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“Hi,” the girls chime together.

“Are you having a good chat?” he asks, a drink in each hand.

“Just the very best chat,” I say, unable to lose the tension in my voice. “Although, it’s over, and that’s Logan’s chair. Bye, girls.” I smile wide at them, silently praying they’ll leave.

“Come on,” Sierra says, dragging her friend up from the table.

“Bye, Logan!” Amy croons as Sierra drags her off.

“Is Coke okay?” Logan sets a dark, bubbly glass of soda on the table in front of me.

I tug on Logan’s shirt sleeve until he plunks into his seat.

Grunting, he hits the chair. “Miss me?”

“Logan!” I hiss out a whisper. “People are asking me about us.”

“Oh.” His eyes slide to the girls several tables away but still ogling our direction. “They’re harmless.”

“Isn’t that what you said about butthead Roy?”

He cracks a grin. “He is though. So are they. Please don’t worry about anyone else.” He picks up my hand from the table and laces our fingers together. His skin is warm and calloused, and the way his hand fits with mine brings me a sense of peace.

“I don’t know how to respond. The stares, the talking—it’s just so far out of my comfort zone. In L.A., everyone ignores everyone else. At this point, I’m expecting our relationship to be broadcast in the Rendezvous Times.”

His brows lift. “It could be.”

“Logan!”

“But it won’t be. I’ll talk to Larry, and it definitely won’t be.”

So not helpful.

“I get that this is strange for you. I do. However, I like you, Liv Benson.” He brings my hand up to his lips. “And I’m not going to hide that because people here tend to watch rather than ignore.”

My heart flutters and my cheeks bloom with warmth at the sound of my name in his voice.

“Okay?” he says, brows lifted, waiting for a response. His expression tells me that there is no right or wrong reply. I can give him my honest answer, my most truthful feelings, and it will be accepted.

It’s the agency that makes me swoony. And the truth of the matter is, if Logan’s talking, I am most likely agreeing to whatever the man suggests.

Ken’s horrible rendition of Madonna comes to an end, and our karaoke host speaks into the mic with commentary as the crowd applauses and chatters. “Who’s up next, folks? Hmm?”

I hardly hear him though. I’m staring at Logan next to me, feeling as though this is someone else’s life. But I can smell his musk and the motor oil lingering on his hands. His hazel eyes are bright and smiling. The vision in front of me is too vivid to be made up. And then he’s leaning his head toward mine, connecting our lips, and leaving me spinning.

“Miss Benson!” Amy gasps, shouting above the background noise. The commotion of the crowd dies with her outburst. And like magnets searching for their pull, eyes upon eyes turn on me.

Oh boy.

Logan is making it impossible for me to hide in this crowd.

Another call shouts from somewhere in the packed room. I’m not even sure which direction it comes from. “Yeah! Let’s hear it for Miss Benson!”

“Miss Benson!” another faceless bellow.

I stare at the host, who, like everyone else in this room, knows who I am, so of course he’s staring back.

The man grins as if we are conspiring together. We are absolutely not. “All right, then!” he calls into his microphone. “Miss Benson, get on up here!”