Page 21 of Wrong Number, Right Grump
Only if the rent includes daily sarcasm and unsolicited kisses.–Logan
Think you can handle me?–Lola
Nope. Think you can handle me?–Logan
Nope. But you’ve got yourself a deal, Grump.– Lola
EPILOGUE
***
Lola
There should be a warning label on Logan fresh out of the shower. Like an actual PSA.
WARNING: Wet hair, low-slung towel, smug smirk. High risk of spontaneous combustion.
I lean against the kitchen counter, still barefoot and half-asleep, holding a mug of coffee I keep forgetting to drink—because he just walked past me dripping and humming andstretching.Like the man doesn’t know what he’s doing to me.
Spoiler. He knows.
“I’m running late,” he says, casually heading back toward the bedroom with a towel over one shoulder and damp hair sticking up like he’s been groomed for a cologne ad.
He’s not even trying to be hot. Which makes it so much worse.
“I need therapy,” I mutter under my breath.
I pick up my phone, press the record button, and send a voice note to Darby. This is how we survive the daily thirst updates while she’s following her dream job.
“How am I supposed to function when Logan walks around looking like a lumberjack cover model after a cold plunge? I’m talking, wet abs, towel slunglowlow on his hips. I’m talking, I might launch myself at him like a feral raccoon. I love this man. I do. You think I’m joking, but I’m about to risk it all and blurt out those three magic words, and I haven’t taken a sip of coffee yet.”– Lola
I hit send and steady my overactive libido and pounding heart with a long sip of coffee. A few seconds later, my phone buzzes. I open the chat and freeze.
No. No, no, no, no, no. “I’ve made a mistake,” I whisper.
Darby replies on the group chat we use so we can all be together virtually on game and movie nights. The one that includes Logan. Not the super, top-secret thirst trap group Darby and I set up as soon as Logan moved in.
I HAVE NEVER BEEN PROUDER–Darby
Quickly followed by,...Feral raccoon?– Logan.
Three dots bounce like they’re jumping on my grave, rubbing in the fact that I made this mess.
Are you gonna launch yourself or what? I’ll plan my schedule accordingly.–Logan
GET A ROOM!–Darby
NOT MY ROOM!–Darby
I die. On the floor. In my own kitchen.
The kitchen door creaks. I look up sheepishly from behind the counter as Logan walks in with a loopy smile that melts me. He raises an eyebrow. That infuriating, amused, cocky-as-hell eyebrow.
“I’m not talking about it,” I say, pointing a finger at him.
“I didn’t say anything,” he says, clearly amused.
“You werethinkingthings.” I point a finger at him, and he walks directly into my finger, blunting my sheer embarrassment. We haven’t spoken of love, at least not aloud. We’ve been mostly showing, not telling.
