And just like that, the thought sobered her.
Logan slid a plate in front of her and pulled up a stool next to her at the island. She picked up one half of the sandwich, which he’d cut into triangles, and took a bite.
“Mmm. This is good,” she said after swallowing.
Logan smiled. “My grandmother was English. She always insisted on bacon and egg sandwiches when we stayed with her on weekends.”
“That sounds nice. I wish I’d known my grandparents,” Harper said, a wistful note in her voice. She wondered how life might have been different if either set of grandparents had been alive when she and Isla were born. Maybe their dad wouldn’t have been so fixated on Isla’s career.
“So, you mentioned ruining your sister’s career?” Logan asked.
Hearing the words from someone else made them sound dramatic, and Harper flushed with embarrassment.
“Well, maybe not completely ruined… but definitely dented,” she admitted.
Logan nodded and took another bite of his sandwich. He didn’t press for details, just waited patiently for her to speak.
Harper relaxed and told him about how she had admitted something damaging about Isla to a reporter.
“Sounds like she tricked you,” Logan said simply.
She’d thought the same thing, but what difference did it make? In the hands of the tabloid press, the story would be damning. People would share the supposedly salacious details. The damage would still be done.
Harper shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”
He nodded again, finishing his food. Harper realized she hadn’t even eaten half of hers yet. They sat in comfortable silence as she finished eating, and then Logan took their plates and loaded the dishwasher.
She watched him, thinking about how she couldn’t recall her father ever stacking the dishwasher or cooking. After their mother’s death, Isla had taken on that responsibility, followed by Harper. And when Isla started earning money, they hired a cleaner and eventually a cook, too.
Despite Logan doing what her father would have dismissed as “women’s work,” there was nothing feminine about him.
She admired the way his sweater pulled taut over his broad shoulders as he moved. When he bent over, her mouth dropped open as the soft fabric of his worn jeans clung to his legs, and suddenly, she felt uncomfortably warm. He had to have the thickest pair of thighs she had ever seen on a man.
Dragging her gaze away, she searched for something else to focus on. Anything else.
“Seems like a shitty move to me.” Logan closed the dishwasher. A quiet beep followed, and then the gentle whoosh of water started.
The familiar domesticity of the moment eased the knot in Harper’s stomach slightly.
“Whether she tricked me or not doesn’t matter,” Harper murmured. “What matters is that I confirmed she was right. Isla doesn’t write her songs.”
Logan turned, leaning against the counter with one foot crossed over the other. His hands rested on the bench beside him, and Harper couldn’t help but notice the fabric of his sweater pulled across the thick muscles of his arms and shoulders.
And those thighs. Dear lord, the man had thighs to worship!
Down girl.
“Who writes her songs?” Logan asked.
Harper studied him carefully as she admitted—for the second time in two days—a secret she never thought she’d reveal.
“I write Isla’s songs. Every one of them.”
Logan nodded slowly, his expression steady. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the lights flickered—and the house plunged into darkness.
ChapterNine
Harper
