He doesn’t say anything.
“What? You don’t think I should?”
Logan looks pensive. “I don’t know. Hitting on me was a really shitty move on her part. Doesn’t exactly put her in the running for Friend of the Year.” A frown touches his lips. “I don’t like the idea that she might hurt you again.”
“Me neither, but cutting her off feels…wrong. I’ve known her my whole life.”
“Yeah? I assumed you two just got assigned to the same dorm.”
“Nope. We’ve been friends since childhood.”
I explain how Ramona and I were next-door neighbors, and from there, the conversation shifts to what it was like growing up in Hastings, then to what it was like for him to grow up in Munsen. I’m surprised by the complete lack of awkward silences. There’s always at least one on a first date, but Logan and I don’t seem to have that problem. The only time we stop talking is when the waiter takes our orders, and then again when he delivers the check.
Two hours. I can hardly believe it when I peek at the time on my phone and realize how long we’ve been here. The food was phenomenal, the conversation entertaining, and the company absolutely incredible. After we polish off our dessert—a piece of decadent tiramisu that Logan insists we share—he doesn’t even allow me to look at the bill. He simply tucks a wad of cash in the leather case the waiter dropped off, then slides out of the booth and holds out his hand.
I take it, wobbling slightly on my heels as he helps me to my feet. I feel weak-kneed and giddy. I can’t stop smiling, but I’m gratified to see that he’s sporting the same goofy grin.
“This was nice,” he murmurs.
“Yes, it was.”
He laces our fingers together and proceeds to keep them like that all the way to the car, where he reluctantly lets go so he can open my door for me. The moment he’s in the driver’s seat, our fingers intertwine again, and he drives one-handed the entire way back to campus.
It’s not until we’re standing outside my door that his easygoing demeanor falters. “So how did I do?” he asks gruffly.
I snicker. “You want a detailed performance review of our date?”
He tugs on the collar of his shirt, more nervous than I’ve ever seen him. “Kind of. I haven’t been on a date in…fuck, ages. Since freshman year, I think.”
My surprised gaze flies to his. “Really?”
“I mean, I’ve hung out with girls. Played pool at the bar, talked at parties, but an actual date? Picking her up and having dinner and then walking her to her door?” The most adorable red splotches color his cheeks. “Ah, yeah, haven’t done that in a while.”
God, I want to throw my arms around him and squeeze all the cuteness out of him. Instead, I pretend to mull it over. “Okay, well, your choice of restaurant? Perfect ten. Chivalry…you opened my car door, so that’s a ten too. Conversational prowess…nine.”
“Nine?” he blusters.
I flash an impish smile. “I’m taking a point off for the hockey talk. That was rather dreary.”
Logan narrows his eyes. “You’ve gone too far, woman.”
I ignore him. “Affection levels? Ten. You had your arm around me and held my hand, which was sweet. Oh, and the last one—goodnight kiss. Yet to be rated, but you should know, you’re starting at minus-one because you requested a performance review instead of making your move.”
His blue eyes twinkle. “Seriously? I’m being penalized for trying to be a gentleman?”
“Minus-two now,” I taunt. “Your opening is getting narrower and narrower, Johnny. Soon you won’t—”
His mouth captures mine in a blistering kiss.
Belonging. It’s the only way to describe the exquisite rush of sensation that washes over me. His lips belong on mine. Heat floods my core as his large hands cup my cheeks, thumbs stroking my jaw as he kisses me with a shocking contrast of tenderness and hunger. His tongue slicks over mine, one sweet stroke, then another, before he eases his mouth away.
“You called me Johnny,” he says, his breath tickling my lips.
“Is that not allowed?” I tease.
His thumb softly grazes my bottom lip. “My friends call me John sometimes, but only my family calls me Johnny.” His gaze burns with intensity. “I liked it.”
My pulse accelerates as his mouth brushes over mine again. The slightest amount of contact, like a feather tickling my lips. He slides both hands down my bare arms, leaving goose bumps in his wake, then rests them on my hip, casual almost, except there’s nothing casual about the way his touch makes me feel.
