I pull my phone out of my wristlet and text him back.
BANNER:Open the damn door.
A response pops up in seconds.
MYSEXYMAN:What door?
BANNER: I’m waiting.
That’s when the music volume drops and I get my first real look at Logan after three weeks. Damn, he’s sexy, especially when he’s angry.
He’s still wiping his dripping hands on a rag and shoving it into his pocket when he stalks into the waiting room to twist the lock and yank the door open.
“The next time you wait twenty-four hours to answer me and have me thinking all the awful fucking things that could’ve happened to you in New York, I swear I will put you over my lap and spank some goddamned sense into you.”
I should probably be annoyed, but his threat turns me on more than anything. I’m also not about to let him forget how this whole situation came about.
“Maybe, just maybe, you might want to think twice the next time you answer your door in a towel to a woman who wants your dick.”
“I wouldn’t give a single fuck if she showed up naked at my door on her knees. The only woman I want is you.”
Lust and adrenaline burn through my veins as I smile. “I know.”
His eyes widen a fraction. “What do you mean, you know?”
“If you feel half of what I’m feeling, then you’re so in love with me, you wouldn’t notice if she twerked on your dick in the middle of church.”
“You’re in love with me.” The words come out slow and measured.
“You’re the best man I’ve ever met, Logan Brantley. Of course I am.”
He pulls me inside and locks the door behind me. Heat burns in his gaze. “Say it.”
“I love you.”
Logan’s lips crush down on mine before I’m finished speaking them, and he pours every bit of emotion running through him into me.
I pull my head back. “Now, you say it.”
“I fucking love you, Banner.”
He lifts me up, and my legs wrap around his waist instinctively.
“I brought the lube,” I whisper as he carries me into the shop and sets me on the unfinished hood of a car.
“You’re going to kill me, woman.”
“Only in the best way possible.”
Chapter 12
Logan
Banner unwraps her arms from around my neck, scoots up, and lies back on the unpainted hood of Boone Thrasher’s Olds 442. Somehow, her red lips are still intact, even though I kissed the hell out of her. God, she’s so fucking beautiful with that sexy smile and her hair spread out everywhere. The strap of her little purse is still wrapped around her wrist.
“You managed to fit lube in that little thing?”
Her smile widens. “Packets. A bunch of them. TSA wouldn’t let me bring the supersized bottle through security. I tried to slip it in ...”