How To Evict a Hot Jock in Three Weeks - Anyta Sunday Page 0,11
lips sealed. See you then.”
Alexander raised a brow as Nico sauntered into Logan’s room.
Mom made herself comfortable at the dining table, set for dinner, and Nico reappeared wearing a muscle shirt. “It’s a pity this party is only us,” he said with a cheeky grin. “No girls to admire all this.”
Alexander snorted, but his belly dipped as he stared at the four place settings.
Nico snuck into the kitchen, eyeing the chicken and potatoes. He ticked off his fingers, then opened the fridge and grinned. “Eggs and mayo. I knew it. You’re very reliable.”
Alexander ran a washcloth over the dusting of flour still on the counter. “Reliable?”
“You like your routine, your traditions.”
Alexander paused mid-wipe. “I don’t do anything that surprises you?”
Nico laughed, warmly amused. Disquiet lurched in Alexander’s belly. “I’m saying you don’t do anything that surprises you.”
Dinner proved to be a delicious affair, and Mom and Logan chatted the entire time. Logan’s accent lessened every time he spoke to her.
Mom gazed at the large white wall. “Still none of your beautiful art up on your walls?”
“Nothing good enough yet.”
Logan—hair wet from his rather long call outside—picked up their plates. “I think you’re right about that wall.” He placed the dishes on the kitchen counter and paused beside him on his way back. “You own an entire gallery. Surely something is good enough?”
Alexander fidgeted with his water glass. “All the art I represent is good enough.”
“But?”
“I haven’t found the one.”
Nico threw Alexander a smirk. “We all hope he finds him soon.”
“You’re a riot.” Alexander paused, and added determinedly, “I’ll find him.”
“But will you turn him away? Perhaps he snores, or cracks his knuckles, or cuts his own hair . . .”
Alexander faced his brother. “Look at me, Nico.” Alexander rolled his eyes up, gesturing to Logan behind him. “I think you’ve seen how tolerant I can be.”
An amused chuckle escaped Logan and a cool hand squeezed Alexander’s shoulder. “Nico,” Logan said. “Should we do that thing?”
Nico followed Logan into the kitchen.
“What are you guys—”
“Stay where you are, Alexander,” Nico said, wagging a finger.
Thirty seconds later Logan, Nico and Mom sang “Happy Birthday” and Alexander spotted the cake. It was not the red-velvet mistake. This cake had delicate daisies frosted over it. One of Tartsy’s signature masterpieces.
That’s why Logan had been out so long and returned wet—God, so gloriously wet. He must have run to the bakery before it closed.
Alexander’s heart gave a weird little thump.
As they called him to blow out his candles and make a wish, Logan mouthed, “Happy birthday.”
A phone shrilled.
In breathless urgency, Mom spoke into her phone through wisps of smoke. She hung up quickly. “I’m sorry Alexander, I have to get back to your Dad.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yes, he’ll be fine. Just a coughing fit and high blood pressure. It’s better if I can watch out for him.”
“Of course.”
Alexander helped her and Nico to the door. Nico hugged him tightly. “Come to my place next week and I’ll cook dinner. Bring Logan.”
They left, and the house fell quiet.
Wordlessly, Alexander joined Logan clearing the table. An hour later, the house was spotless—with nary a banister shenanigan in sight.
Alexander felt Logan’s every glance like a warm prickle on the side of his face.
“You didn’t cut your cake.”
“Right.” Alexander took the cake knife.
“I’m sorry they had to leave early.”
Alexander squinted at the sting in his eye. “It’s fine. It’s just another day.”
Logan slid the platter toward him.
The cake was truly exquisite—and daisies. How did Logan know they were his favorite?
He pushed it away, grabbed two forks, and set the failed red-velvet cake between them.
Logan’s breath hitched. “You don’t have to do this. It’s fine. I mean”—Logan gestured to Tartsy’s cake—“I see the difference. It’s your birthday, you should have the one you want.”
Alexander dug into the red velvet cake.
A burst of salt hit his tongue and it took all Alexander’s will not to spit it out.
“Is it okay?” Logan asked, touchingly hopeful.
“Mmm.”
Logan poised his fork to dig into the cake but Alexander whisked the tin away. “It’s too good. This is all for me. Have at Tartsy’s.”
Why was Alexander protecting Logan?
The man was hiding something. He’d spent the morning quoting Breitbart for God’s sake. These moments had to stop.
“I’ll eat this in my room. Thank you for helping me clean. Goodnight.”
He hoofed upstairs, needing to encourage Logan to spend more time without him.
He dropped the cake on his desk, flung himself onto his bed, and settled an open book on his face. Maybe the pressure would massage sense into him.
Not five