The Mistake

  I groan, too. From the sheer lameness of that statement. “You should have put that line in your poem.”

  “I’ll write you another one,” he promises.

  “Oh God. Please don’t.” A yawn overtakes me, and I twist around to glance at the alarm clock, surprised to find that it’s only ten-fifteen. “Why am I so tired?”

  “I wore you out, huh?” He smiles smugly. “I was afraid I might’ve lost my moves during my CS, but I’ve still got it.”

  “CS?” His abbreviations drive me nuts sometimes. I’m praying one of these days I’ll be able to figure them out on my own.

  “Celibacy stretch,” he explains.

  “It’s only been three weeks, horndog.”

  “Actually, it’s been…six months?”

  My eyebrows soar. “You haven’t had sex in six months?”

  “Nope.” A sheepish look fills his face. “Not since I met you.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Now he looks hurt. “You think I’m lying?”

  “No…of course not…” My mind struggles to digest the information. Even before I met the guy, I was well aware of his reputation—I witnessed it firsthand when he stumbled out of that bathroom at the frat party.

  And he and I were apart the entire summer. Is he seriously telling me he didn’t fool around with someone even once during that time? Granted, I didn’t either, but I’m not John Logan, the manwhore who’s slept with half the girls at Briar.

  “I almost did,” he adds, his features pained. “It was early on in the summer, and you were still ignoring my messages. I went to this chick’s place, fully intending to sleep with her, but when she tried to kiss me…I took off. It just didn’t feel right.”

  I’m floored. Utterly floored.

  “But this…” He leans closer and gently presses his mouth against mine in the sweetest kiss imaginable. “This…” Another kiss. “Feels…” And another one. “Right.”

  30

  Logan

  Best. Weekend. Ever.

  I honestly can’t remember the last time I smiled this much. Or laughed this much.

  Or fucked this much.

  Grace and I have been going at it like bunnies since Friday night, and each time is even better than the last. Now it’s late Sunday morning, and we’re still going at it, tangled up in the sheets as my cock plunges into her tight heat. I’ve been diligent about asking her whether she’s sore, but she keeps claiming she’s not. And if she is sore, then she’s powering through it like a champ. Like a hockey player who bandages himself up, throws on his pads, and hits the ice, because the game is that important to him.

  I guess I’m that important to her. Or maybe she just likes the ridiculous amount of orgasms I’ve given her. And she’s about to get another one. I went down on her for thirty minutes before I couldn’t take it anymore, desperately needing to be inside her, and her pussy is still wet and swollen from the ministrations of my tongue. It clutches me like a goddamn vise, while her slender body flexes against mine, her spine arching to meet each hurried thrust.

  She’s close. I’ve memorized her responses, the noises she makes and the way her inner muscles ripple around my cock when her orgasm is imminent.

  “Oh.” She gasps when I rotate my hips, and her eyes glaze over. “Feels…so… good.”

  Good doesn’t even begin to describe it. It’s…fucking divine. Pure heaven, right here in this bed. I worship her pussy. I worship her.

  The base of my spine tingles, pleasure tightening my muscles. I snake my hands beneath her ass and dig my fingers into her firm flesh, locking us tighter, fucking her harder. I come first, my mind scattering, foggy and incoherent. She’s right behind me, squeezing the hell out of my dick as she makes a breathy, blissful noise that drives me wild.

  Every time after we’ve had sex this weekend, I’ve almost blurted out that I love her. And every time, I’ve clamped my lips together to stop the words from escaping because I’m scared of saying it too soon. I’ve known her since April, but we weren’t dating then. Now we are and it’s nearing the one-month mark, but I’m not sure what the etiquette for I-love-you’s is. I told my first girlfriend I loved her after two weeks of dating. My second, after five months. So maybe I should split the difference and tell Grace…at the three-month point. Yeah. That seems like an appropriate amount of time.

