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“You’re right. They absolutely would.” I sit up and grab a pink sticky note pad and a pen. “Okay, let’s map this out.”
Logan rubs his hands together, his eyes sparkling. “Oooh, we’re bringing out the big guns now. Not just any sticky notes but thepinksticky notes.”
“This conversation definitely requires the pink sticky notes. Okay, so—the guys already know we’re going together to my dad’s thing, right?”
“Hence the crop top. Yes.”
I make a mental note to ask Eli if anyone got pictures of Logan in the aforementioned crop top. I’m in need of a new screen-lock image for my phone. I also like to keep things like that on hand just in case a little light blackmail is needed for any reason.
“Then let’s keep it simple.” I slap the first sticky note on my desk, facing Logan. It says:Tell the team it’s just one date. “If we don’t say anything else, they can go on thinking it’s just the one event. They might never hear that you were my temporary boyfriend.”
“That works,” Logan says.
“As for the breakup after …” I chew the cap of my pen for a moment.
Logan falls back in his seat dramatically. “One fake date and you’re already wanting to break up? I’m crushed.”
Oh, there is no way I’d want to break up after one date with Logan. Not in the real world.
But this isn’t the real world. This is the plan-my-fake-date world. And a break-up is absolutely essential to this plan. The longer this kind of charade goes on, the more ideas I will get. And ideas are very, very bad where Logan is concerned.
“How about we amicably break up after my dad’s gala? If anyone asks, we decided we’re better off as friends.”
“That works,” Logan says, and I swallow down any disappointment that he’s not arguing with me about being better off as friends.
Forget the lady doth protest too much. I need the Logan to doth protest more!
See? Already, I’m getting ideas. About a fictional breakup. With my fictional boyfriend.
I pull off the sticky note. I put it next to the first. It reads:Friendly break-up after party. Stay friends.“We’ll part ways with a handshake,” I suggest.
“Handshake, huh?”
“I mean, metaphorically speaking. We don’t have to actually shake hands. It’s more a figure of speech. But …”
I pause, then writeShake hands to end thingson another sticky note and pass it over.
“Hand shaking brings up a good point,” Logan says.
He scratches his jaw, looking down at the sticky notes. Then he glances up, and I’m not prepared for the way he’s looking at me. His eyes seem darker than they were a moment ago, yet somehow they still twinkle with mischief. His irises are the green of very,verybad decisions. My stomach tightens, caught somewhere between anxiety and excited anticipation.
Still, I’m wholly unprepared when Logan says, “We should discuss physical boundaries.”
I drop my pen. Then I spend more time than necessary rooting around for it under my desk because I need my cheeks to cool down. My body apparently likes the idea of discussing physical boundaries. Maybe a little TOO much based on my flushed face and the way my pulse is erratically zooming through my veins.
Though I think it’s more the idea ofphysicaland less the idea ofboundariesthat my body is reacting to. My body is very happy to chuck boundaries right out of Harvest Hollow.
Which isexactlywhy boundaries are needed.
And, as positive as my physiological response is to this idea, my psychological response is weighed down by a lot more trepidation. Because this conversation is skirting pretty quickly toward the whole never-been-kissed territory. I would very much love to skirt very, very far away from this particular region. Perhaps to a whole other continent altogether.
“You okay down there?” Logan sounds far too amused.
My chair groans in protest as I straighten. “Yes. Fine. I’m good.” I clear my throat, doing my level best to channel my most professional professionalism. “What do we need to discuss?”
“Just how we’ll play this in public,” Logan says.
“Okayyyy,” I say.