“Will you go out with me again?”
He’s so tall, I have to tilt my head to look at him. A part of me is tempted to make him sweat, but there’s no stopping the swift, unequivocal answer that escapes my mouth.
“Absolutely.”
26
Grace
On our second date, Logan and I go to a party, which under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be nervous about. Ramona dragged me to a shit ton of off-campus parties last year, so if anything, I should be an old pro by now. But this party happens to be at Beau Maxwell’s house. The frickin’ quarterback of Briar’s football team.
The football crowd freaks me out. Their parties are rowdy and tend to get shut down by the cops more often than not. And most of the players are loud and cocky and walk around like they’re God’s gift to the world. Which is ironic, because last year the team put up the worst record Briar has seen in twenty-five years.
The last time I encountered the football crowd, it was at a frat party Ramona and I went to, where I had to break up a fight between my best friend and the football groupie who tried to gouge Ramona’s eyes out for making out with one of the offensive linemen. And I had to do it on my own, because the players were no fucking help. They’d just formed a circle around the girls and wailed out “Meow!” the entire time. Dickheads.
“Beau’s a nice guy,” Logan assures me as we hop out the backseat of the taxi after he pays the driver. “Seriously, babe. He’s good people.”
“How is he even still at Briar? Wasn’t he a senior last year?”
“Technically he’s a fifth-year senior. He red-shirted freshman year.”
“Good, then that gives him another year to get his shit together,” I grumble. “His performance last year was disappointing. Were you there for the game where he threw five interceptions and zero TDs? What the hell was that?”
Logan wags his finger at me. “Shame on you, Ms. Football Critic. Ripping on a guy for having an off day? That’s harsh.”
I sigh. “Fine. I guess I can cut him some slack. I mean, not everyone can be as good as Drew Baylor, right?”
Heat flares in his eyes. “Your knowledge of college quarterbacks is strangely a turn-on.”
“I think everything is a turn-on for you,” I answer, rolling my eyes.
“Yup. Pretty much.”
We reach the front door, and the deafening music vibrating behind it brings a pang of uneasiness. I grab his arm. “If it gets too crazy, promise we can leave?”
“But these are your people, remember? Why would you ever want to leave the sweet bosom of your precious football family?”
His smug grin makes me snicker. “Hey. Just because I like watching them play doesn’t mean I want them to play me.”
Logan dips down and plants a kiss on my temple. “Don’t worry. Whenever you want to go, say the word and we’re gone.”
“Thank you.”
A moment later, he opens the door without knocking, and we step into the lion’s den, where I’m immediately blasted with a wave of body heat. God, there are so many people inside the house that the air is on fire. The scent of beer, perfume, cologne and sweat is so strong it makes my head spin, but Logan doesn’t seem bothered by it. He takes my hand and leads me deeper into the mob.
In the corner of the living room, a high-spirited game of beer pong is in progress, and the girls standing on one end of the table are in various states of undress. Okay, make that a high-spirited game of strip beer pong. On the other side of the room, the makeshift dance floor is packed with gyrating bodies and surrounded by furniture topped with tipsy, half-naked girls getting their dirty dancing on.
We showed up late because Logan had hockey practice, but still, it’s only ten o’clock, which seems way too early for everyone to already be this wasted.
“I’ll give you twenty bucks if you get up on one of those tables,” Logan rasps in my ear.
I punch him in the arm.
He flashes his crooked grin and pretends to rub his sore biceps. “Want a drink?” He raises his voice to be heard over the music.
“Sure,” I call back.
We wander into the kitchen, which is equally crowded and equally loud. Logan swipes a rum bottle from the counter, pours two plastic cups, then dumps some Coke in them to sweeten the deal. I sip the drink and make a face. God, his rum-and-Coke recipe needs some work. It’s pretty much just rum.
The alcohol burns down my throat and heats my belly, spiking my body temperature even more. I’m wearing a short halter dress, which means I can’t even shed any items of clothing to battle the sheen of sweat rising on my skin.