He shoots me a look that lights another kind of fire—this time between my legs.No. Not going there.
“We mess around plenty, just not about food.”
Like I’m escaping the Texas chainsaw massacre, I rush toward the door and shut it behind me before I suck in a breath.I can’t be around him. It’s not safe.Pulling myself together, I pick my way along the uneven path to the truck and open the door.
The unique scent that clings to Logan Brantley wafts out—citrus and all thingsman. I tell myself it’s not as sexy as it seems as I find the cardboard six-pack of bottles tipped over in the floorboard of the passenger side. One bottle rolled under the seat, so I pull it out.
A piece of paper sticks to a bottle.
If you’re ever lonely, you know where to find me. 687-7896
Um. Excuse me?
I go to shove it back into the bowels of the truck where I pulled it from, but the crinkle of more paper stops me.
I should not be digging around in Logan Brantley’s truck. Also, side note, I am not jealous.
I’m not. Seriously.
I pull out a handful of similar notes.
I’m available to make you dinner anytime.
Text me if you want me to cook the food you’re inside buying. I know how to keep a man fed.
Bring your appetite over to my place and I’ll fix you up.
If they were all in the same handwriting, I’d say Logan had a stalker, but the variety of names and numbers listed at the bottom of the notes reveal that’s not the case.
Jesus, is every woman in this town throwing herself at Logan Brantley? And what is it with all the women who want to cook for him? Is it a Kentucky thing?
Seeds of jealousy take root inside me, and even though I try to stomp them out, they’re pesky little assholes that won’t take the hint.
So what if every single woman in this town thinks Logan Brantley is a catch? I wonder what they’d all think if they knew he drove almost a thousand miles to see me ... and then stormed out of my apartment after our one-night stand.
Not even thinking about it.
I cram the notes back under the seat, grab the beer, and head back to the house. Even though I try to shut them down, two questions are front and center in my brain.
Does he take any of them up on their offers?
Why does he keep the notes?
When I slip back into the house, Logan has another frying pan on the stove. Thankfully, the mouthwatering scent of bacon has chased away the acrid stench of smoke.
He glances at me over his shoulder. “Thought you got kidnapped by Sasquatch or something.”
“A bottle got stuck under the seat, and I got caught up reading your stash of dinner invitations.”
His expression narrows, but I keep going.
“Do you ever have to cook for yourself? Or do you just keep them all on rotation? Like, she does good chicken, her steak is better, but this one’s casseroles are the shit, so I’m going to see her on comfort-food night.”
“What makes you think I take any of them up on their offers?”
I set the beer on the table. “Why wouldn’t you?”
Logan turns back to the frying pan. “Get the eggs out and whip up the pancake mix. If we’re having bacon, we might as well have a full-blown breakfast.”