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“How private was she?”

“What do you mean?” He crosses his arms, and I one hundred percent ignore the muscle bulging at his bicep.

I lace my fingers together, my knee bouncing beneath the table. “Do you think she was an overly private person? Did she share much about her life?”

Leaning back in his chair, he studies me. “Will you answer my question if I answer yours?”

I can guess where this is going.

Logan doesn’t wait for my answer. He just asks his question. “What were you doing to that floor?”

I clear my throat and divert. “You loved her, right?”

His black brows cinch together. “I did.”

Still, the words won’t come. I’ve trained myself to stay silent on the subject.

He watches me, his unanswered question lingering in the quiet.

Beep! Beep! Two sharp honks cut through the silence.

“That’s my eight-thirty.”

“Thanks for breakfast,” I say, meaning it.

“Anytime.” Logan’s face softens. I have not given him what he asked for, but he isn’t angry with me. “I’m going to the market later if you want to join me.”

“I do!” I bounce up from my seat. Groceries! “Thank you.”

“Eleven o’clock?”

“I’ll be ready.”

The words force Logan’s eyes from my face to the bear on my pj top. The right side of his lips quirk up in a grin.

I walk him to the door and out into the sunshine. Shielding my eyes with one hand, I wave with the other. “See you⁠—”

A hearty, loud laugh from across the yard cuts off my goodbye. A middle-aged man with a wicked smile on his lips leans against an old Chevrolet in Logan’s driveway. His eight-thirty appointment finds something humorous.

“Don’t mind me!” the man hollers. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” His greasy blond hair lay in no particular direction. The thick sideburns on his face filter down into his unruly facial hair. He’s in dirty jeans that are ripped at the pockets and a tan flannel shirt that looks as though it’s never seen the inside of a washing machine. But he’s laughing at Pooh Bear.

Logan doesn’t bother addressing him. “See you at eleven,” he says before heading toward the man.

“Yeah, see you then,” I say, but my eyes lock on the smug man behind him.

“Not even gonna kiss her goodbye, Logan?” he says.

I take one step forward, considering answering him. Logan hasn’t, and I don’t like this stranger making assumptions about me. I have a boyfriend. And I’m a loyal person.

“You’re not much of a date, are you? Who is she anyway? I’ve never seen her before.”

“That’s Olivia,” Logan says. “Amelia’s granddaughter. She owns the place now. You’d know that if you’d shown up to the funeral, Hank.”

That’s it? Where’s his objection? The it’s not like that, idiot. He’s just going to let this guy assume whatever he wants?

“Funerals ain’t my thing.” Hank looks past Logan to me. “Pretty girl.”

Logan glances back at me. “Yes, she is pretty.”