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It’s too much. I was already a mess with our fake-date-I-really-wish-was-a-real-date just hours away.
Without a word, I grab Mia by the elbow and forcibly drag her inside my apartment.
“See you at six-thirty!” Logan calls before I slam the door and lean my back against it.
Mia takes one look at my wide eyes and panicked expression and bursts out laughing.
“It’s not funny,” I hiss. “Logan is moving in next door.” Horror dawns on me as I think about the layout of the two apartments. I looked at both before moving in and chose the smaller one facing Maple Street. “We’re going to share a bedroom wall. Mia—we’re going to share a bedroom wall.”
She only laughs harder.
“You are the absolute worst,” I declare. “You can go. I don’t need your help any longer.”
“I’m sorry,” Mia says, wiping tears from her cheeks and making a valiant attempt to stifle her laughter. “But Parker? I’m pretty sure you need my help more than ever.”
* * *
I am no less nervous when Logan knocks on my door again, exactly on time. Mia gives my cheeks a little slap. Harder than necessary if you ask me.
“Hey,” I protest, stepping out of reach.
“It’ll put natural color there. Since you insisted on not letting me do your makeup.” She rolls her eyes.
Mia, in addition to graduating at the top of her law school class, is one of those people who understands terms like contouring and knows what kind of brush is for foundation and which is for whatever else women use brushes for. Whereas I’m a pretty strict moisturizer, mascara, andmaybeeyeliner kind of girl. Years of wearing caked-on performance make-up for skating competitions will have that effect on a person.
Logan knocks again and I startle, knocking into my dining table.
“Just a sec!” Mia calls. Then she takes my hand, her voice softening. “You’re going to be great. You’re going to have fun.”
“What if I—”
“Nope.” Mia shakes her head.
“But what if he—”
“No what ifs. Go. Be yourself. Enjoy. And don’t spend the night worrying about whatever thoughts are racing through your mind right now.”
“But what if he wants to kiss me?” I whisper too quickly for Mia to interrupt.
“If he does, and you want to, then do it.” Mia shrugs. “If not, don’t. And you have nothing to feel weird or ashamed about. You’ve waited this long; you can wait for it to mean whatever you want it to mean. Or you can decide to heck with it and kiss the hot hockey player just for fun. Your lips. Your choice.”
And before I can overthink anymore, Mia lets go of my hand and throws open the door to reveal Logan. The man might look most at home in his hockey gear, but he looks like he was born to wear this tux.
He looks so good, in fact, that it takes me several seconds to realize he’s got on a pink bow tie and matching pocket square—the exact dusky pink of my dress. The flowers in his hand are an explosion of pinks from pale blush peonies to vibrant fuchsia roses.
I realize I’m standing here silent, staring everywhere but Logan’s face. When I finally drag my eyes up to meet his gaze, he’s staring right back at me.
I can’t decipher the expression in his eyes, but whatever it is, it’s intense. My heart trips over itself, and I’m suddenly more nervous than I’ve been all day, which is saying a lot. I take a hesitant step back, my brain working overtime to find any excuse not to go.
I have cramps. A migraine. A sudden and crippling case of vertigo. My nonexistent goldfish died and required a burial at sea.
Anything at all to get me out of this.
But Logan steps forward, holding out the flowers. “These are for you,” he says.
I take the bouquet, jolting a little when his fingers brush mine. He shoves his hands in his pockets, stepping back. I drop my nose to the flowers to avoid looking at Logan. I inhale deeply.
A little too deeply, apparently, because then I sneeze, sending a shower of petals to the floor.
