Logan (Carolina Reapers 4)

I grinned.

Delaney: I got crappy news from the board and need a vent session.

My smile fell.

Logan: I can be there in twenty.

I tucked the phone in my back pocket, sliding it against the paper that currently occupied the space.

“Who was that?” Cannon asked as he leaned back against his Hummer. The black behemoth was an H1, and it made even him look small.

“Delaney had a shit day. I’m going to grab some comfort food and head over to her place,” I explained as I walked around to the driver’s side.

“But you’re not together. Right.” He gave me a thumbs up and disappeared into his car as I got into mine.

“We’re not together!” I shouted out my rolled-down window.

Twenty minutes later, I knocked on Delaney’s door. The townhouse was in a nice neighborhood, and I loved that her door was painted purple amongst all the red and black ones on the street. Just like Delaney herself, it was a pop of unexpected color.

“Hey,” Delaney answered with a stressed half-smile until she took in the bags I carried. “What’s all this?” She stepped back, and I carried everything in, heading straight for her kitchen.

“Comfort food,” I explained as I set the bags on her kitchen counters.

Her lips tilted up slightly, and I quickly looked away. She had on a thin-strapped tank top and drawstring pants that looked all too easy to remove. With my teeth. Bare feet. Bra-straps were visible, thank God. Just the thought of those pert, perfect nipples swaying unencumbered—

“We have the staples. Macaroni and cheese,” I lifted the blue-boxes from the bag. “Just like my mom made it—straight from the box.” Being a special needs parent never left her much time for cooking, and I honestly never minded. “Frozen lasagna. Chicken noodle soup. Powdered donuts. Ice cream.”

“You are something else,” she said with a grin, grabbing the pint of Ben & Jerry’s Strawberry Cheesecake. “How did you know this was my favorite?”

“Text message at some point,” I answered as I put away everything else I’d brought, leaving my own pint of Chunky Monkey on the counter.

“You pay attention to the little things, don’t you?” She took two spoons from her silverware drawer.

“Only if you’re saying that in an awesome way and not a holy-shit-you’re-a-stalker way.” I took my pint and followed her to the living room.

I’d burned more than enough calories to handle the indulgence, but this had to be it for the next few days if I wanted to keep my name at the top of that defenseman list. Food wasn’t fun during the season as much as it was fuel.

She plopped down on her couch and cracked the lid on the pint.

I took the opposite end of the couch—keeping as much distance between us as I could without sitting on the floor. We’d proven that our chemistry was too combustible to hang out in tight spaces.

She dug into the pint and groaned when she swallowed the first spoonful.

Do not get hard. That wasn’t sexual. Do. Not—

Too damned late.

I knew what those lips tasted like, and I wanted more. Sure, she’d said we were only friends, and I knew that was for the best. I’d only fuck up—fuck her up—if I got into something this soon after a relationship, right? How long had it been, anyway? I mentally counted the months as she made another hedonistic sound.

Four months. It had been four months since I broke it off with Blaire. Hell, we’d only been together for four months. What exactly was the right amount of time to let myself reset? Was there a right amount of time?

“So tell me what happened,” I said to get my mind off the subject.

“The board gave me the budget breakdown for the south wing reconstruction.” She drew her knees up.

“And I’m guessing it wasn’t what you wanted.” I concentrated on my ice cream to keep from staring too long at the line of her neck, or the wisps of hair that had come free from her loose bun.

“It’s enough to clean out the damage, so I know I should be thankful.”

“Spill it,” I ordered, then filled my mouth with the taste of bananas.

“They denied the reconstruction costs. Said there’s just not enough in the budget this year. So if I want to actually reopen the wing, I’ll have to find the funds to replace all the damaged furniture and all the books. So. Many. Books. Half of our general fiction was housed in there. The only ones you’ve seen have been the titles that were stored above the waterline.” She dug back into her pint and then licked the spoonful, brow furrowed.

“Oh man. I’m so sorry. I know how much this means to you.” I’d spent more than a few evenings hauling out the books they’d initially hoped they could save only to realize they’d been too badly damaged.