“Sounds like things aren’t going well,” Theo said, doing nothing to hide his amusement.
“Things are going verra well,” Logan growled.
“Really?” The suspicion in his friend’s voice traveled clearly all the way across the pond. “Then why are you calling me?” Theo knew him too well.
Logan surveyed the disaster surrounding him and sighed. “You got me. I need your help.”
“I’m not flying to Chicago.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Then what’s up?”
“Did you know clootie dumplings have to be boiled for four hours?” Logan glanced at the recipe for the hundredth time, still not believing the treat he’d enjoyed every holiday of his life took so much effort to make.
“I had no idea,” Theo said in his I-could-care-less-snooty-English voice. “Thanks for enlightening me.”
“Don’t be a wanker.”
“Hey, you called me,” Theo countered. “You do know it’s almost midnight here, right?”
“Och, sorry.” Logan rubbed a hand over his face, then cursed again, realizing he’d just covered himself in flour.
“It’s fine,” Theo grumbled. “Not like I’m doing anything important right now, anyway.”
“No hot date?” Logan teased.
“Hardly. But sounds like you and Cassie are carrying on well enough. Still seeing each other then?”
“Aye, it’s been a month now.”
“A month? My, things are getting serious,” Theo cooed. The git was teasing him.
“Did I mention her friend Bonnie is looking well?” Logan shot back. “Adorable redhead. You remember her, right?”
“I remember she’s engaged,” Theo replied stiffly. “Remind me, was there a reason for this call?”
“Right. I wanted to do a wee something special for Cassie, to celebrate, you ken? But I left my kilt back in the hotel room.”
“Ugh. I don’t need to hear about your kilt kink.”
Ignoring that, Logan continued, poking at the lump of dough in the pot. “And now this dumpling belongs in a dumpster.”
“Here’s my suggestion. Give up on the cooking, clean up the mess I’ll wager my left nut you’ve made, and take the girl out for a proper meal.”
“Now, that’s a fine suggestion.”
“Of course it is,” Theo agreed. “How’s everything else? How’s the new show?”
“Coming along.”
“Have you talked to your sister?”
“A bit.”
“Lo,” Theo chastised.
As the oldest child and only brother to three sisters, his best mate had expectations in the sibling department. Like everything else, Theo was better at managing his responsibilities, carrying out his family duties. Meanwhile Lo was a selfish fuckwad.
Sharp stabs of guilt lashed him. Logan gripped the phone tighter. “You’re right. I’ll call her again soon.”
“I won’t give you any more shit, then,” Theo said. “Give Nettie my love, and don’t bloody call me in the middle of the night again.”
“Hey, Theo?
“What?”
“Thanks, mate.”
* * *
Cassie settled in the chair Logan held out for her and smiled as he took his seat across from her. “This is a nice surprise.”
“For me too.” He ran his hand through his hair and paused, looking up. “I mean, yes, this is nice.”
“You’ve got something there.” Cassie touched her own cheek, indicating a spot where Logan had a smudge.
“Christ, I thought I got it all. It’s probably flour.” Logan rubbed furiously at his face. “Is it gone?”
She shook her head, trying not to laugh. Instead of wiping the stuff off, he had smeared it more. “Here.” Cassie reached out and brushed her thumb across his cheek. His skin was warm beneath her hand, the faint bristle of new beard tickling.
As always, touching him made her tingle all over. Cassie had thought the sensation would begin to dull over time, but it hadn’t. If anything, the feelings had grown stronger these past weeks they were together. Like a junkie, she never seemed to get enough of Logan and was always looking for her next fix.
Luckily, Logan seemed to feel the same and was constantly touching her. He gripped her fingers in his, pulling her hand toward his mouth and pressing a soft kiss in the center of her palm. Liquid heat flowed from his lips up the length of her arm, thick and sweet as honey.
Cassie tugged her hand away. If he didn’t stop, they’d end up under the table … or on top of it. “Flour? Was this for your show?” She knew he’d been busy filming pre-taped sketches that were used during the live broadcast.
