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“No kissing.” My voice is firm.
“Not even on the cheek? Forehead? Your hand?”
Every place Logan names suddenly flares with heat, as though his words are enough to create the sensation of his lips pressed to my skin. I’d like to sprawl out on the center of the rink to cool off.
“Fine,” I say. “But no kissing on the lips.”
I pull off the last sticky note, which readsNo kissing on the lips, and stand. Logan stands too, and I take each sticky note and press them one by one to his chest.
“These will self-destruct in two minutes.” I pat his chest for emphasis. And also because it’s a very nice chest and I’d like to pat it.
“Noted.”
It’s long past time for us to record Logan’s player profile, so I start toward the door.
“What if,” Logan says, moving to block me when I try to step past him, “weneedto kiss? Like, for the sake of believability?” The teasing note is back in his voice.
“We won’t.”
I step to the other side, and Logan swerves in front of me again, this time taking me by the arms. Not roughly. But enough to keep me in place.
“But what if we do?” he presses, one side of his mouth curling up.
I wish I also felt the same lightness about this conversation. Instead, I feel the dramatic ticking of some giant doomsday clock. Because we have now entered the talking-about-kissing zone.
“I can’t think of any reason we’d need to kiss on the lips, Logan.”
“Maybe not a need. But what if it’s awant?”
This man has zero idea what he’s doing to me right now. The closeness of his chest to mine. His strong hands lightly gripping my arms. The flirty tone. The whole topic of this conversation.
The idea of kissing Logan, which obviously, I have obsessively fantasized about since about the time kissing started to sound appealing instead of disgusting.
Essentially, for the last fifteen or soyears.
I make a scoffing sound and do not meet his eyes. “You’re assuming I’d want to kiss you.”
“No,” he says. “I didn’t mean you.”
This takes my poor, overstimulated brain a moment to process.
Logan’s teasing. I know he’s teasing. (Or flirting?) But he is also talking about wanting to kiss me.
I am no longer able to hold my words back, the ones that have been rising to the surface like bubbles in a pot of boiling water.
Jerking myself out of Logan’s grasp, I meet his gaze, bracing for impact. “There will be no kissing, Logan. Because my first kiss isn’t going to be with someone I’m fake dating.”
CHAPTER10
Logan
Parker’s phonepartially obscures her face as she skates backwards in front of me around the rink, filming. “If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life?”
I don’t answer right away. Because I’m having a hard time focusing on the questions when I’m still thinking about the last thing Parker said before we left her office.
“Favorite food,” Parker says. “Come on, Logan. Stick with me here.”
Oh, I’mwithher. I’m just not at all thinking about my favorite foods. Who cares about food?
