She sure hadn’t expected to meet anyone like Logan. Much less have the whole resort left to the two of them, alone. Logan was different from the guys she was normally attracted to. For one, he seemed to have a stable job. Brontë always seemed to find herself with men who were “between careers” or “making a transition,” which was code for “unemployed.” Logan was also a bit more . . . dominant, if she had to put a word on it. She was used to laid-back guys who let things run their course. And she was pretty sure “laid-back” wasn’t a word that appeared in Logan’s dictionary.
But she had to admit, that was part of his appeal. He knew what he wanted, and he went after it. He didn’t sit around and wait for someone else to take action—he made things happen. It had been he who got them out of the elevator, he who had gotten them supplies, and he who’d made the SOS.
Brontë picked a dress and tossed the others aside, glancing into the lobby. Logan had gone to see if he could find breakfast, and he’d left her in the gift shop. For some reason, she was anxious to see his broad shoulders again. She felt safe with him around. If she had to be stranded with anyone, she’d take a protective alpha male like Logan any day.
Of course, she hadn’t really expected to sleep with her protector. But now that they had? She didn’t regret it in the slightest. The sex was incredible.
No, she amended as she put on one of the floral sundresses and ripped the tags off. Better than incredible. Ruined her for other men was more like it. She’d orgasmed more with him than any man she’d dated. Normally they’d be pushing on her head, demanding a blow job before they’d reciprocate, but he’d already gone down on her . . . and had enjoyed it. He’d enjoyed pleasuring her.
Not that she wouldn’t enjoy going down on him. She paused at the mental image of taking Logan by surprise and knocking him backward into a chair, unzipping his pants . . . then grinned as she slipped on a pair of mismatched flip-flops. Going down on Logan seemed rather appealing at the moment. And turnabout was fair play. Stretching sensuously, she headed out of the broken window and back to the main lobby of the hotel, glancing around.
“Logan?”
No sign of him. That was odd. Maybe he’d gone exploring without her. She wandered through the destroyed lobby.
“Logan?”
Anxiety began to twinge in her stomach . . . and then it rumbled. She was starving. She glanced back at the gift shop, but the thought of eating more candy bars made her sick. It was a bit sad that she was getting tired of chocolate—even M&M’s. She headed toward the far end of the first floor, near one of the restaurants, and called Logan’s name again.
“In here.” Logan’s voice sounded distant.
She headed into the restaurant, and paused in surprise. One of the tables in the center of the room had been righted and a water-stained tablecloth spread over it. Place settings had been set down and two chairs slid under the table. As she watched, Logan leaned over a pair of candles and lit them with his lighter.
A slow smile spread over her face as she approached, and a silly, nervous giggle escaped her throat. “What’s this?”
Besides the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her, of course.
Logan looked back at her and smiled, his expression confident. “I thought I’d like to take my date out to dinner. Or breakfast, as the case may be.” He reached for her hand and led her to one of the chairs, pulling it out for her with a flourish.
She sat, unable to stop grinning like a fool, especially when he leaned in and kissed the back of her hand. “I hope it’s not chocolate.”
“It’s not. First, we have a fine vintage that I think you’ll appreciate.” He laid a bottle over his arm and held it out to her as if it were wine.
It was a bottle of water.
She laughed, clapping her hands. “It looks delicious.”
“Indeed.” He set down a wineglass and began to pour with effortless grace. “The flavor is peerless. I think you’ll enjoy the bouquet.”
Brontë lifted her glass when he finished pouring and pretended to sniff it. “Very nice.” She gave him an appraising look. “You’re good at this, you know.”
“Waiting tables? Should I be insulted?”
She snorted, ignoring that jab at her job. “I meant with the wine thing.” She wiggled her fingers at it. “They teach you how to be classy at manager school?”
He gave her an odd look. “Something like that. Should I bring out the next course?”
She gestured grandly. “Please do.”
To her surprise, he pulled out a covered silver dish and placed it in the center of the table, then lifted the lid with a flourish.
A basket of fruit—fruit that looked reasonably fresh, too. She gasped, pleased. “Where did you get this? I thought we picked through everything!”
“I found it in the concierge room while looking for batteries for the flashlights. I thought it’d make a nice breakfast.”
It did. Brontë hadn’t realized how pleasurable plain, simple fruit could be. They ate their fill of apples, oranges, and bananas, and split a pineapple and a mango. They licked juice from their fingers, sipped water from crystal wineglasses, and had a great time. Brontë couldn’t help but grin at Logan from across the table. This entire setup was just . . . perfect. He was perfect.
And she suddenly wanted to reward him.
With a devilish grin on her face, Brontë set down her wineglass full of water and tossed her napkin on the table. One of Logan’s dark brows went up, as if he were questioning her.
“Interested in dessert?” she asked in a low, purring voice. “I know just the thing.”
“How can I resist when it’s proposed to me like that?”
“You can’t,” she said lightly, and then slid out of her chair and under the table.
He stilled. She watched his legs shift in his chair as she crawled under the table toward him. “Brontë?”
When she got to him, she sat back on her heels and put her hands on his trousers. He was wearing them again today, which was a pity. He even had on his belt, though it was waterlogged and the leather ruined. She pulled at the buckle and began to tug it slowly free. “Just my way of saying thank you,” she said. “Thought I’d help myself to a little treat is all.”
He groaned, and she felt his knees shift, spreading a bit wider. His hand reached under the table, and he cupped her jaw then brushed his thumb across her cheek.