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Felix only chuckles. Logan leans closer, and I freeze like a little baby fawn as a wolf stalks through the grass nearby.
“The chair is yours,” Logan says. “A gift. Accept it. Stop being stubborn and prideful.”
Is that what I’m being?
Maybe. But more than that, this is an act of self-preservation. If I let Logan buy me chairs, what’s next? My heart is already stuck on the man. I can’t let him do things like this. It’ll only make me like him more.
“I’m yours, Parker.” Logan makes his voice sound like a cartoon character, clearly pretending to be the voice of Fancy Chair.
He’s being silly. I know it.
But hearing Logan say he’s mine?
The phraseI cannot evenwas literally borne out of some moments like this.
I cannot.
I cannoteven.
Logan seems to take my incapacitated state as surrender because he pats my shoulders twice and moves away. “Good girl,” he says.
I barely manage to hold in a whimper.
“Later, Boss,” Felix says, and the look on his face is so knowing I make a mental note to kick him right in the shins next time I see him.
“I’ll pick you up for our date at six-thirty,” Logan says. Then he winks and is gone, leaving me in the soft embrace of Fancy Chair.
“I am in so much trouble,” I whisper. “So. Much.”
* * *
Turns out choosing what to wear for afakedate is just as difficult as it is for the real thing. Which is why I make an emergency call to Mia a few hours before Logan is picking me up for the gala. When there’s a knock at my door, I’ve got three different dresses still on coat hangers looped over my neck.
“I’ve narrowed it down to three choices, and Mr. Eds isnohelp. Which dress says …” I trail off as I open the door.
Because it’s not Mia on the other side.
It’s Logan.
I’m so grateful I didn’t finish my question, which was to ask which dress would make me look irresistible.
“You’re early,” I blurt, rubbing my eyes, like this will make him disappear. “And you’re in … track pants?”
Not that Logan doesn’t look good in track pants. Or any pants for that matter.
Something I shouldn’t be thinking about now because I’m totally blushing.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got my tux.” Logan takes in my current status, wherein I’m impersonating a clothing rack. “And you’re wearing but not wearing two—no, three—dresses. You were asking your evil cat to help you with fashion advice?”
As though he can understand what Logan just said, Mr. Eds lets out a low growl and then a hiss from wherever he’s hiding currently. Last I saw, he was lurking behind my fake fiddle-leaf fig.
“Mia’s on her way to help.”
“Guys have it a little easier. Less decision fatigue with a suit.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. Something about Logan using the word decision fatigue is just too much. Or maybe it’s nerves from thinking about Logan all day and now actually seeing him.
“Do you want my opinion?” he asks, then holds up both hands. “I know better than to offer one if you don’t.”