  Once we recover from our respective orgasms, we decide to finally drag ourselves out of bed. It’s almost noon and we haven’t eaten since we woke up, and my stomach rumbles like the engine of a muscle car. We throw on some clothes, because no matter how many times I try to convince her, Grace refuses to walk around naked in case my roommates come home. I’ve been teasing her mercilessly about her unwarranted modesty, but I’m quickly discovering that Grace has one incredibly annoying trait—she’s always right.

  We’ve just entered the kitchen when footsteps echo from the front hall.

  “See!” she gloats at me. “They would have caught us!”

  “Trust me, the guys have seen me naked on multiple occasions,” I answer dryly.

  “Well, they’re never going to see me naked, not if I can help it.”

  I suddenly picture Dean ogling her bare tits, and the hot streak of jealousy it triggers makes me realize just how grateful I am that she decided to wear clothes.

  But it’s not Dean who strides into the kitchen a minute later. It’s Garrett, with Hannah on his tail. Although they look startled to find Grace at the counter, they greet her with warm smiles before turning to smirk at me. Smug bastards. I know exactly what’s going through their heads—a singsong taunt. Lo-gan has a girrrrl-friend.

  “Hey.” I narrow my eyes. “I thought you guys were crashing at the dorm this weekend.”

  “I bet you did,” Garrett mocks, his gray eyes gleaming.

  “Yes, because that’s what you told me,” I say pointedly.

  Hannah walks up to Grace and sticks out her hand. “Hi. We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Hannah.”

  “I’m Grace.”

  “I know.” Hannah can’t seem to wipe the big, stupid smile off her face. “Logan talks about you all the time.”

  Grace glances at me. “You do?”

  “All the livelong day,” Garrett confirms, flashing his big, stupid smile. “He also writes long, sweeping poems about you and recites them to us in the living room every night.”

  Hannah snorts.

  I give him the finger.

  “Oh, I know about the poems,” Grace tells my best friend. “I’ve already submitted the one he sent me to an anthology press in Boston.”

  I whirl around to glare at her. “You better be kidding about that.”

  Garrett gives a hoot of laughter. “Doesn’t matter if she is. Because now I’ll be submitting it.”

  “I feel left out,” Hannah announces. “Why am I the only one who hasn’t read this poem?”

  “I’ll email it to you,” Grace offers, which brings a hell-no growl from my lips.

  “So what are we eating?” Garrett marches over to the fridge. “I’m starving, and someone didn’t want to stop at the diner for brunch.”

  “I’m there four days a week,” his girlfriend protests. “It’s the last place I want to go on my days off.”

  He pulls out two cartons of eggs. “You guys feel like omelets?”

  We’re all in agreement, so Garrett gets busy cracking eggs while Hannah and Grace chop vegetables at the counter. My job is to set the table, which takes all of thirty seconds. Smirking, I plop down on a stool and watch them work.

  “You’re doing dishes,” Hannah warns as she hands Garrett a cutting board laden with green peppers.

  I’m cool with that. I lean my elbows on the counter and ask, “So why’d you guys come back early?”

  “Because Allie and Sean are currently engaged in an epic fight.” She glances at Grace. “My roommate and her boyfriend.”

  “Soon-to-be ex from the sounds of it,” Garrett remarks from the stove. “I don??
?t think I’ve ever heard two people yell at each other like that before.”

  Hannah sighs. “Sometimes they really bring out the worst in each other. But on the flip side, they also bring out the best in each other. That’s why they keep breaking up and getting back together. I thought for sure it would stick this time, but who knows.”

  A mouthwatering aroma begins wafting through the kitchen. Garrett’s not the greatest cook, but he makes damn good omelets. Ten minutes later, he serves us fluffy, golden goodness loaded with cheese, mushrooms, and peppers, and the four of us settle around the table. It feels like a double date, which is surreal as hell. Up until last year, Garrett wasn’t interested in girlfriends, and up until last month, neither was I.

  I like it, though. Hannah and Grace are getting along. The conversation’s lively. We laugh a lot. I can’t remember the last time I felt so at peace, and by the time we finish eating, I don’t even care that I’m stuck doing dishes.

