The Mistake

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “What? You don’t think I should?”

  Logan looks pensive. “I don’t know. Hitting on me was a really shitty move on her part. Doesn’t exactly put her in the running for Friend of the Year.” A frown touches his lips. “I don’t like the idea that she might hurt you again.”

  “Me neither, but cutting her off feels…wrong. I’ve known her my whole life.”

  “Yeah? I assumed you two just got assigned to the same dorm.”

  “Nope. We’ve been friends since childhood.”

  I explain how Ramona and I were next-door neighbors, and from there, the conversation shifts to what it was like growing up in Hastings, then to what it was like for him to grow up in Munsen. I’m surprised by the complete lack of awkward silences. There’s always at least one on a first date, but Logan and I don’t seem to have that problem. The only time we stop talking is when the waiter takes our orders, and then again when he delivers the check.

  Two hours. I can hardly believe it when I peek at the time on my phone and realize how long we’ve been here. The food was phenomenal, the conversation entertaining, and the company absolutely incredible. After we polish off our dessert—a piece of decadent tiramisu that Logan insists we share—he doesn’t even allow me to look at the bill. He simply tucks a wad of cash in the leather case the waiter dropped off, then slides out of the booth and holds out his hand.

  I take it, wobbling slightly on my heels as he helps me to my feet. I feel weak-kneed and giddy. I can’t stop smiling, but I’m gratified to see that he’s sporting the same goofy grin.

  “This was nice,” he murmurs.

  “Yes, it was.”

  He laces our fingers together and proceeds to keep them like that all the way to the car, where he reluctantly lets go so he can open my door for me. The moment he’s in the driver’s seat, our fingers intertwine again, and he drives one-handed the entire way back to campus.

  It’s not until we’re standing outside my door that his easygoing demeanor falters. “So how did I do?” he asks gruffly.

  I snicker. “You want a detailed performance review of our date?”

  He tugs on the collar of his shirt, more nervous than I’ve ever seen him. “Kind of. I haven’t been on a date in…fuck, ages. Since freshman year, I think.”

  My surprised gaze flies to his. “Really?”

  “I mean, I’ve hung out with girls. Played pool at the bar, talked at parties, but an actual date? Picking her up and having dinner and then walking her to her door?” The most adorable red splotches color his cheeks. “Ah, yeah, haven’t done that in a while.”

  God, I want to throw my arms around him and squeeze all the cuteness out of him. Instead, I pretend to mull it over. “Okay, well, your choice of restaurant? Perfect ten. Chivalry…you opened my car door, so that’s a ten too. Conversational prowess…nine.”

  “Nine?” he blusters.

  I flash an impish smile. “I’m taking a point off for the hockey talk. That was rather dreary.”

  Logan narrows his eyes. “You’ve gone too far, woman.”

  I ignore him. “Affection levels? Ten. You had your arm around me and held my hand, which was sweet. Oh, and the last one—goodnight kiss. Yet to be rated, but you should know, you’re starting at minus-one because you requested a performance review instead of making your move.”

  His blue eyes twinkle. “Seriously? I’m being penalized for trying to be a gentleman?”

  “Minus-two now,” I taunt. “Your opening is getting narrower and narrower, Johnny. Soon you won’t—”

  His mouth captures mine in a blistering kiss.

  Belonging. It’s the only way to describe the exquisite rush of sensation that washes over me. His lips belong on mine. Heat floods my core as his large hands cup my cheeks, thumbs stroking my jaw as he kisses me with a shocking contrast of tenderness and hunger. His tongue slicks over mine, one sweet stroke, then another, before he eases his mouth away.

  “You called me Johnny,” he says, his breath tickling my lips.

  “Is that not allowed?” I tease.

  His thumb softly grazes my bottom lip. “My friends call me John sometimes, but only my family calls me Johnny.” His gaze burns with intensity. “I liked it.”

  My pulse accelerates as his mouth brushes over mine again. The slightest amount of contact, like a feather tickling my lips. He slides both hands down my bare arms, leaving goose bumps in his wake, then rests them on my hip, casual almost, except there’s nothing casual about the way his touch makes me feel.

