meant to offer you some, but after trying the broth, I kind of got lost.”

His laugh is warm, indulgent. “I was thinking the same thing.” He exhales, raking a hand through his dark hair before leaning back against the booth, looking thoroughly wrecked in the best way. “Dios mío, angel.”

Something about the way he says it—low and reverent—sends another unwelcome flutter through me.

“You two ready for dessert?” Patty’s voice cuts in, making me jump slightly as she clears the plates with a knowing look.

Logan glances at me, a little dazed, like he’s still recovering from the meal.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she says before he can answer.

Logan watches her retreat, brows drawing together slightly. “I can no longer tell if she means well or not, angel. I remember Hansel and Gretel and what the bruja planned.”

A laugh spills from me before I can stop it.

The rest of the night passes in an easy blur—the food ridiculous, the conversation light. By the time we climb into a Uber back to the Rosewood, we’re both sleepily content, too full for anything more than a murmured goodnight at my door.

The moment my head hits the pillow, sleep claims me, pulling me under without a fight.

The smell of coffee curled around me as I stood in the quiet kitchen, my hands wrapped around a warm mug. The old boarding house was still, the kind of hush that only existed this early in the morning. Outside, the streetlights flickered off one by one, the sky still heavy with dawn’s gray light.

I took a sip, letting the bitterness settle on my tongue—then froze. An engine rumbled down the street. I knew that sound. A van. My breath caught as I slowly set my coffee down. Doors slammed. Boots hit pavement. Low voices murmured outside. Then a knock.

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