Logan (Carolina Reapers 4)

“I do?”

“Assuming you have pasta somewhere in the pantry?”

“I do,” I said, sounding awfully like a parrot.

“Are you okay?” Logan asked, shutting the fridge. “If you don’t like—”

“I do,” I said for the third time and cringed. “Sorry. I’ve never had a man cook for me before. I think I’m having an out-of-body experience.”

Logan laughed, and that beautiful sound only made me more dazed. He placed his hand on the small of my back, leading me around my island and settling me into one of my cushioned barstools on the other side.

“I’m excited to be your first,” he said, winking mischievously before hustling back into the kitchen.

“Here,” I said, moving to get off the barstool. “Let me at least help you.”

He snapped his fingers at me, then motioned for me to retake my seat. “Not a chance,” he said, his eyes blazing with excitement. “This is your first time, after all,” he said. “Let me take care of you.”

I no longer knew if he was talking about the food or something else entirely, but I sat my butt back down.

He easily found a rhythm in my kitchen, locating all the necessary ingredients and pots and pans with little direction from me. While the pasta cooked, he poured us both a glass of wine, and I sipped the red liquid while watching him work on the sauce.

The man knew his way around a stove, around food, and there was something incredibly sensual about watching him cook. Or maybe it was because he was so unbelievably gorgeous, or smelled better than the delicious food he prepared. Or it could be the fact that it was simply him that made me see and feel things I shouldn’t.

After another glass of wine, Logan slid a bowl of Carbonara in front of me, settling himself and his own bowl next to me.

He watched me with a hawk-like gaze as I curled the pasta around my fork and brought it to my mouth.

I moaned as the flavors hit my tongue—the pasta tender, the sauce warm and flavorful, the seasoning perfect.

“Wow,” I said after swallowing. “That may be the best pasta I’ve ever had.”

Logan blew out a breath and dug into his food, satisfied with my reaction.

I took a few more bites, practically giddy from how delicious it was. “You’ve made this before,” I said.

“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s my Kate’s favorite dish.”

My heart swelled. “That’s so sweet you cook for your sister.”

A swarm of unconditional love filled his eyes as he paused his eating. “I’d do just about anything for her. She’s the best person I’ve ever met.”

I pursed my lips, swallowing down the emotions clogging my chest. The way he’d spoken about her before, in the library…the way he loved her was so incredible. I wondered what it would be like to have a sibling so devoted to you. “That’s wonderful,” I said.

He cleared his throat, returning to his pasta. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked. “You’ve never mentioned them before.”

I shook my head, taking a sip of wine after another delectable bite. “Only child,” I said. “That doesn’t mean I was spoiled, though.”

Logan raised his hands. “I would never have thought that.”

I arched a brow at him.

“I wouldn’t,” he assured me. “Trust me, I’ve met spoiled people, and it often has nothing to do with how many siblings they do or don’t have. They use people and never take a second to see beyond the exterior of someone. Only what they can gain.” There was a sharp bite to his words that made me assume we’d stumbled onto the topic of his ex. Again. “You’re not one of those entitled people.” He took another huge bite, tearing into the pasta like it had personally offended him.

Before I could think or blink, I’d reached across the space and smoothed my fingers of the deep grooves between his brows. Wherever he’d just went, it wasn’t a place he liked to visit.

He relaxed under my touch, eyes closing as he leaned into my hand. I held my breath, tracing the lines of his forehead, the strong angle of his jaw, and the seam of his neck. I reveled in the innocent touch that sizzled on my fingertips, the way the tension seemed to melt from him under my caress.

A deep hunger that had nothing to do with pasta wrenched in my core, pulsing, aching to be sated. And though I wanted to go lower, to explore the broad expanse of muscles beneath his chest, I stopped myself and went right back up to his cheek, settling my palm there.

He opened his eyes, a hazy kind of look.

“I see you, Logan,” I said, my words nearly a whisper. “Beneath all this mess,” I teased, motioning to the perfection of his face. “I see the man there. An incredibly good man. And it has nothing to do with your looks.”