  “Will you go out with me again?”

  He’s so tall, I have to tilt my head to look at him. A part of me is tempted to make him sweat, but there’s no stopping the swift, unequivocal answer that escapes my mouth.

  “Absolutely.”

  26

  Grace

  On our second date, Logan and I go to a party, which under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be nervous about. Ramona dragged me to a shit ton of off-campus parties last year, so if anything, I should be an old pro by now. But this party happens to be at Beau Maxwell’s house. The frickin’ quarterback of Briar’s football team.

  The football crowd freaks me out. Their parties are rowdy and tend to get shut down by the cops more often than not. And most of the players are loud and cocky and walk around like they’re God’s gift to the world. Which is ironic, because last year the team put up the worst record Briar has seen in twenty-five years.

  The last time I encountered the football crowd, it was at a frat party Ramona and I went to, where I had to break up a fight between my best friend and the football groupie who tried to gouge Ramona’s eyes out for making out with one of the offensive linemen. And I had to do it on my own, because the players were no fucking help. They’d just formed a circle around the girls and wailed out “Meow!” the entire time. Dickheads.

  “Beau’s a nice guy,” Logan assures me as we hop out the backseat of the taxi after he pays the driver. “Seriously, babe. He’s good people.”

  “How is he even still at Briar? Wasn’t he a senior last year?”

  “Technically he’s a fifth-year senior. He red-shirted freshman year.”

  “Good, then that gives him another year to get his shit together,” I grumble. “His performance last year was disappointing. Were you there for the game where he threw five interceptions and zero TDs? What the hell was that?”

  Logan wags his finger at me. “Shame on you, Ms. Football Critic. Ripping on a guy for having an off day? That’s harsh.”

  I sigh. “Fine. I guess I can cut him some slack. I mean, not everyone can be as good as Drew Baylor, right?”

  Heat flares in his eyes. “Your knowledge of college quarterbacks is strangely a turn-on.”

  “I think everything is a turn-on for you,” I answer, rolling my eyes.

  “Yup. Pretty much.”

  We reach the front door, and the deafening music vibrating behind it brings a pang of uneasiness. I grab his arm. “If it gets too crazy, promise we can leave?”

  “But these are your people, remember? Why would you ever want to leave the sweet bosom of your precious football family?”

  His smug grin makes me snicker. “Hey. Just because I like watching them play doesn’t mean I want them to play me.”

  Logan dips down and plants a kiss on my temple. “Don’t worry. Whenever you want to go, say the word and we’re gone.”

  “Thank you.”

  A moment later, he opens the door without knocking, and we step into the lion’s den, where I’m immediately blasted with a wave of body heat. God, there are so many people inside the house that the air is on fire. The scent of beer, perfume, cologne and sweat is so strong it makes my head spin, but Logan doesn’t seem bothered by it. He takes my hand and leads me deeper into the mob.

  In the corner of the living room, a high-spirited game of beer pong is in progress, and the girls standing on one end of the table are in various states of undress. Okay
, make that a high-spirited game of strip beer pong. On the other side of the room, the makeshift dance floor is packed with gyrating bodies and surrounded by furniture topped with tipsy, half-naked girls getting their dirty dancing on.

  We showed up late because Logan had hockey practice, but still, it’s only ten o’clock, which seems way too early for everyone to already be this wasted.

  “I’ll give you twenty bucks if you get up on one of those tables,” Logan rasps in my ear.

  I punch him in the arm.

  He flashes his crooked grin and pretends to rub his sore biceps. “Want a drink?” He raises his voice to be heard over the music.

  “Sure,” I call back.

  We wander into the kitchen, which is equally crowded and equally loud. Logan swipes a rum bottle from the counter, pours two plastic cups, then dumps some Coke in them to sweeten the deal. I sip the drink and make a face. God, his rum-and-Coke recipe needs some work. It’s pretty much just rum.

  The alcohol burns down my throat and heats my belly, spiking my body temperature even more. I’m wearing a short halter dress, which means I can’t even shed any items of clothing to battle the sheen of sweat rising on my skin.

