Real Good Man (Real Duet #1)

I lean back, resting a hip on the table in the middle of the kitchen, and wait.

“Bacon. I was trying to cook bacon.” She spits out the words, sounding so miserable, I almost feel bad for laughing at her.

“It’s not the last pig on the planet, Bruce. No need to look like you’re never gonna have bacon again.”

“When you haven’t had real bacon in approximately five years, it sure feels like it. That was the only package.”

I look at the lump in the pan. “The whole package in one pan? Damn, Bruce. Did you separate it?”

She shakes her head. “I thought that happened as it thawed and cooked.”

I’m pretty sure my eyebrows damn near hit my hairline. “You put frozen bacon in a chunk in a frying pan?”

Banner’s shoulders slump as she lifts a hand to her face. “I knew I should have googled it. I don’t cook, okay?”

“What’d you use that fancy kitchen in your apartment for then?”

“Heating up takeout. Caterers used it occasionally for dinner parties.”

I’m not sure why I’m surprised, but I am. “Are you serious?”

“Does anyone deliver out here? Sushi? Thai? Vietnamese? I could go for some pho.” She stops when she realizes what she just said is ridiculous, and holds up a hand. “Let me try that again. Pizza? Chinese?”

I’m already heading for the door when I answer. “There’s one pizza joint in town that might deliver out this far, but even I wouldn’t let you eat that.”





Chapter 22


Banner


“You’re just going to leave?”

First Logan Brantley shows up to see me murder bacon, and now he’s going to just leave without another word?

“You really are an ass*ole,” I yell as the door slams behind him.

I run to the screen to look out and see him pulling bags from his truck before making his way back to the front porch.

For some unknown reason, I don’t hesitate to open the door to let him back inside. I tell myself it’s because he’s carrying grocery bags, and I’m so hungry I’d even eat a non-kosher hot dog.

Logan sets the bags on the table and turns around to meet my gaze. Dammit. How is he even more freaking gorgeous than before? It’s not fair.

“You really shouldn’t call the guy who’s about to make you dinner an ass*ole.”

His words send a shaft of shame through me. Why do I keep screwing up when it comes to him?

“I thought you were just . . . leaving.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to apologize, but he interrupts me.

“You really don’t know how to cook?”

I shake my head. “I’m from Manhattan. It’s not a necessary skill.”

“You’re a long way from New York City, Bruce. How long are you staying, anyway? You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

I hate the fact that I have to tell him the truth. If anyone but Logan were standing in my kitchen, I’d stick with my I just need a break from the city line, but he already knows that’s a lie.

“I don’t know how long I’m staying.”

He says nothing, clearly waiting for me to continue my explanation.

“Look, it’s a long story, okay?”

With a nod, Logan turns and starts unloading the grocery bags on the table. “Then you can tell me while I cook, because you’re not eating this bacon until I get a story that’s free of bullshit.”

My attention darts to the bags of groceries as a tingle of excitement takes root. “You have bacon in there?”

He glances over his broad shoulder, his muscles stretching against the shirt. “Sure do. That’s what a real man buys when he goes to the store.”

A real man. Like I need the reminder with how his presence sucks up the space in the small kitchen and makes it seem ten degrees hotter than the fire I almost started. Only me . . .

“If you want to run out to the truck, there’s a six-pack of beer too. Might as well crack some open.”

“Bacon and beer. I guess real men don’t mess around.”

He shoots me a look that lights another kind of fire—this time between my legs. No. Not going there.

“We mess around plenty, just not about food.”

Like I’m escaping the Texas chainsaw massacre, I rush toward the door and shut it behind me before I suck in a breath. I can’t be around him. It’s not safe. Pulling myself together, I pick my way along the uneven path to the truck and open the door.

The unique scent that clings to Logan Brantley wafts out—citrus and all things man. I tell myself it’s not as sexy as it seems as I find the cardboard six-pack of bottles tipped over in the floorboard of the passenger side. One bottle rolled under the seat, so I pull it out.

A piece of paper sticks to a bottle.



If you’re ever lonely, you know where to find me. 687-7896



Um. Excuse me?

I go to shove it back into the bowels of the truck where I pulled it from, but the crinkle of more paper stops me.

I should not be digging around in Logan Brantley’s truck. Also, side note, I am not jealous.

I’m not. Seriously.

I pull out a handful of similar notes.



I’m available to make you dinner anytime.



Text me if you want me to cook the food you’re inside buying. I know how to keep a man fed.



Bring your appetite over to my place and I’ll fix you up.



If they were all in the same handwriting, I’d say Logan had a stalker, but the variety of names and numbers listed at the bottom of the notes reveal that’s not the case.

Jesus, is every woman in this town throwing herself at Logan Brantley? And what is it with all the women who want to cook for him? Is it a Kentucky thing?

Seeds of jealousy take root inside me, and even though I try to stomp them out, they’re pesky little ass*oles that won’t take the hint.

So what if every single woman in this town thinks Logan Brantley is a catch? I wonder what they’d all think if they knew he drove almost a thousand miles to see me . . . and then stormed out of my apartment after our one-night stand.

Not even thinking about it.

I cram the notes back under the seat, grab the beer, and head back to the house. Even though I try to shut them down, two questions are front and center in my brain.

Does he take any of them up on their offers?

Why does he keep the notes?

When I slip back into the house, Logan has another frying pan on the stove. Thankfully, the mouthwatering scent of bacon has chased away the acrid stench of smoke.

He glances at me over his shoulder. “Thought you got kidnapped by Sasquatch or something.”

“A bottle got stuck under the seat, and I got caught up reading your stash of dinner invitations.”

His expression narrows, but I keep going.

“Do you ever have to cook for yourself? Or do you just keep them all on rotation? Like, she does good chicken, her steak is better, but this one’s casseroles are the shit, so I’m going to see her on comfort-food night.”

“What makes you think I take any of them up on their offers?”

I set the beer on the table. “Why wouldn’t you?”