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“I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to my dad. It just sort of happened.”
Logan traces a ring of condensation on the table. “I get it. Your dad can be pushy.” He smiles. “And you tend to babble.”
I gasp in mock outrage. “Do not!”
He doesn’t even bother arguing back. “You caught me off guard with what you asked,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting it.”
I snort. “That was obvious when you practically left tread marks on my floor peeling out of there so fast.”
Chuckling lightly, he shakes his head. “You don’t make it easy on a guy, do you?”
“No one has ever accused me of being easy.”
Logan makes a choking sound, and only when I glance up and see the amusement on his face do I realize how that sounded.
I slap a hand over my eyes. “Oh, my gosh. Not easy like—no. That isnotwhat I meant. Excuse me while I hide under the table.”
I start to duck down, but Logan grabs my arm. “Pete,” he says, lightly tugging me back up until I’m facing him again—him and his stupid, smug smile.
Ugh! Does he have to look attractive even when he’s being impossible?
“I knew what you meant,” he says.
“Good.”
“And I’d be happy to go with you to your dad’s birthday thing,” Logan says, making my heart seize right up in my chest. He’s still holding my arm loosely and, when I don’t respond or move or even breathe, Logan frowns and gives me a little shake. “Are you still with me?”
“Yep. Still here. Just … trying to process.”
“Did you really think I would say no to you?” he asks.
I shrug, trying not to get too used to the feeling of Logan’s hand on my arm. But I’dliketo get used to it—that’s the problem. I’d like to get used to all of this—seeing Logan every day, having conversations with him, getting lost in his green eyes, seeing that sexy scar move when he smiles, and taking any old touch he’ll give me.
But why exactlyishe still touching me?
I tell myself not to read into this. Not to read intoanyof this. Not his touch. Not him saying yes. Not the two of us sitting at a table where it feels like the whole rest of the room has faded away.
“I definitely didn’t get the impression you wanted to go with me when you ran away,” I tell him.
“I didn’t run away.”
“You did. I thought maybe my deodorant failed or I had a whole head of spinach in my teeth—wait, is spinach sold in heads?”
“Nope. Spinach comes in bunches.”
“Okay. I checked to see if I had a wholebunchof spinach in my teeth. I wondered if horns suddenly sprouted from my forehead or if I’d been diagnosed with a deadly and communicable disease and everyone but me got the memo.”
Logan, bless his heart, is doing his very best not to laugh. It makes me more than a little happy to know I can crack the exterior of the man known for his intensity and seriousness.
“Wow. You were busy overthinking after I left.”
“Very.” I wiggle my straw, wishing I had more than just ice left in my glass. I could use a shot of liquid courage by way of more root beer right about now. “So, whydidyou panic? Was it because I said boobs? Or marriage? Or both?”
Great. Now I’ve said both words again.
But at least I didn’t speak aloud the real question I have: Did you run because the idea of going on a date with me was so horrible?
Logan is full-on laughing now, covering his mouth. “Parker, you are something else, you know that?”