  Grace takes pity on me and helps me clear the table, then follows me to the sink, where I quickly rinse each plate before loading them in the dishwasher.

  “I can see why you wanted her.” Her voice is barely audible, but wistful enough that it makes my shoulders go rigid.

  When I realize she’s gazing at Hannah, guilt pricks my heart, bringing a sharp sting of pain. I hadn’t mentioned Hannah’s name when I told Grace about her in April, but I had admitted to liking my best friend’s girlfriend. Clearly Grace has put two and two together.

  “She’s funny. And really pretty,” Grace says awkwardly.

  I dry my hands with a dishrag and grasp her chin, drawing her gaze to mine. “I didn’t want her,” I murmur. I nudge Grace’s head in the direction of the table again. “I wanted that.”

  Garrett has just tugged Hannah into his lap, one arm wrapping around her as he plants a kiss on the tip of her nose. The fingers of his free hand thread through her dark hair, and she leans closer to whisper something in his ear that makes him chuckle. The way they look at each other…the reverence with which he touches her…they’re disgustingly in love, and anyone can see it.

  Including Grace, who turns back to me with a smile. “Yeah. Who wouldn’t want that?”

  Once the kitchen is squeaky clean, we disappear upstairs again, but not to have sex. We’ve barely slept this weekend thanks to our fuck-a-thon—not complaining, by the way—so we decide to take a nap. I set the alarm to make sure we don’t oversleep, because I’m supposed to drive Grace to her dad’s house at six.

  We climb under the covers and I yank her warm body toward me, spooning her from behind. A contented sigh slips out, but right as I start to drift off, her voice teases me back to a state of alertness.

  “John?” she murmurs.

  My heart squeezes. I don’t know why it does that every time she uses my first name. She calls me Logan too, and Johnny when she’s making fun of me, but it’s only John that floods my chest with emotion like this.

  “Mmmm?”

  “Do you want to come for dinner?”

  I stiffen, and she doesn’t miss the response. She releases a soft laugh and adds, “You’re allowed to say no. But…I mean, you’ve already kind of met my mother, and just so you know, my dad isn’t too scary. If anything, you might find him boring. He talks about science a lot.”

  Right. She’d mentioned that he was a biology professor. That’s not what worries me, though. The last time I met a girl’s parents, I was in high school, and it wasn’t a big deal back then. If anything, it was unavoidable, considering my girlfriend and I lived with our parents.

  And yeah, I’ve already Skyped with Grace’s mom, but that hadn’t felt like an official meeting or anything. It had been fun and casual, no big deal at all. But meeting Grace’s father—in person—feels like a big deal.

  Says the guy who’s in love with her.

  Good point. Hell, I ventured into BIG DEAL territory the moment I realized how I feel about her.

  “Will he mind if I come?”

  “Not at all. Mom already told him I had a boyfriend, so he’s actually been bugging me about meeting you,” she confesses.

  “Okay, then sure.” My arm tightens around her. “I’d love to.”

  *

  Grace

  It’s a pleasantly warm evening, so Dad decides we should eat on the patio. He grills up some steaks on the barbecue, while Logan and I take care of the rest of dinner. I’m in charge of the baked potatoes, Logan’s handling the salad. But watching the sheer concentration with which he slices those tomatoes, you’d think he was vying for a slot on Top Chef.

  “Relax, Johnny,” I tease. “Your salad preparation expertise has no bearing on whether he’ll like you or not.”

  Besides, I think my dad already likes him. He hasn’t cross-examined Logan like I expected him to, and I think he was secretly relieved when Logan cracked a joke during their introductions. My father always thought Brandon was completely lacking in personality—yep, Mr. I-teach-molecular-biology actually sat me down one day and informed me that my boyfriend was boring. Which was totally not the case. Brandon was shy, not boring. When we were alone, that boy had me doubled over in laughter.

  But Dad never got to see that, and there’s no denying that Logan possesses far more confidence than Brandon ever had. Within five minutes of meeting him, Logan gave my dad a good-natured reprimand for raising me to “hate” hockey, and Dad brings that up again once we’re seated at the glass table on the deck.

