Jean walked over, calm as a storm about to strike, and plucked another beer from the table before sinking onto the couch opposite Logan. She crossed one long leg over the other, completely unbothered, her bare legs peeking out from beneath the oversized white shirt that clearly belonged to Logan.
Logan's eyes followed the movement. The shirt… his shirt… fit her too well. Draped just right. She looked better in it than he ever did, and that realization made his throat tighten.
He hated that she looked like she belonged here. In his shirt. On his couch.
He was just beginning to spiral when…
Emma dropped the bomb.
"Well then. Get your lawyer ready, Mr. Kingsley," she said, brushing her hands together. "We have a wedding to prepare for in about…" she checked her wristwatch, "…nine hours."
Logan blinked. "What?"
Jean looked straight at him, unfazed. "I hope you're ready, Logan."