Logan shook his head and glanced at the wine list. “Ah, no.”
“Then what were you up to today?”
“Och, nothing much.” His face turned crimson.
Like Bonnie’s, Logan’s fair ginger skin was always a dead giveaway. He’d definitely been up to something. “Logan?” Cassie pressed.
“I was trying to cook for you,” he mumbled into his menu.
Of all the answers she could have predicted, that was not one of them. Cassie’s heart did silly little flip-flops in her chest.
When she didn’t reply, he looked up. “I was going to make you a clootie dumpling, but I muddled the time, and then I boiled myself like a damn lobster.” He pushed the sleeve of his shirt up, revealing a smattering of angry pink marks puckering the skin on his forearm.
“My poor, wounded Scot.” Cassie patted his arm.
“Ow!” He jerked his hand away. “That smarts.”
“Sorry,” Cassie said, swallowing a giggle. Men were such babies. But still, it had been very sweet of him. She pictured Logan standing at the stove, cursing as he cooked, his brogue growing thicker as it always did when he got angry … “Wait a minute,” she said, putting the whole picture together. “Was this in my apartment?”
“It was.” His face was all little-boy innocence.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have given you that key after all.”
“I cleaned up everything, I swear.”
“I hope you did a better job on my counters than you did on your face,” she teased.
“Your kitchen is as clean as the pope’s arse, I assure you.”
“I’ll take your word for it on that one.” Cassie wrinkled her nose.
“Come now, it’s not as though you do much cooking in there yerself.”
“That’s a low blow, Scottie.” Cassie play-pouted, not really offended. He did have a point. “It’s not my fault my mother never taught me how to cook.”
“What about yer da?”
“My dad’s more interested in what bugs eat.”
“Bugs?”
This time she couldn’t resist the giggle that escaped at his blank look. “Yes, bugs. My father is an entomologist. He studies insects.”
Logan’s brow furrowed. “What does he do with the wee beasties?”
“Well, right now his big project is helping save the monarch butterfly population. A few months ago he launched a countywide waystation program.”
“Oh?” Logan asked, but Cassie could tell he had no idea what she was talking about.
“Every fall monarch butterflies migrate hundreds of miles, but areas where they can stop along the way have been vanishing. Dad has been working to build havens—waystations—for them.”
“Your da is helping butterflies get home, and you’re helping kids get books. Crusading for causes must be an inherited trait.” Logan leaned back, and the smile he gave her across the table made the sweet honey feeling expand, spreading through her, leaving her warm all over. She fiddled with her silverware, ridiculously pleased at the note of admiration in his voice. She’d never thought of it quite like that.
“Tell me about your family.” She’d met his sister, but didn’t know much beyond the fact Janet looked a lot like her brother and was equally stubborn. Logan explained Janet had been an art major, and aside from running S
henanigans with him, designed website marketing, mostly for up-and-coming bands.
“I know you two got off on the wrong foot,” Logan said, referring to Cassie’s encounter with Janet in the castle, “but she’s great, really.”
The way he said “gr-eat,” his tongue tickling the r, made her insides melt. Cassie bit back a smile, wondering when she’d stop finding his accent so darn sexy. Plus, he was adorable when he spoke sweetly about his sister. “Do you have any other siblings?”
“No. Nettie’s enough, aye?” He chuckled. “And you, lass? Any brothers or sisters?”
“Nope.” Cassie shook her head. It was one of the reasons she was so grateful for Bonnie. Her bosom buddy was the sister she’d never had. “But back to you. What’s your mom like?”
“Mam’s grand.”
“I bet she’s a fantastic cook, right?”
“The best.”
“Your father is a lucky man.”
Logan shifted in his seat, his humor evaporating. Cassie didn’t need the instincts of a journalist to know she’d stumbled on a sensitive subject. Were his parents divorced? He had mentioned he never wanted to get married, and she’d filed that bit of information away for further speculation. She’d have to tread carefully. “What’s your dad like?”
“My da…” Logan stopped, a muscle rippling along his jaw as he inhaled. “Da is dead.”