  “How are you friends with this crowd?” I ask as we leave the kitchen. “My dad told me that the hockey and football players at this university have an age-old rivalry.”

  “Not anymore. It ended three years ago when the savior arrived at Briar.”

  “Uh-huh. And who was the savior?”

  “Dean,” he answers with a snort. “I’m sure you already know this, but he chases anything in a skirt—”

  I feign a gasp. “Oh my God. Are you serious?”

  He chuckles. “Anyway, once he ran out of puck bunnies to screw in freshman year, he had no choice but to dip into the football groupie pool. He wound up at one of Beau’s parties, the two of them recognized the man-slut in each other, and they’ve been friends ever since.” Logan slings one arm around me as we walk down a hallway littered with people. “Dean dragged me and the guys to a few parties and we hit it off with the meatheads too. And yeah, the blood feud was put to rest.”

  I have no clue where we’re going, but Logan seems to know the house like the back of his hand. He bypasses several closed doors before leading me through a doorway that opens onto a spacious den. Two massive leather sofas set in an L-shape take up the center of the room, facing an entertainment center that’s flashing ESPN highlights. There’s a pool table behind the larger couch, and a cue-wielding guy with a bushy beard studies the green felt intently, while his opponent taunts him about how he’s going to miss the shot.

  I’m surprised by how empty the den is. Only a handful of guys near the pool table, a few couples by the back wall, and two people making out on the couch—Dean and a redhead with huge boobs. Beau Maxwell, who’s sprawled in an armchair, watches them with an almost bored expression.

  The quarterback lifts his head at our entrance. “Logan,” he drawls. “How’ve you been, man?”

  Logan settles on the couch adjacent to Dean’s and pulls me into his lap as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As his arms come around my waist, I notice the flicker of interest in Beau’s blue eyes. He actually looks a lot like Logan, I realize, now that I’m seeing him up close and not from the stands of the football stadium. They’re both huge, with dark hair, blue eyes, and chiseled features. But there’s one major difference—Beau doesn’t make my heart pound the way Logan does.

  Dean and the redhead break apart, their faces flushed as they glance over at us. “Hey,” Dean says with a wink. “When’d you guys get here?”

  “Just now,” Logan answers.

  Beau is still eyeing me curiously. “Who’s your friend?” he asks Logan.

  “This is Grace. My date. Grace, Beau.”

  The quarterback’s gaze does a thorough sweep over my bare legs. And thighs, because the way Logan positioned me in his lap caused my dress to ride up, and Beau has definitely noticed.

  “Nice to meet you, sweetheart,” Beau says, a smile curving his lips. “Gotta say, this is the first time I’ve seen Logan show up to a party with a date.”

  “Get used to it,” Logan tosses back. “I don’t plan on leaving the house without her anymore.” Then he kisses my neck, and a shiver races through me. His hand is a solid weight on my hip, keeping me tight to his body, and…yep, I’m not imagining it—there’s another solid weight beneath me. His very noticeable erection against my ass.

  Sometimes it still amazes me that I’m the one turning him on. My entire freshman year, all I heard was rumor after rumor about John Logan. He sleeps around, he’s a great lay, he doesn’t do relationships. So what the heck is he doing dating me? And by dating, I mean dating. We haven’t even had sex yet, for God’s sake.

  As I marvel over the knowledge that somehow I managed to land—or maybe tame is the better word?—a guy like Logan, the conversation continues around me. Logan and Beau get into an animated debate about drug testing in college sports, though I’m not quite sure how they reach that topic. I’m too busy enjoying the way Logan’s fingers absently stroke my hip over my dress. God, I wish he was touching my bare skin. I wish he’d done more than kiss me the other night. I ache for this guy. All the fucking time.

  “There you are.” A girl in a slinky green dress and black combat boots saunters into the den and heads Beau’s way. “I was looking everywhere for you.”

  “Too loud out there,” he sighs. “I think I’m turning into an old man, S. God, baby, make me feel young again. Please.”

  She laughs and leans down to brush her lips over his cheek. “My pleasure, big boy.”

