Logan won't stop grinning at me from across the table, and it's making the tender, perfectly seasoned ribeye taste like cardboard.
Not because of anything the chef did.
It's all because of him and the pheromones he's dumping my way.
What tear in my vajayjay? There's no tear, my brain insists, cajoling me into round two. Maybe on the dinner table. Or the kitchen counter.
The sofa's good, too. Always fun to desecrate a sof—
No.
Damn it.
Nicole, stop listening to the pheromones.
I cut another piece of steak, placing it in my mouth with mechanical precision while trying to resist the magnetism of Logan's gaze. It should taste divine, since it's coming from the five-star restaurant downstairs… but my tongue is too busy craving something else.
Heat crawls up my neck.
Ah, dirty Nicole. You've just jumped straight into the gutter.
His elbow rests on the table, chin propped in his hand, eyes never leaving my face.