“Oh.” Cassie’s heart squeezed at the weight of grief packed in those three small words. So much for treading carefully. “Oh, Logan.”
He sat ramrod straight, broad shoulders stiff against the dining chair. She wanted to go to him, put her arms around him and hold him, but something in the cut of his gaze and tense line of his back told her now was not the time. She remained in her seat, whispering, “I’m so sorry.”
“I doona wish to speak of it,” he said, brogue thick, voice clipped.
Yeah, I kind of got that. She wouldn’t press the issue. He’d tell her more when—and if—he wanted to.
Luckily, a moment later their server appeared. After they’d placed their order, Cassie changed the subject. “Not that I’m complaining about the special treatment, but what’s the occasion anyway?”
“You wound me, lass.” Logan arched an eyebrow, but she was glad to see he seemed to be recovered and was teasing her. “You don’t know what today is?”
Cassie gasped, “Your show doesn’t preview tonight, does it?”
Logan stared at her. “No, that’s next week, remember?”
“Right, sorry.” Cassie racked her brain, trying to recall what could be special about today. Ever since returning from vacation, she’d been completely absorbed in two things: Logan and her new role at work. To the point that unless an event was entered in all caps on her calendar and accompanied by a notification alert, she was likely to forget it existed. Her mother still hadn’t forgiven her for missing Aunt Eleanor’s birthday.
The wine arrived and Logan raised his glass. “I’d like to propose a toast.”
“A toast,” Cassie echoed, lifting her glass too, still not sure what they were celebrating.
“To the day I arrived in Chicago,” Logan said, grinning expectantly, “and you agreed to start seeing me, exactly one month ago.”
“Oh,” Cassie breathed, “is that all?”
His grin slipped and Logan coughed.
“That’s not what I meant,” Cassie backpedaled, relieved and thrilled at the same time. Relieved she hadn’t forgotten some major event—not that dating Logan for a month wasn’t major—and thrilled he’d obviously thought it important enough to celebrate. Who could have known her sexy Scot was the kind of man who remembered one-month anniversaries and cooked for his woman … or tried to, at least.
And he says he never wants to get married, hmm? Were they going too fast? Honestly, she had no idea. Technically, Logan hadn’t moved in. He still kept the hotel room provided by Second Studios, but he did spend most of his nights at her place. She’d given Logan the spare key to her place a week or so ago. It had been Bonnie’s, and her friend had handed it over to him with a knowing wink.
Now that Logan was filming the live broadcasts, he usually finished up well past midnight. Cassie had decided it would be easier if he could let himself into her apartment rather than use the buzzer and wake her up. Or worse, possibly her neighbors, especially Delores Crabtree, who of course had been in line behind Cassie at the corner drugstore this summer when Cassie had purchased her Europe-bound industrial-sized box of condoms. The old lady had been giving Cassie the side-eye ever since. Whatever. Her nosy neighbor could think what she wanted.
She smiled up at him. “I’m sorry. I’ve had so much on my mind with work. I guess I didn’t realize—”
“Dinna fash yourself, lass,” he said, turning the brogue up a zillion notches. “You can make it up to me later, aye?” He winked at her.
“Aye,” Cassie croaked, mouth suddenly dry. She swallowed a gulp of wine and leaned across the table. “Can later be now?”
CHAPTER 22
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Cassie paused in the hall outside the studio’s dressing room to drink her coffee. Inhaling deeply, she took a sip of the dark, fragrant brew. It was rich and strong, exactly how she liked it. She smiled into her cup and made her way to the makeup department on legs that still felt wobbly. Maybe heels weren’t a good idea today. After what went down in her apartment last night, Mrs. Crabtree was really going to give her the side-eye now. If that was how the man celebrated being together for a month, she couldn’t wait to see what happened after a year.
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. She set her coffee on the counter, cutting off that line of thinking. She had to stop doing that. She sighed and settled into one of the swivel chairs lining the room, sliding a romance novel out of her purse and popping it open while she waited her turn.
“That looks like a good one,” Anita, the makeup artist, said as she pulled her cart up next to Cassie.
