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“Drink.” Logan presses a warm mug into my shaking hands.
The smell of cinnamon hits me, and I glance up at him. “You made me tea,” I say. “You knowhowto make tea?”
He snorts, then sinks down on the couch beside me, leaving no room between us. “Please. I’m an athlete, not an imbecile. I can boil water.”
“But dropping the bag in the hot water takes real dexterity and precision,” I deadpan, then shake my head. “And after you missed that shot in practice yesterday …”
“There she is,” Logan says. “There’s my Pete.”
My Pete. I wish. But apparently, it’s only true in the tabloids.
I take a sip of tea, which Logan somehow got the perfect temperature for drinking. To be honest, I’m not sure I noticed him making tea. I’ve been too busy over here listening to the sound of my life burning down. Logan could have been dressing Mr. Eds up in baby clothes and teaching him to fetch and I wouldn’t have noticed.
“Talk to me,” Logan says.
I eye him over my mug. “You are remarkably calm.”
“I’m used to dealing with the press and the gossip sites. You’re not.”
“How does one … get used to this?” I ask.
Logan leans back, one hand trailing through his dark hair. “I guess it’s like the saying about boiling a lobster. Or is it a frog? Whatever. The water heats up so gradually that—”
“You don’t notice you’re dying? That sounds pretty terrible.”
He smirks. “Okay, so not the best analogy.”
“Or maybe it’s perfect. It’s right on the nose.” I shake my head. “It’s not okay to live this way, Logan.”
His smile falters. “I really am okay with my life,” he says, with more than a touch of defensiveness in his voice. “I knew what I was signing up for when I got drafted.Youdidn’t agree to this, which is not okay. I didn’t think it would bleed over into your life with one night.”
But didn’t I sign up for it? When I announced to my dad that Logan was my date and then my boyfriend—without his consent, mind you—I walked right into this life. Which I apparently didn’t think through at all. I was more worried about the team messing with Logan or about my own real feelings tripping me up—as they have actually done.
I wasn’t thinking about the fact thatTMZ has my photo on their website.And never mind that I look good. “A regulation hottie,” as Mia said. I’m totally going to print out the photos later so I can have copies.
But that doesn’t mean Ilikethe attention.
Despite the unnerving feeling of being suddenly famous (ish), this is a lovely and terrible distraction from the realization that I might be in actual LOVE with the man whose big thigh is currently touching mine.
“What do we do?” I ask, staring into the bottom of my mug.
I should have some ideas, being that I’m a social media strategist. But I deal more with trends and engagement, not with the PR side of things. And even if I might be able to think about that stuff if it were the Appies we were talking about, I cannot begin to consider this with my own life. I’m way too close to it.
And way too emotionally wrecked.
“There are options,” Logan says. “Say nothing at all is the first. Neither confirm nor deny. Though that sometimes drives the interest and curiosity higher.”
“Would we do that with the people in our actual lives?” I ask, wide-eyed. I’m trying to picture me saying, “No comment,” to someone like Van or Eli. Or the Appies staff.
I squeeze my eyes closed. Despite there being no official fraternization policy, I can’t help but feel like this isn’t a good career move for me. I picture Larry’s frowning face, and his walrus mustache twitching.
“Next option?”
“We tell the truth. Or a version of it,” he amends. “What we agreed on in your office would work. We’re old friends who went on a date. Tried things briefly. We decided to stay friends. End of story.”
Somehow, I don’t think that would be the end of the story, but it sounds better than option one. I’m about to ask for any other alternatives when Logan’s phone buzzes on the coffee table.
His expression darkens. “It’s Jeremy. The last person I want to talk to.” Sighing, he glances my way. “But he could probably help.”
