Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(27)



“What?” I asked, breathless.

His smile climbed. “I just love seeing people talk about what they’re most passionate about,” he said simply. “And I’m excited. For you, for this place. It’s going to be great, Mallory.”

I blushed, and as soon as I realized that was what was happening, that the heat in my cheeks was a visible sign of being a mixture of embarrassed and flattered, I wanted to slap myself — I probably would have, if that wouldn’t have made me look like even more of a weirdo.

Suddenly, a dark figure scurried out from the back office, little legs carrying it straight toward me. But before I could bend to scratch behind Dalí’s ear, Logan wrapped his arms around my waist, swinging me behind him and standing like a brick wall between me and the ball of fluff like it was a bear instead of a cat. One hand held me in place behind him as the other splayed in front of him, like a shield or a weapon.

If it wasn’t somehow so fucking endearing that he was trying to protect me from something, I would have laughed.

“Wait!” I said, grabbing his shoulders to hold him back from killing my furry friend. “It’s just Dalí.”

Logan relaxed — though only marginally, and he still stood in front of me. “Who?”

I chuckled, releasing my grip on his shoulders as I made my way around him and bent to pick up the cat. “Dalí,” I repeated. “He was a stray, and I adopted him. Thought he’d make a pretty cute shop cat.”

Dalí croaked out an old meow when he was in my arms, his signature motorboat purr sparking to life. He was warm, like he’d been wrapped in a ball sleeping somewhere in the back, but I couldn’t shake the fact that I missed another warmth I’d had just moments before.

Logan’s body against mine, his hand on my waist…

“He is pretty cute,” Logan said, relaxing even more now. He took a step toward us, reaching one finger under Dalí’s chin to rub the patch of white there. Dalí leaned into the touch, which earned a chuckle from Logan and a smile from me.

When Dalí had enough petting for his liking, he wormed around in my arms until I lowered him back to the ground. He meowed once more before skipping off somewhere in the back, and then it was just Logan and me again.

His eyes bounced between mine. “Sorry I grabbed you,” he said, reaching for the back of his neck with an embarrassed shrug. “Acting like a big bad knight in shining armor, protecting you from a cat.”

I let out a soft laugh, folding my hands in front of me. “I appreciate the gesture. Glad to know I’d have some help if small, furry animals tried to overrun the shop.”

Logan smirked.

“Anyway, thanks for indulging me,” I said on an awkward laugh, covering my face when I remembered how I’d pranced around the empty shop like an idiot as I explained my vision for what it would become. I let my hands fall to my thighs with a slap, letting out a long breath. “It really has been a long day.”

He straightened at that, his face leveling. “Yeah, let me get out of your hair, let you get some sleep,” he said, his feet moving toward the door — toward me. He stopped with just a foot between us, and I felt that distance like it was a live wire, buzzing and sparking and warning of danger. “But, thank you for showing me… and for the apology for today.”

I flushed again.

Stupid traitorous cheeks.

“Thank you for forgiving me,” I replied. “And for letting us start over, so I can show you I’m not a complete brat.”

“Just a somewhat brat.”

“Right.”

He smiled. “I’m looking forward to the new beginning.”

“Me, too.”

Logan stood there a moment longer, eyes flicking back and forth between mine, and if it wasn’t so dark in the shop, I would have sworn I saw those hazel wells fall to my lips before he finally stepped away.

“Goodnight, Mallory Scooter.”

And with that, he was gone — as was the man I thought he was before that night.





Logan


When I wasn’t having dinner at Mom’s or going out to the bar with my brothers, my normal night routine went like this:

Make a protein shake. Read the newspaper while I drank said protein shake, followed by a thirty-minute, high-intensity workout that mostly involved calisthenics in my back yard, and thirty minutes of yoga and meditation. Then, I’d shower, shave, and cook dinner — which was the same thing every night — chicken breast, baby carrots, zucchini, and squash — all baked in the same seasoning in the oven at three-hundred-and-fifty degrees for one hour. I ate at my small dining table alone, without the television on and without looking at a screen of any kind. After dinner, I either picked up the book I was currently reading — which almost always was a historical biography or a psychological thriller of some kind — or, on the nights I was feeling lazy, I’d plop down on the couch and indulge in a documentary.

Tonight, I wasn’t necessarily in the lazy category, but I was very firmly in the distracted one — therefore, reading had proven nearly impossible and I was on the couch, trying (and failing) to watch the space documentary I’d been wanting to watch for weeks. Still, even though I was very interested in Apollo 11 and the countless people and thousands of hours that went into getting the first man on the moon, I couldn’t focus long enough to actually learn anything. Instead, I watched the television as if from a distance, with the words jumbling together, the images blurred.

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