I don’t expect Logan to bring me flowers, a huge bouquet that’s pretty much covered in snow.
I’ve been working and haven’t broken the surface from my insane seven hours of productivity today to look outside and see what’s happening. There could be an explosion out on St.-Jacques Street, and I wouldn’t even know. Hell, the fire alarm in the building could go off, and I’d be deep in editing mode and hardly hear it.
Still, though, it’s a surprise to see how much snow has come down already.
“Thank you,” I grunt, afraid of the part in my chest that seems to warm through at the gesture. I’ve never received flowers before, not once. And to get them from Logan?
It’s a trap, it has to be.
“Don’t look so happy about it,” Logan says, but he’s grinning at me, inviting me in on a joke that I’m not
