Logan put his head back and laughed, a low, husky sound that tickled the pit of Hana’s stomach. “I heard the chick from downstairs telling the receptionist.” He smiled. “What’s her name?”
“The receptionist? That’s Alma.”
Logan shook his head. “Not her. The one with red bits in her hair.”
“The typist? Anka?” Confusion spread across Hana’s delicate features. “Don’t you know her?”
“No, never spoken to her.” The scar beneath his right eye crinkled with amusement. “Sounds like you had fun though. Is put-the-willy-on-the-man a Christian version of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey?”
He brushed his fingers across her shoulder, the contact tantalising. Logan withdrew it as six other members of staff dashed into the post room, behaving like ants as they spread out towards their pigeon holes. Hana not
