“
I sprinkle some flour on the dough and roll it out with the heavy, wooden rolling pin. Once it’s the perfect size and thickness, I flip the rolling pin around and sing into the handle—American Idol style.
“Calling Gloriaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . .”
And then I turn around.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Without thinking, I bend my arm and throw the rolling pin like a tomahawk . . . straight at the head of the guy who’s standing just inside the kitchen door.
The guy I didn’t hear come in.
The guy who catches the hurling rolling pin without flinching—one-handed and cool as a gorgeous cucumber—just an inch from his perfect face.
He tilts his head to the left, looking around the rolling pin to meet my eyes with his soulful brown ones. “Nice toss.”
Logan St. James.
Bodyguard. Totally badass. Sexiest guy I have ever seen—and that includes books, movies and TV, foreign and domestic. He’s the perfect combo of boyishly could-go-to-my-school kind of handsome, mixed with dangerously hot and tantalizingly mysterious. If comic-book Superman, James Dean, Jason Bourne and some guy with the smoothest, most perfectly pitched, British-Scottish-esque, Wessconian-accented voice all melded together into one person, they would make Logan fucking St. James.
And I just tried to clock him with a baking tool—while wearing my Rick and Morty pajama short-shorts, a Winnie-the-Pooh T-shirt I’ve had since I was eight and my SpongeBob SquarePants slippers.
And no bra.
Not that I have a whole lot going on upstairs, but still . . .
“Christ on a saltine!” I grasp at my chest like an old woman with a pacemaker.
Logan’s brow wrinkles. “Haven’t heard that one before.”
Oh fuck—did he see me dancing? Did he see me leap? God, let me die now.
I yank on my earbuds’ cord, popping them from my ears. “What the hell, dude?! Make some noise when you walk in—let a girl know she’s not alone. You could’ve given me a heart attack. And I could’ve killed you with my awesome ninja skills.”
The corner of his mouth quirks. “No, you couldn’t.”
He sets the rolling pin down on the counter.
“I knocked on the kitchen door so I wouldn’t frighten you, but you were busy with your . . . performance.”
Blood and heat rush to my face. And I want to melt into the floor and then all the way down to the Earth’s core.
”
”