Page 47 of Man Flu

“I was going to leave it up to you since you seem to have an opinion about everything.”

“I do have an opinion about everything. Is that a problem for you?”

He’s in my bubble and staring down at me as if I were his meek prey. “I told you, I like that.”

“Do you like standing in my space and staring down at me, too?”

“Tell me to move if you don’t want me standing here … this close to you.” His voice has lowered to a whispering growl, and the vibrations echoing between the foyer’s walls are triggering my nerves into a frenzied state of panic.

The words from Ryan Gosling in “The Notebook” ring through my head, “What do you want? What do you want? WHAT do you want?” I want to make out with a hot guy. I want that. I do. But he works for me, and it’s wrong, which makes it so damn right. I could tell him, “It’s not that simple,” or “I have to go.” For as long as I’ve been hearing Ryan Gosling’s voice in my head and replaying that old-fashioned Southern scene in my mind, Logan’s face is less than an inch from mine. Why am I thinking about Ryan Gosling when I have this man standing here? He’s on the same level on the ovary-explode-o-meter as Gosling, and I’m being ballsy.

“I’m worried,” I whisper.

He smirks as his faint breath envelops my lips. “That it won’t be what you want?” he purrs into my mouth.

“No.” I’m having trouble catching my breath, even though I haven’t moved in minutes. “That it might be exactly what I want—precisely what I’ve needed—and ultimately, what I’ve never had.”

“Well, in that case …” His lips yield to mine in a seamless alliance of warmth and fervor as his fingertips press into my back, holding me hostage within his embrace. My heart drums against the inside of my chest, as shooting sparks of adrenaline fire down the center of my core.

A pause for air breaks the space between our mouths, leaving my lips tingling and a little numb. “I knew it,” he says.

“What?” I croak.

“There’s something between us—with us.”

“Hot,” is all I can mumble. Hot? Hot makes no sense. The kiss was hot, yes. Am I hot? Yes. Does he know any of this? I have no idea.

“Yeah,” he groans. He gets it, I guess. His lips are back on mine, but this time we’re moving backwards—my heels are nearly gliding until my back reaches the wall. His hips are pressed against mine, and he cups his hands firmly on my cheeks, inhaling sharply as he bites down on my bottom lip. Shit, I need more of this. I need him. I don’t give a crap if I’m his boss or if he’s my boss. I need to get screwed—now.

This is not a dream. This is real. Real. Real.

“Hannah?” The voice, the ear piercing, nails-on-a-chalkboard voice that I cannot stand, echoes through the cathedral ceiling within the foyer. “Oh, Hannah, I’m so sorry. I needed to get Cora’s blankie. She can’t sleep without it. Carry on with who you were doing—by all means. Just pretend like I’m not here.” She literally walks by us as if we are no more than a piece of entryway decor that she admired for a brief moment. There was no knock on the door, no ringing the bell like we’ve talked about four million times. She just walked in, like I’ve asked her to stop doing.

Logan rests his forehead against mine. “Is this bad?”

I snicker. “Are you kidding? This is freaking fantastic,” I tell him.