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My cheeks heat with the boldness of my confession. Better than saying I’d like to kiss the scar. Hopefully Logan can’t read that in my expression.
His eyes brighten and he chuckles. “So, it’s not a cliché that chicks dig scars?”
“Oh, it’s definitely a cliché. But it’s also true.”
Our waitress appears then with our food. I let go of Logan’s hand and also let the conversation move into shallower waters. Maybe because he already opened up, Logan is chattier than usual. I’m surprised he has more to say about his time with the Appies than with his old team. I’m starting to wonder if Logan being labeled as a bad team player is really more about him struggling to form connections, struggling to trust people.
Am I wrong in thinking this has changed since he’s come back to Harvest Hollow?
The waitress returns and scoops up our plates. “Any dessert?”
Logan raises his eyebrows. “I’m not the one with the sweet tooth. Parker?”
“What do you recommend?” I ask her.
“Our tiramisu is fabulous. Especially with coffee. We have decaf,” she says.
“Sold!” She’s no sooner walking away than I ask Logan, “So, what was with you missing all those shots at practice today?”
“I can’t catch a break with you, can I?”
“Nope.”
We talk about the upcoming game, and Logan gives me a spot-on rundown of his new teammates’ strengths and weaknesses.
“So, whose jersey are you wearing to the game? Since I don’t think they’re selling Appies jerseys with my name on them yet.”
“Oh, you assume I’d wear yours?”
He’s right, of course. And he doesn’t know, but I already have a jersey with his name on it. It’s not the kind they’ll ever sell, but an actual jersey. One I secretly had Malik add to the order when they were picking them up for Logan.
“I’d hope so. As my girlfriend,” Logan says.
This time, I don’t add in the reminder that I’m hisfakegirlfriend. “On game day, I have to wear an Appies polo. No jersey, sorry.”
“Hm. Maybe I can convince you to wear one after the game,” Logan says, and I’m glad when our dessert comes so I get a reprieve from his heated stare.
The tiramisu is delicious, and I even convince Logan to have a few bites. Do I feed him with my own fork, milking this “date” for all that it’s worth? Why, yes. Yes, I do.
Logan picks up the check so smoothly I don’t even get to argue with him, and then we walk back outside, his hand on my lower back again. A girl could really get used to this.
I turn in the direction of our apartments and the music thumping out of Tequila Mockingbird, a new bar on the corner. But Logan puts his arm around me, steering us the other way.
“We’re not done yet,” he says, leading me next door to Book Smart, which is, in my opinion, the best independent book shop in the state.
“We’re going to the bookstore?” I ask in a hushed whisper.
“If that’s okay?”
Oh, it’smorethan okay. It’s making sure I’ll never enjoy another date as much as this not-really-real date. Especially when Logan says he’s picking a book for me, and I need to pick one for him. Apparently, he asked Emmy ahead of time if she’ll gift wrap them so we can open them later tonight after the date and have a surprise.
I’m glad to separate from Logan, even for a few minutes, because I need to breathe. I need the space. I need a tiny break to try and remind myself this most amazing date in the whole world isn’t actually a real date.
He’s just sothoughtful, which I didn’t expect. Logan was always nice, but I’m starting to see a different side of him. The dinner reservations, asking if they have root beer, planning this surprise book exchange. He even arranged payment ahead of time with Emmy, who refuses my debit card. Which is honestly a relief, as there’s not much on it.
As she’s wrapping up the book I picked for Logan, Emmy gives me a small smile. “Good choice,” she says.
I considered a hockey romance, but decided it was a little too on the nose. Instead, I picked Lovestruck in Lyon, another romance by a French author I love, Amelie de Pierre.
