THE CHOCOLATE CAKE WAS EVERY BIT AS DELICIOUS AS HER
father’s Olympian Advisor had claimed, and the smile on Michael’s face when Logan presented him with a baseball glove—an object Angel had heard about but didn’t really see the attraction of—was priceless. As was the ability to work beside Logan cleaning up the dinner.
Priceless? Angel almost dropped a plate at that thought. If her mother could see her now, enjoying chores.
Of course, the chores weren’t what she was enjoying.
Something had changed. Drastically.
Angel rubbed a spot on the plate a little more vigor-ously than necessary, forcing her mind back to the rea-son she’d stayed aboard ship last night. Well, the reason other than Harry, that is. This was all for the benefit of Merkind and the planet.
And if she kept telling herself that, she might actually remember it.
Then Logan’s arm brushed her shoulder, and sud-denly the fate of the planet took a backseat to what was happening here and now in the kitchen.
She stacked the plate on top of the others with a heavy chink.
“You okay?” Logan asked, taking the next one out of her hands.
“Um, sure. Why?” She reached for one of the glasses and started to dry it. Such an odd concept, drying things.
Logan set the plate down and leaned a hip against the counter. “Angel, I can’t be the only one aware of the elephant in the room.”
An elephant? Angel spun around. “There’s no elephant.”
She hadn’t ever heard of anyone keeping an elephant as a pet in this country. India? Africa? Sure. Here? That was a new one.
“You’ve never heard that expression?” Logan flipped the dish towel over his shoulder.
Oh, Zeus. She’d done it again. “I, um… well, yeah, but—”
“Angel”—he put his hand on her arm and just as quickly snatched it back—“I don’t want things to be awkward between us.”
Too late. “Okay.”
“Michael will pick up on it.” “I know.”
“So…” He picked up the dish again and started dry-ing it. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Gods, no. “What’s there to talk about? You kissed me; I kissed you; end of story.”
It sounded good in theory. In her mind? Not so much.
“Right. End of story. It happened. It won’t happen again. Everything’s good.” He said it as a statement, but his raised eyebrow was asking a question.
Could she let it go?
She had to. What else was she going to do? Sleep with him?
She almost laughed, but that wouldn’t be appropriate.
Or nice.
Or truthful.
Because the truth was, she was suddenly inordinately curious to see what sex would be like with him.
And not from any study standpoint. Oh, Hades. She was in trouble—
“Angel, can you read me a bedtime story?” Michael, thank the gods, smiled at her from the doorway, his baseball cap skewed sideways again, just as his smile was again the image of his father’s.
Angel tossed the dish towel on the counter. She didn’t need to be noticing Logan’s smile. Or the lack thereof as he looked at his son—the son who’d asked her, not him, to read a bedtime story.
Angel walked over to the little boy and knelt in front of him. “You know what, Michael? I’m really worn out. How about if your dad reads you one tonight, and I’ll do it another night?”
The little boy lost the glow of hope and excitement, and maybe a tear or two worked its way into his eyes, but he didn’t argue. “You promise?”
“I promise.”
“Okay.” He leaned sideways and looked at his father. “Logan? Will you read me a story?”
Angel heard the dish land on the countertop—louder than the one she’d almost dropped—but didn’t turn around. She didn’t even look up when Logan passed her with a quick squeeze to her shoulder.
“Sure, sport. Let’s brush your teeth first, then we’ll get you into bed. Do you know which story you’d like?”
Angel missed Michael’s response as they left the kitchen, focusing instead on wiping the tears out of her own eyes.
Michael needed so much love. Logan needed to be the one to provide it.
And they needed help in bridging the distance.
Looked like her sojourn here would serve several purposes.