The Mistake(78)

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…f*ck, 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.