His eyes went wide, and he took another step back, gaze flicking from her apartment door to her neighbor's—or well, now his apartment door.
“When did you move in?” she asked.
Logan blinked, focused back on her. “Yesterday.”
“Cool,” she said, suddenly realizing that she should be feeling awkward because she’d seen this man’s business parts and not focusing on how much her body was telling her that it had been a really long time since she’d seen said business end of a man. Oh, and that there wasn’t any time like the present to remedy that fact, might not be the best strategy moving forward.
But he has a great cock—
Focus.
Great. Now she was mentally arguing with herself.
That was the surest sign of sanity. Totally.
She turned to leave.
He snagged her arm. “What’s your name?”
Figuring she owed him that much based solely on the fact they were neighbors but also reinforced by the fact that she’d seen his penis, she said, “Lorelai. But mostly everyone calls me Lori.”
“Lori,” he murmured.
Her phone buzzed, and she glanced down at the reminder that she had five minutes to make it to her meeting with her boss.
“Shit!” she exclaimed, dashing toward the elevator. “I’ve got to go.”
“Wait—”
“I’m late!” She jabbed at the elevator button, thankful that, for once, she didn’t have to wait forever for the doors to open.
“Lori—”
“I’ve got to go!” She pressed the floor for the garage repeatedly. “My boss. I need to go.”
“Can I—”
The elevator doors shut before he could finish his question
Chapter 3
Logan
The silver panels slid shut before he could finish asking Lori if he could make up for the unfortunate dick pic situation by buying her dinner.
Or maybe a year’s worth of dinners.
Fuck, what had he been thinking?
He hadn’t been thinking. Which was precisely the problem. He’d been near delirious from not sleeping fully for days and add in four, no five beers and he’d been blitzed out of his mind.
Stumbling back to his apartment, thinking of that little smirk Hannah had sent him before she’d gone. “Send something to relax me later.”
None of that meant a fucking picture of his cock.
With his face in it.
No, he didn’t go around sending random photographs of his private parts to women he’d just meant—or as it turned out, women he’d never met who turned out to be beautiful and funny and smelled incredible . . . and lived next door.