Saint (A Dark Mafia Romance)(120)
Reagan is nodding at me with a big shit-eating grin on her face and I already know I’ve lost this battle. “Fine, but if I see one keg-stand or a single Greek letter, I’m out, got it?”
“Ok, I’m officially way too old to be here.”
Alright, it’s not like I’m the oldest person in the room or anything, it’s just that the general vibe is a far cry from the occasional one drink with coworkers or the more typical wine and Netflix that usually occupies my free Friday nights.
My sister rolls her eyes. “You are not.”
“Chelsea, I could have babysat some of these kids.”
“Well, you babysat me!” She says, grinning at me.
“Not helping, but thanks,” I grumble as she laughs and drags us into the crowd.
To her credit, the party is definitely a step above anything I remember from my own college experience. It’s at some nice off-campus house instead of a dorm-room, and we’re wearing name tags for crying out loud. Name tags. Parties I went to in college involved yelling your name to someone over loud music. But at Chelsea’s graduate program soirée, they’ve got sticker name tags and light jazz. The party even has an actual bartender pouring drinks instead of the “help yourself” style kegs and punch bowls I remember from school. Okay, so he's pouring crappy drinks, but hey, it’s a step in the right direction.
“You may notice a lack of keg, if you can see that far down from your tower, Quinn,” Chelsea says, smirking at me. Suddenly she arches a brow and lowers her voice. “Uh, and speaking of ‘noticing’, there’s a tall dark and handsome over there noticing you right now.” I turn to see a clean-cut, good-looking older guy with a beer in his hand quickly look away. Chelsea is wagging her eyebrows at me when I turn back, and she winks at me conspiratorially. “I’m going to go, uh, find my friends.”
“No, Chels-!”
“Try to have some fun, okay, Quinn?” She grins at me before peeling away and pushing her way through the crowd.
Great, I grumble to myself, thanks, sis. I mean, granted, the whole point of tonight was a little distraction and to clear my head of Logan, but it’s not like I came here looking for that kind of attention anywa-
“Please tell me you're not a student here.”
I turn, started by the richly English-tinted accent behind me, and immediately blush at the steely-grey eyes looking intently into my own.
“Because I'm pretty sure I can't buy you a drink or try and get your number at some point if you are.” He winks at me, and I can't help but feel a little thrill at it.
Uh, Whoa.
He’s attractive, in that sort of chemistry teacher way, and that accent is certainly hitting all the right points with me.”Uh, no, actually” I stammer awkwardly. “Definitely not a student.”
“Oh thank God,” he says with that charmingly English accent and an even more charming smile. “I suppose that means I can buy you that drink then.”
I can't help but grin back at him, feeling my cheeks burn. “I suppose it does, thanks-” I look down at the name-tag sticker on the lapel of his jacket. “Ryan.”
He chuckles and holds his hand out. “I’ve been getting ‘Professor Smalls’ all night, but Ryan sure works too. Quinn is it?” He says, peering at my own name tag as I shake his hand.
“A Professor at a student party, huh?” I smile as I raise a brow at him.
He glances quickly around with a mock seriousness. “Yeah, just don’t let the faculty find out.”
I raise my eyebrows before he stops and grins at me. “It’s a graduate student thing. I’m totally fine to be here.” He smiles at me. “Plus now I’ve got someone else over the age of twelve to talk to.”
We talk, and I’m listening to him, but I’m also stuck inside my own head trying very hard not to think about how this man is everything Logan isn’t. Logan Dempsey is cocky, and arrogant, and inappropriate, and vulgar. The man buying me a glass of wine and chatting me up here tonight is sweet, and kind, and charming - and not in that cocksure way Logan is. Sure, he’s a little fumbling, but at least he’s not giving me that look that Logan gives me when he flashes that grin at me.
Of course, it’s that exact cocky grin that gets me so heated around Logan. It’s that look that has me hot and wet and wanting him more than I’ve ever wanted anything before. The thought sticks with me, and I quickly take a sip of wine, nodding at whatever Ryan is saying. Is that the reason I can’t seem to cut Logan loose from my thoughts? Is the fact that he talks to me in ways no man ever has, or the fact that he’s rough and dominant with me that has me practically begging on my knees for him, sometimes quite literally? I mean, God, here I am in a place I belong making quiet, intellectual conversation with a kind, much more appropriate man like Ryan, and all I can think about is Logan. Ryan Smalls is here in his nice, quiet, proper tweed jacket with conversation about literature and current politics, but all I can think about is a shirtless Logan Dempsey with the ink of his bare skin glistening with sweat as he jabs and hooks around a circle of jeering onlookers. The man across from me is smiling at me and asking me pleasant questions about my job, but all I can imagine is Logan’s chiseled body, and that arrogant, sexy mouth opening wide to tell me exactly what he wants to do to me.