Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(56)

I was stone-cold serious, and when she saw my expression, hers leveled out, too. “It’s the night before the grand opening.”

“I know, and we’ve done everything that needs to be done. You need a break before the madness takes over. Let me cook for you.”

She smirked. “Macaroni and cheese, I’d imagine?”

“Let me cook a real meal for you,” I said, still serious. My eyes searched hers, and I swallowed past the sinking in my gut that told me I was coming on too strong, that I was freaking her out.

I’d never felt this way in my entire life, and I refused to keep silent about it.

“I’ve never been to your place,” she said — and I wasn’t sure if it was an argument, or just a statement.

“Let’s change that.”

She bit her lip, considering, but then a smile bloomed over those rosy lips of hers, and she kissed my nose. “Okay, Chef Logan. But I expect a four-course dinner.”

“And you’ll get it,” I said, kissing the corners of her lips before I pulled her mouth to mine again. My hands slipped over her arms, down her back, gripping her hips briefly before I smacked her ass. “Dessert, too.”

She giggled, swatting at me with absolutely zero intention of actually getting me away from her before she wrapped her arms around my neck. The kiss deepened, all jokes gone, and I ignored the clock on the wall that told me it was late and I needed to go.

Maybe if I didn’t point it out, if I didn’t say a word, I could just stay there.

Stay the night.

Stay forever.

And maybe, if I played my cards right, I could get her to stay, too.





Logan


My place was the cleanest it had ever been — and that was saying something.

I’d rushed home from work to scrub down every corner, dusting and sweeping and mopping and tidying until it was time to run to the grocery store. And even now, with dinner cooking in the oven and my hands busy chopping veggies for the appetizer, I was looking around the space, making mental notes of things I wanted to tidy up or rearrange before Mallory got there.

It was the first time I’d ever invited a woman into my home.

It sounded crazy, because I’d slept with enough women that it should have been hard to believe that statement. But, regardless of what the town liked to think or gossip about, it was always me going to their place, not bringing them to mine. To me, there was something personal about the space I lived in — the photos on the walls, the books on the shelves, the magnets on the fridge. There were little pieces of me everywhere, and I had never wanted to share those pieces with anyone before.

Until now.

My stomach was a wreck the entire evening, and I wondered if I’d even be able to eat the dinner I was cooking. I’d gone all out, remembering from a brief conversation we’d had while cleaning out the storage closet that Mallory loved Greek food but rarely had it, since there wasn’t a Greek restaurant within fifty miles of Stratford and her family was a steak and potatoes kind of family. So, I’d made homemade tzatziki, with fresh vegetables and hot pita bread brushed with seasoning to dip. I’d also made a classic Greek salad, and a creamy, feta-smothered chicken bake with artichoke hearts and olives and tomatoes and Mediterranean seasoning. And, even though it’d been a giant pain in my ass, I had baklava made and waiting to go in the oven as soon as I pulled dinner out — complete with the honey sauce in the fridge that I’d pour over top of it when it was done.

The meal and the way my house looked were the only things I could control that night. Maybe that’s why I had obsessed, teaching myself more than I really even needed to know about the Greek culture and their diet before choosing a perfectly balanced menu. And maybe that was why I’d cleaned every corner of my already-spotless house, as if even one photo frame being out of place would be the difference between Mallory feeling the same way I was or thinking I was a crazy person.

I sighed, shaking my head at myself as I arranged the freshly cut cucumber slices around the bowl of tzatziki. “Pull it together, man.”

There was a knock at my door, and my heart thundered to life, kicking so violently in my chest I had to grip the edge of the counter to keep from toppling over. I ran my hands under the faucet, drying them on the towel hanging from my oven before I made my way to the door, checking each spot in my house one last time on the way over. I touched a few things — not really moving them, but feeling like I was doing something — and then I stood in front of the door, blew out a long breath, put on my best, easy-going, nothing-is-wrong-and-everything-is-casual smile, and turned the handle.

When the wooden door was open and only the screen door stood between us, I stood there like an idiot, not moving to open it and invite Mallory inside because I’d been stunned stupid by how incredible she looked.

Her hair was down and riddled with beach-like waves, the edges still framing her chin in the most perfect way. Her eyes were lined, a dark wing giving them an exotic look, the golden eye shadow making her ocean-blue eyes pop against her olive skin. She wore a jean skirt with dark leggings underneath, the thighs of them shredded to show little slivers of her skin between each black piece of fabric. That skirt was paired with an oversized white sweater that hung off her shoulder, and for some reason, that sweater made her look so adorable, so small and sweet and delectable that I considered forgoing dinner altogether and pulling her inside for the full, in-depth tour of my bedroom.