  I make an effort not to stare too hard at her, but it’s difficult not to. She’s got olive-toned skin, bottomless dark eyes, and thick brown hair that cascades down her back, and she’s stunning. I don’t throw that word around a lot, but there’s no other way to describe this girl. Stunning. Not to mention ridiculously seductive. Seriously, she’s oozing Scarlett Johansson-level sex appeal, from the way she looks at Beau to the way she moves her hips as she perches on the arm of his chair.

  Her expression darkens when she notices Dean on the couch. “Richie,” she says coolly.

  “Sabrina,” Dean answers, a derisive gleam in his green eyes.

  “I noticed you actually bothered showing up for class this morning.” Sabrina smirks. “You realized the TA is a dude, huh? You poor thing. Can’t fuck your way into a passing grade this semester.”

  “Blow me, Sabrina.”

  She cocks a brow. “Yeah? Pull it out, big boy.”

  Dean raises a brow of his own. “I should. Maybe having something in your mouth will finally shut you up.”

  Sabrina throws her head back and laughs. “Oh, Richie, you really think that’ll shut me up?” She winks at Beau. “Tell him the kind of noises I make when your dick is in my mouth.”

  I have no idea what’s happening right now. The animosity between Dean and this Sabrina chick is polluting the air, but it fades the moment Beau hauls the gorgeous brunette to her feet.

  “’Scuse us,” he says, and the gleam of arousal in his eyes reveals exactly why he’s dragging Sabrina away.

  Once they’re gone, I glance over at Dean with a quizzical look. “Why does she call you Richie?”

  “Because she’s a fucking bitch,” is his answer, which is no answer at all.

  “Aw, you look upset,” the redhead murmurs to him. “Let me help with that.”

  In the next breath, they’ve got their tongues in each other’s mouths again.

  I turn to Logan. “What just happened?”

  “No fucking idea.” Grinning, he plants a kiss on my lips, then stands and pulls me up with him. “Come on, let’s go mingle. I think I saw Hollis and Fitzy around here somewhere.”

  We leave the den and reenter the land of the loud and wasted, where Logan introduces me to a few more people before we track down some of his teammates. I’m not having a bad time. Not having a great t
ime, either, but that’s not because of anything Logan says or does. It’s because as the party unfolds, I start to notice something that makes me feel…prickly.

  The girls. Lots and lots of girls.

  Lots and lots of girls who have no problem flirting shamelessly with my date.

  The attention Logan receives is staggering. And really fucking annoying. It’s one thing for someone to come over and say hello to him. But these girls don’t stop with hello. They rake their manicured fingernails along his bare arm. Bat their mascara-thick eyelashes at him. Call him “baby” and “hon.” One even kisses his cheek. Bitch.

  I try hard not to let it get to me. I knew going into this that he was popular. I also knew that hooking up had been a sport for him before he’d met me. But that doesn’t mean I appreciate having the evidence of his former player days smack me in the face every other second.

  By the time the ninth chick—yes, I’m keeping count—sashays up to him and gets her flirt on, I’ve officially had enough.

  “I need to use the ladies room,” I snap.

  Logan blinks at my sharp tone. “Ah…all right. Use the upstairs one—it’s usually less crowded.”

  The fact that he doesn’t ask me if I’m okay or offer to walk me upstairs is a tad grating. Gritting my teeth, I stalk out of the living room.

  In the hall, I duck a group of guys, dodge a guy and girl who are screaming insults and accusations at each other, and march up the staircase. I’ve just reached the top when I hear Logan’s voice from behind me.

  “Grace. Wait.”

  I reluctantly turn around. “What is it?”

  “You tell me.” Concerned blue eyes search my face. “You literally cut Sandy off mid-sentence and stormed off.”

  “Oh no, poor Sandy,” I mutter. “Give her my apologies.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Okay. What the hell is going on?”

  “Nothing.” I’m hit with a rush of embarrassment, because my eyes are stinging like I might actually cry. I spin on my heel and walk in the direction of the bathroom. Damn it. He’s right—what the hell is going on? I don’t know why I’m so pissed off. It’s not like he was flirting back. To his credit, he was trying to move away whenever one of those girls came close enough to touch him.