what it is, why do you own one?”
“I own three.”
“Why?”
“In case one fades, and one gets stolen, I have one left.”
“Not why you have three. Why you—” Alexander halted. Snarky mean thoughts filled his head, just like his ex had said.
Let Logan do Logan.
“Never mind. Where do you hail from?”
Logan’s eyes darted to the flag. “Can’t you tell? I’m from the, uh, the good ol’ South.”
“I’m picking that much up. Where?”
“Uh, Dollywood, Tennessee.”
“Dollywood?”
“You ain’t heard of Dolly? She’s amazing, and a cousin of a cousin of a great cousin.” Lips quirked as Logan refolded another flannel shirt. He hummed to himself. “. . . O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”
Good Lord. Alexander twisted out of view, backing up against the wall outside Logan’s room. He was entitled to believe whatever he chose to believe.
Alexander would be fine.
Just fine.
Alexander peeked back into Logan’s room. Logan picked up something black and shiny off the bed. Alexander swallowed a nervous squeal as he recognized the shape. A gun.
God, no.
He jerked out his phone and jabbed a message to his brother.
Alexander: How many questions did you ask Logan?
* * *
Nico: The basics. He doesn’t smoke. He can afford the rent.
* * *
Alexander: You failed to mention his accent, and that he owns a gun.
* * *
Nico: Accent? He sounded Minnesotan, no?
* * *
Alexander: He owns a gun, Nico.
* * *
Nico: Are you sure?
Alexander popped his head in and checked again. Definitely a gun.
Logan tucked the offending metal under the mattress. The mattress! Good Lord, how did the man ever sleep?
Logan caught him staring. “Don’t worry, I have a permit an’ everything.”
Take your gun and your ridiculously hot ass out of my home. Alexander blinked blankly at him. “Nico said you didn’t have an accent.”
Logan shrugged. “Slips through time-to-time. I’ve been trying to sound more like you Minnesotan folks, but I gotta say. Now I have a place to call home, I can be more myself.”
“Back to the gun.”
“What about it?”
“You put it under the bed. One good fuck and you’ll shoot yourself.”
Logan’s face contorted with amusement. Like he couldn’t decide if Alexander was being funny or serious.
The answer was serious.
Alexander skirted to the walk-in closet, and keyed open a small safe above the hangers. “This is for your valuables. I’d ask, your gun, too.”
Logan sidled past him with a wave of that skin-tingling musk, and rather flippantly tossed the weapon inside. Alexander gave him the code, sighing with relief when the lock clicked.
The air grew heart-pulsingly still as they eyed each other and then the door.
They both ducked for the exit, and their bodies collided with a meaty thunk and Alexander’s breathy oof.
Logan caught him mid-tumble, arm strapping around his back, forearm burning under his shoulder blades, strong fingers squeezing his upper arm—and good God, what the hell was that?
Alexander gaped at a large, glass-framed picture of that orange American President.
Alexander tore himself from Logan and scrubbed at the goosebumps flanking his body. Logan frowned, gaze dark in the shadows of his MAGA cap, and clasped his hands behind his neck.
Surely, he’d landed himself in a reality TV show. Stupid, Sexy Guys Test Their Roommate’s Patience, the pilot episode.
He groaned. This might be the hardest challenge of his life.
Chapter Four
LOGAN
* * *
Alexander had looked wonderfully uncertain about Logan ever since Logan had unpacked. Even more since he’d stormed his kitchen.
At this rate, he’d be evicted before dinner.
Alexander stood near the kitchen island wearing a navy chambray button-down, belted chino-esque shorts, and the most unnecessary gadget, a leather watch. Cool blue eyes glittered under arched brows. “What’s in the cans?”
His next attempt at freaking his new roommate out.
Logan pulled cans from his tote bag, one after the other. “Possum, possum, sweet potato and creamed possum.”
Alexander gawked at the glossy yellow labels: Product of Stone and Water Co. Possum Club. “People still eat oversized rodents?”
“Why, there’s nothing better than peach-fed trash pandas.”
Alexander glared. “How often do you eat it?”
“Every week for sure.” Logan popped off the lid. “Possum’s better fresh made, o’ course. Straight outta the tree. I’ll make it from scratch this weekend, if you join me?”
Alexander grimaced and furtively eyed escape. “What an offer.”
“Tell me if you prefer it stewed for hours—a darn good perfume for the house, or—”
“Or. Definitely or.”
“Still twitchin’, comin’ right up.”
Logan whisked around, opening a cupboard stocked with piled pans, all different depths, ranging from cast iron to non-stick aluminum. Someone liked to cook.
He pulled out a large one and settled it onto the