Page 19 of Wrong Number, Right Grump
“Hey,” he murmurs back, eyes half-lidded.
I search his expression for any cracks, any signs of regret or retreat, but there aren’t any.
“You’re a problem,” I tell him. I allow myself to smile.
Logan’s brow lifts, barely. “A good one?”
“We’ll see.”
His mouth curls like he knows exactly what I mean. Then I kiss him again. Soft, lazy, indulgent. When I settle back into his chest, his arms tighten around me—safe, possessive, quiet. The kind of balanced calm I need in my life.
CHAPTER 12
***
Lola
I wake to the smell of coffee and the sound of someone very large moving quietly in the kitchen downstairs. For a second, I think I’ve dreamed the whole thing. But then I roll over, the sheet slips down my shoulder, and my body gives a low, satisfied ache of confirmation.
Last night was not a dream. Not even close.
I stretch like a cat basking in sunlight, smile against my pillow, then sit up and reach for whatever shirt is closest. Logan’s, apparently. It smells like him—warm and woodsy. I pull it on and pad barefoot downstairs.
I find him standing at the stove, shirtless, wearing yesterday’s jeans and holding a mug that looks comically small in his hand. The man is literal trouble. Too sexy for his own good.
He glances over as I walk in. “You didn’t have creamer. I improvised.”
“Please tell me that means you used actual milk and not, like... Baileys.”
“No comment.”
I narrow my eyes, accept the mug he hands me anyway, and take a sip. He watches me over the rim of his own mug like he’s waiting for judgment.
“Huh,” I say after a second. “It’s good.”
“I’ll take that as a glowing review.”
I lean against the counter, warming my hands on the cup. He stands close but doesn’t crowd me. Just enough space that I have to work to resist reaching for him.
I peek up at him over my mug. “So. You do mornings.”
“I do coffee,” he grunts.
“Same thing.” I laugh softly.
“Not even close.” The side of his mouth lifts. Barely.
“You’re softer than you pretend to be,” I tease, bumping my shoulder into his. “Underneath all the grump, there’s a secret cinnamon roll.”
Logan doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t deflect. Just looks down at me like he’s deciding something. “Only with you.”
It’s not a grand declaration. Not a promise. But it lands heavily in my chest anyway.
I look away. “Good.”
I’m not trying to make him something he’s not. I like the sharp edges. The dry humor. The way he listens instead of talking over me. But knowing that part of him—that quiet, steady, deeplygoodpart—and hoping it’smine? That’s dangerous.
He finishes his coffee, rinses the mug, then turns to me again. “You got plans today?”
