The house was quiet as I made my way downstairs. Logan wasn’t anywhere to be seen, though I could distantly hear a shoulder running. I settled myself in the lounge room, intending to sit on the couch and wait for him, when once again I was distracted by the beauty of the room. In the centre of one wall was a great stone fireplace, but what actually caught my eye was the wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves complete with a rolling ladder.
I wandered over, dragging my fingers over the books. Bookshelves like these were my dream. My major was English Lit, and a cursory glance at the shelves revealed Logan had all the classics. There were not only American novels (Fitzgerald,Steinbeck, Morrison) but also British works and translated copies of continental writers like Tolstoy and Dumas.
A noise behind me made me whirl around. It was Logan entering the room. His shoulders were still wet from the shower and he wore a fluffy grey towel that was currently slung low on his hips, revealing rows and rows of defined abs —
We both made surprised noises, and I quickly turned around. Shit. I hoped he hadn’t seen me staring.
“Fuck,” he said. “Sorry, I’m used to the house being empty. I figured you’d still be upstairs.”
“Sorry,” I said at the same time. “I didn’t mean to — sorry.”
“I left some clothes here. Give me a sec.” I heard him move across the room behind me. Even after he walked away, I didn’t turn around. My cheeks were hot. I tried not to replay the memory of his bare chest. He’d been built, which, duh. He was a construction worker. Of course he’d have all those muscles…
What I hadn’t expected was the light dusting of brown hair that had trailed down, disappearing behind his towel —
“I’m back,” he announced, and I turned around, both relieved and (I’d never admit this) slightly disappointed to see he was fully dressed. He wore a black cotton shirt and navy plaid-patterned pants, and somehow, he made the basic clothes look like something designer.
“Hey,” I said. “I was just looking at your collection. Are these for show, or…”
He made a mock-outraged noise. “‘Course not. I’ve read all of these.”
My brows jumped up. “Seriously?”
His lips quirked up. “I have a feeling I’m being insulted in my own home right now.”
My cheeks flamed. “No, I didn’t mean it like that…” I wasn’t trying to be rude, but I didn’t expect a construction worker to bethis well read…which, after reflecting on it, was a totally stupid and elitist assumption to make.
Logan walked up next to me, trailing a hand over the dark wood shelves. He had big hands. Long fingers. Short nails. “To be honest, I gave up onFinnegans Wakehalfway through,” he admitted.
“Joyce isn’t my favourite either,” I told him.
He raised his brows. “You’re a big reader too?”
“Yeah. I mean, I have to read a lot for college. My major’s English Lit. I don’t know if Tim mentioned that.”
“Ah. No, Tim didn’t mention that. He, uh…he didn’t say a lot about you.”
Well, that just made me feel like shit again.
“You were a mystery. I guess that’s why I was so excited to meet you.” He offered me a small smile. “You like pizza?”
Somehow, that tiny smile made me feel better again. “Who doesn’t?” I replied.
Half an hour later, we were sitting at the kitchen island, destroying a meatlovers pizza. Maybe I’d just had a really shit day, but the pizza tasted like the best I’d ever had.
It had been awkward at first, when Logan slid into the chair next to me, his knee bumping my bare leg, the accidental touch sending a shock of electricity through my body. He made an apologetic noise and we ate in silence. But then he asked me about my major, which launched us into a long conversation, where we bonded over our mutual love of Dostoyevsky and argued about which Brontë sister we liked the most.
“I bet you have these conversations a lot,” Logan said after we were done, and I was fiddling with a piece of crust I was too full to eat.
“Not as much as you’d think,” I said. “None of my friends have the same major.”
“Tim must’ve asked you about your studies though,” Logan said. “You’re clearly passionate about it.”
“Um. Not really.” I hesitated, because I didn’t want to criticize Logan’s son in his own house, even though his son totally deserved it. “Tim’s not really the type to ask you questions about yourself.”
Logan grimaced. “He can be a bit self-centered. Although — and this isn’t me trying to make excuses for him — I think he’s more…oblivious…than intentionally malicious.”
“I know,” I said with a sigh. “I feel kind of stupid. I knew from the moment I meant him that he could be self-absorbed, but I thought deep down, he did care about me.”
