Heading out of the bathroom, he decided then and there against any more Elena-exploration. Because who was he kidding? Toying with her would only lead to him being ice-burned or hornet-stung or worse. This particular female regularly armed herself with foot-long, razor-sharp thorns. He’d be much better off—safer—heading back to his own apartment.
As he reentered her living room though, Elena’s voice caused his feet to stumble. The sound was breathy, soft.
She was singing in Spanish.
A lullaby.
At the other end of the room, she sat cross-legged on a folded comforter, her back to him. He couldn’t see what she was crooning to, but her body was curved over an object in her arms as she rocked back and forth.
Her hair was parted down the center and a braid fell over the front of each shoulder. The style left the nape of her neck bare and with his eyes he traced the fragile-looking bumps of her vertebrae. They pushed against her thin T-shirt until it disappeared in the waistband of her jeans.
A hot, heavy river coursed down his own spine. He walked toward her quietly, drawn forward almost against his will by her siren’s song.
“What are you doing?” He touched her shoulder.
She jerked. A swathe of goose bumps rose on the exposed skin between her hairline and the neck of her T-shirt. Her head whipped toward him, a blush rushing across her cheeks. Her mouth opened, then closed. “I thought you’d left,” she finally said helplessly. “How embarrassing.”
Puzzled, he hunkered down and peered over her shoulder. “Why? What’s going on?”
She hunched over whatever was in her arms. “You’re going to laugh.”
“No, I’m not.”
She narrowed her eyes and sent him another look over her shoulder. “If the tables were turned, I’d laugh at you.”
Now he was really curious. “Yeah? But I’m nicer than you are.”
“Nicer?” She appeared to consider that for a moment. “This from the man who eleven years ago—”
“Cut it out, Elena.” It was so clear to him now that her needling was a form of self-preservation. “I promise I won’t laugh.”
She sighed. “I’m taking a college course.”
“On top of two jobs and the volunteer work you’re doing for the senior prom?”
“I’m working on my bachelor’s degree one class at a time.” She uncurled her body. “This semester it’s Twenty-First Century Womanhood.”
Logan leaned nearer to see what she’d been holding so protectively.
Against her full breasts. That was the first thing he noticed. So sue him, but this close and from this angle, they were truly eye-catching—throat-drying—the plump curves outlined faithfully in clingy T-shirt fabric. Nestled between them, Elena pressed a small blanket-wrapped bundle of twin—
“Eggs?” he asked, suddenly bewildered.
The faint beep of a wristwatch sounded and Elena stood up, her shoulder nearly clipping his nose. She walked away from him and he rose to follow her into the kitchen. He watched as she carefully placed her blanket bundle in a shoebox lined with cotton batting that sat on the counter.
He blinked. “What are they?”
“Who are they,” she corrected. “Fred and Ethel. Fred and Wilma. Freddie and Krueger. Take your pick. I can’t seem to decide.”
He stared at Elena, then down at the ordinary-looking chicken eggs she was caring for as if they were…babies. “Ah. This is some kind of motherhood experiment?”
“Motherhood experience. We’ve been assigned to keep a journal describing what it’s like to be a single parent in the era of sperm donors and multiple births.” She turned her attention to her watch, resetting the alarm. “It’s similar to what kids do in high schools. I’m required to spend a certain amount of time each day caring for the babies.”
He thought of her singing that lullaby, her voice gentle, her pose maternal and almost…serene. It was the most relaxed he’d ever seen her. “You looked—now don’t take this the wrong way—sweet.”
You would have thought he’d insulted her. “I’m not sweet!”
“Well, no, not usually. At least not to me.”
She tried shrinking him again with the laser beam of her blue eyes. “Not to anyone.”
He smiled, because he liked the sound of that. Then he settled back on his heels. Even with all her thorns firmly in place, he didn’t feel like leaving now. Not when he could still hear her voice in his head, not when he remembered those goose bumps that had gathered in response to his hand on her shoulder.
Just an inch, that was all he was asking. If he could prove to both of them that he could get beneath her skin just a scant inch, then he could go back to his new life a happy man, secure in the knowledge that the next time he encountered her he would be better insulated. The thought made his smile widen.
“What are you grinning about?” she asked.
He angled his head, considering what had prompted his change of heart. A few minutes ago in the bathroom he’d decided she was too dangerous to take any further risks with. But now that he’d caught her singing to yolks, well…
“For the first time in our acquaintance, I’m finding you kind of cute.”
She blinked. “Cute?”
He wanted to laugh. Poor Elena. With her looks, men had probably been a constant source of flattery—wanted or not. But no one would ever have labeled her devastating package of femininity cute. She looked as if she didn’t know whether to approve or be appalled.
“Really cute,” he murmured.
She blinked again. “Next you’re going to tell me I have a great personality.”
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