24

Logan peeled his gaze off the panes in the French door and focused it on the white cabinets over the micro-wave. Then at the faded-denim curtain the designer had insisted he needed over the window. At the maroon-and-navy, rope-design tile along the top of the backsplash the same designer had insisted on.

It was no use. His eyes wanted to return to Angel. She looked like… He didn’t know what she looked like in that outfit. Perfect was the only word that came to mind.

Her long, blonde hair—the soft, silky hair he’d felt trailing over different parts of his anatomy yesterday and wouldn’t mind having along other parts of his body—hung to her hips, damp loose waves making him think of nights spent in wild abandon. Her face, with those rarest-of-color eyes, was breathtakingly beautiful. Her smile, so generous and quick, a Cupid’s bow of a mouth and the dimple high in her cheek… the woman was utterly stunning.

And he’d had her up against the cabinets, devouring her with his lips and wanti