It took me by surprise the first time I pulled up to it and was even more shocked when I went inside and saw the professional decorating. Turns out, this neighborhood was developed and built by Mr. Dawson’s contracting company. The house Logan and Owen live in now was a model home for a few years, hence the perfect design.
I wobble my way through the garage and into the house.
“Did your mom send you any leftovers?” I ask, balancing on one foot at a time to get my heels off, tossing them to the side of the door.
“Oh of course,” Logan says, striding through the kitchen, following the pathetic whimpers of his dog. “But we ate them.”
“Dang it. Your mom is a good cook.”
“We’re having lunch over there tomorrow. Come with.” The sound of a metal crate opening echoes through the otherwise quiet house. A five-month-old German Shepherd comes running out, jumping up at Logan, wagging his tail so hard he almost falls over.
“Down,” Logan tells him, holding out his hand. It’s cute, really, watching him try to be firm with the dog. He always ends up caving, like he is right now as he sits on the floor and lets the dog get up in his face.
“His training seems to be going well,” I sass, crossing my arms. “Glad you’re really sticking with being firm.”
“How can you say no to this face?” Logan pushes the dog’s ears back and then scratches Dexter’s chest, making his back leg go all crazy.
“Dexter!” I call, sinking down to my knees. Dexter, realizing for the first time that I’m here, comes barreling over. He knocks me back and I fall to the ground, laughing as the lanky pup licks my face.
“Come on,” Logan calls. “Go outside.”
Dexter bounds away, getting excited when he sees Logan holding his leash. I push myself up, going over to the sink to get something to drink since I somehow forgot about the water bottle in the two seconds it took for me to unbuckle and get out of the car. I fill a glass with water and set it on the counter. The kitchen is relatively clean today. Logan, overall, is a neat person. Living with Owen is like living with an adult-sized toddler leaving messes in every room. It’s funny, really, how they look so alike but have such different personalities.
I go into the living room, find the TV remote on the coffee table, and sink onto the couch. I have every intention of turning on a scary movie and making Logan watch it with me. But then I close my eyes, just for a second. The next thing I know, Dexter is on the couch next to me, wagging his tail and licking my face.
“Lightweight.” I feel the couch sink down as Logan sits down at my other side.
“Hey,” I grumble, slitting my eyes open. “I actually had like three drinks and a shot tonight. That’s a lot.”
“It is. I’ll change that lightweight to a lush then.”
“Asshole.” I try to throw a pillow at him but just end up smacking him in the face. I push myself up and laugh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“Now you’ve done it.” Logan grabs another pillow and chucks it at me. Dexter gets way too excited and pounces on Logan, with one of his large paws landing right between his legs. Logan doubles over in pain, and I laugh even harder.
“Who’s the asshole now?” he chokes out.
“Don’t call Dexter-Wexter an asshole,” I gasp in fake shock and slip my fingers under Dexter’s collar, gently pulling him back and off the couch. I get up to grab the pillow I threw and trip when Dexter tries to do a flying leap back onto the couch.
I don’t know how he moves so fast, but I’m grateful he did. Because I’m still too drunk to have a good reaction time, and I’m about ready to fall backward onto the glass coffee table.
Logan’s arms fold around my waist at the last second. He pulls me to his chest and straightens up. I have one hand on his chest and the other is gripping his bicep. Which is strong. Firm. Warm, just like the rest of him.
A second passes, and we’re still standing there like this. I splay my fingers over his chest and turn my head up, looking into his brown eyes. Inhaling deep, my breasts crush against his body. His hand that’s on the small of my back inches lower and his fingertips press into my waist.
Heat flashes through me, unlike anything I’ve felt around him before. I’ve worked hard to keep these kinds of reactions from happening, but my whiskey-soaked mind has lost all its will right now.
“You okay?” he asks, though by now it’s obvious I am.
“Yeah. Lost my balance.”
“No shit.”