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It’s an old joke, an old memory, really, one that guarantees I’ll never set foot in a McDonald’s again. Not after getting food poisoning from a fish sandwich I ate there in middle school. It was my own fault, really, a rookie mistake. Who orders seafood at a place like McDonald’s? It’s like playing the food version of Russian roulette.
Anyway. Logan happened to be over when I started throwing up. And throwing up. Mom was at some meeting, and Dad was at work, as always. Brandon was playing video games with Logan and did the older brother thing of casually shouting, “Are you okay, Park?” while not even setting down his controller.
But Logan …
Logan not only set down his controller, he came into the bathroom with me. I was so ill that I temporarily suspended my extreme mortification at barfing in front of my crush. Desperate times.
Logan held back my hair. He rubbed my back. He got a cool washcloth and wiped my face. And when it was all over and the contents of my stomach—and maybe part of my stomach lining—were emptied out, Logan picked me up, carried me to my room, and tucked me into bed.
While a memory involving barf isn’t the epitome of romantic, it reminds me how thoughtful and tender he could be, even when he was a dumb teenage boy. (Because let’s face it—all teenage boys exist on a sliding scale of stupidity.) Bringing it up is also a nod to our shared past and how much history we share.
“You remember,” I say.
Logan smiles. “Hard to forget.”
“That’s such a gross memory, though.” I wrinkle my nose. “I mean—watching me barf? I’m surprised you ever came back to our house.”
His eyes are warm when he shrugs. “It wasn’t a bad memory for me. I liked taking care of you.”
I’m still processing the sweetness of that statement and telling myself not to read too much into it when Logan raises his eyebrows, giving me a playful smile.
“McDonald’s, then?”
“Tempting,” I say. “But upon closer review, the call on the field stands.”
My football reference gets a chuckle out of Logan. “Then let’s stop hovering in the entrance, shall we?”
And with his big hand still splayed on my lower back, Logan leads me forward. When the very pretty hostess appears, I’m grateful her smile isn’t flirty. Because fake or no, this whole thing with Logan has me feeling all kinds of possessive. I’d rather not start the night planning an elaborate revenge plot against any woman who looks at Logan with interest.
“Your table is right this way, Mr. Barnes,” she says.
As we start to follow, Logan’s hand still on my back where I’d like it to stay forever, I whisper, “Mr. Barnes? And you have a table?”
“I made reservations,” he says.
“When did you have time to do that?” I hiss.
“Does it matter?”
Yes.“No. But when?”
“I called between practice and filming,” he says. “They didn’t open until noon.”
Maybe it’s a sign I don’t date enough or don’t date nice enough guys that Logan’s simple act of planning is blowing me away. Especially considering the fact that he told me he didn’t date much. How is he even this smooth? I can only imagine how he’d be if he decided to date someone for real.
That thought triggers an immediate flood of jealousy and possessiveness and maybe a little bitterness too. I bite the inside of my cheek and give the beads on my ring a furious spin.
The hostess moves to pull out my chair, but Logan stops her and says, “Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” She steps out of the way and gives me a conspiratorial look like,Hold on to this one!
If only.
As Logan helps push my chair in, he lets his hands linger on my shoulders. Leaning down, he brushes his lips over my cheek, right at the edge of my mouth. Practically on the corner of my lips. I expect him to mention the rules the way he kept doing at my dad’s gala. But he doesn’t. Instead, he kisses me again, this time on my temple, lingering just long enough to set my insides aflame.
I die a little. Right then and there. Hopefully, it’s not obvious.
But the smug look on Logan’s face when he takes his seat across from me tells me it’ssuperobvious. I hide behind my menu and hear him give a low chuckle. I’m still hiding, scanning the list of exquisite-sounding foods with no prices.