  “Here’s the thing, John,” he says as he cuts into his T-bone. “Gracie is smart enough to recognize the shockingly inferior level of skill that hockey demonstrates.” His eyes twinkle playfully.

  Logan mock gasps. “How dare you, sir.”

  “Face it, kid. Football requires a whole other level of athleticism.”

  Looking pensive, my boyfriend chews a bite of his baked potato. “All right, little scenario for you. You take every guy on the Bruins roster, throw football gear on them, and stick them on the field. I guarantee you they play a solid four quarters of football and kick some serious ass.” He smirks. “Now take the Pats, slap on some skates and pads, and put them on the ice—can you honestly tell me they’d be able to play a full three periods, and do it well?”

  Dad narrows his eyes. “Well, no. But that’s because a lot of them probably don’t know how to skate.”

  Logan’s smile is triumphant. “But they’re operating on a superior level of athleticism,” he reminds my father. “Why can’t they skate?”

  Dad sighs. “Touché, Mr. Logan. Touché.”

  I snicker.

  The remainder of the dinner goes the same way, animated discussions that end with one or both of them grinning. I can’t contain the burst of joy in my heart. Seeing them get along is such a relief. Now I’ve gotten the nod of approval from both my parents, whose opinions matter deeply to me.

  Dad brings up my mother as the three of us clear the table. “Your mom’s thinking of coming to Hastings for Thanksgiving.”

  “Really?” I’m excited by the news. “Will she stay at the inn, or here at the house?”

  “Here, of course. No sense spending money on a hotel room when she has her pick of bedrooms here.” Dad balances his plate and the salad bowl in one hand so he can open the sliding door. “I was thinking of taking a few days off and driving up to Boston with her. There are some mutual friends we were talking about visiting.”

  Any other child of divorce might have gotten their hopes up hearing their parents might take a road trip together, but that ship sailed a long time ago for me. I know my folks are never getting back together—they’re much happier apart—but I love that they’re still so close. Best friends, even. It’s actually kind of inspiring.

  To my surprise, after we’ve thanked Dad for dinner and climbed into Logan’s pickup, my parents’ relationship is the first thing Logan comments on.

  “It’s really cool that your folks remained friends after the divorce.”

  I nod. “I know, ri
ght? I thank my lucky stars for it every day. I’d hate it if they were fighting all the time and using me as a pawn or something.” Then I tense, realizing that maybe the aftermath of his parents’ divorce is exactly what I’ve just described. Logan doesn’t talk about it much, and I haven’t pushed for details because it’s obvious he prefers not to discuss his family.

  Especially his father. But that’s one subject I definitely don’t bring up, not for his sake, but my own. Because I’m terrified of revealing my true feelings on the matter—that I think Logan is making a huge mistake quitting hockey after graduation.

  He insists that running the business and taking care of his father is what’s best for the family, but I disagree. What’s best for Ward Logan is a long stint in rehab followed by extensive addiction therapy, but hey, what do I know? A year of psych classes does not a psychologist make.

  “Your dad is awesome.” Logan’s gaze is glued to the windshield, but there’s no missing the sadness in his voice. “He seems like the kind of man who’d always be there for you. You know, like he wouldn’t desert you in the hospital if you broke your ankle or something.”

  His example is so alarmingly specific it makes me frown. “Did…did that happen to you?”

  “No.” He pauses. “To my mom, though.”

  The frown deepens. “Your father deserted her in the hospital?”

  “No, not really. He—you know what, don’t worry about it. Long story.”

  His hand rests on the gearshift, and I reach over and cover it with mine. “I want to hear it.”

  “What’s the point?” he mumbles. “It’s in the past.”

  “I still want to hear it,” I say firmly.

  He lets out a weary breath. “It happened when I was seven or eight. I was in school so I didn’t see how it went down, but I heard about it from my aunt afterward. Actually, the whole neighborhood heard about it, that’s how loud she was screaming when my dad finally dragged his ass home.”