“It’s a re-read,” Cassie admitted, holding the book up so Anita could admire the cover. “One of my favorites. You want to borrow it?”
“You know it,” Anita said, tucking a tissue into the neckline of Cassie’s on-camera dress to protect it. “I love the last one you gave me.”
“You finished it already?”
“Like two days ago.” Anita wiggled her gorgeous, perfectly plucked eyebrows. It was always a good sign when the person doing your makeup did such a fabulous job on their own face. Cassie liked the girl a lot. She’d been the one to get Anita hooked on romance novels in the first place, and now they often swapped books.
While Anita got to work, Cassie tried to read, but her mind kept drifting back to Logan. She’d criticized Bonnie for planning too far ahead, and here she was contemplating her one-year anniversary to a man she’d been dating for scarcely a month. She groaned in frustration. “Anita, I think I might be crazy.”
“Why do you think that?” Anita asked, pursing lips lined in a gorgeous shade of ruby.
“I’ve seen her talk to her plant,” an unpleasantly familiar voice scoffed. “Isn’t that, by definition, crazy?”
Cassie stiffened, but managed to hold still while Anita applied primer. “Morning, Tiffany,” she said when her coworker came into view.
Tiffany stopped directly in front of Cassie. Bitch face firmly in place, she leaned against the counter and parked her pert Donna Karan–covered derriere inches from Cassie’s coffee.
“How can I help you?” Cassie asked, making only the tiniest of wishes Tiffany would lean back a teeny bit farther and bump into the cup.
“I’m supposed to check in with you and get an updated list of venue contacts.” Tiffany shifted and crossed her arms.
“I thought I sent those over to you already.” As Anita applied mascara, Cassie peeked between her lashes, watching her cup wobble. Logan had got up early to brew the coffee for her, and she’d come out of the shower to discover her disheveled Scot wearing nothing but bed head and a pair of snug boxer b
riefs, his broad bare shoulders taking up most of the available space in her kitchen as he fussed with the French press. She’d padded over to him, her feet leaving mini-puddles on the hardwood, and rained kisses over his delicious cinnamon-toast back. She’d never realized how sexy freckles could be.
An exaggerated huff interrupted her mental replay.
Cassie started, her book almost slipping from her lap. “You wanted the contacts, right?” She wiggled in the chair and pulled out her phone, opening her email app. She pointed at a line in her outbox dated over a week ago. “See? I told you I sent them.”
“Hmm.” Tiffany leaned in, her hair draping over her shoulder in a cascade of smooth perfection.
Cassie had always been jealous of Tiffany’s hair, had even debated doing a ChiChat fashion segment on getting hers straightened. But in the end, she decided it would be too much work and way too much money to try and make her wavy mane behave on a regular basis.
“Send it again.” Tiffany tossed her hair back over her shoulder.
Typical Tiff. No “please.” No “Sorry, I must have missed it.” Cassie had worked hard to create that list of contacts, cultivating relationships with club managers and bartenders to stay in the know. She swallowed a retort, fantasizing about the pair of scissors on Anita’s cart and wondering how Tiffany’s silky-smooth locks would look styled in a mullet like the hero on her romance novel’s cover.
“Sure,” she said instead, and clicked resend. She opened her book again. When Tiffany didn’t move, Cassie glanced up once more. “Look, if that’s all you needed…” She pointedly trailed off.
As ChiChat’s new Queen of Fluff sauntered away, Cassie reminded herself that she had made the choice to give up that role. She didn’t regret her decision, but her new job was harder than she’d anticipated. Getting her project off the ground was requiring serious effort, and she was the one doing all the heavy lifting. But she wasn’t complaining. This was what she’d wanted.
So far Cassie had conducted interviews with the mayor’s office, and today she was interviewing some members from the teachers’ union. She’d had a difficult time making headway scheduling meetings with anyone from the Chicago Public School board, but last week Cassie had done a docuseries featuring several of the controversial charter schools sprinkled across the city—a passive-aggressive move on her part that paid off.
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