Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(39)
Fred nods and leans back against the bar. “Some softball tournament is in town, so a lot of new faces. Young, too,” he adds with a grin. “Better get your jar ready.”
He isn’t kidding, and the first half of my shift goes by in a blur. By eight that night Fred has dropped seven dollar bills into the car fund and thus has started suggesting I take another couple of shifts at Bliss.
I’m on my way to the back with a pitcher of margaritas when I see Luke. He’s leaning against the pool table, hands tucked into the pocket of his dark jeans while he talks to a guy I don’t recognize. His hair is soft tonight like he hasn’t put anything in it, and it falls forward, obscuring his eyes. Of course it doesn’t block the cut of his jaw, the line of his neck where it disappears into his gray T-shirt, or the way his Adam’s apple moves as he swallows.
He’s texted me four times since the night we had sex on his couch . . . again . . . this last time less than a week ago, but I haven’t answered any of them. As a buffer against his presence, I mentally check off the reasons why:
Flaky.
Douchey friends.
Womanizer.
Off. Limits.
So I resent the physical reaction I’m having: my heart is definitely beating a little faster, and there’s a distinct flutter of interest between my legs.
When did my body become such a traitor?
He looks up just as I place the tray on the table, and catches my eye. I’m not sure when he got here, but he doesn’t look surprised to see me at all.
I ask the table if there’s anything else I can get them before heading back to the bar. Fred is talking to one of the regulars when I slip behind the counter. I make two gin and tonics, pour a few beers, and have just started unloading a pack of Red Bull into the cooler when I hear a throat clear behind me.
“You didn’t answer any of my texts, Logan,” he says.
“A disorienting experience?” I ask with a smile, closing the cooler door and turning. “What can I get you?”
“Just a beer, please,” he says, looking up at the TV. “That looks interesting.”
I follow his gaze to where a trailer for a horror movie plays during a commercial break. “?‘That’?”
He shrugs. “I heard it got pretty good reviews.”
“I’m not really a scary movie person,” I tell him, bending to drop a dirty rag in a bin beneath the bar.
“What kind of films do you like?”
I blink up to him. “What kind of . . . did you say films?”
He spins the beer coaster in front of him. “I did.”
“Comedies, I guess?”
Nodding quickly, Luke says, “Yeah, I like those, too.”
He’s being so odd, and doing that thing where he fidgets when he’s uncomfortable. Granted, things are totally weird between us, but I actually miss cocky Luke a little. Maybe he, too, is thinking back to what happened at Bliss. Maybe he’s wondering how much I heard.
Maybe the fact that he’s trying to make it okay between us should make me feel better, but, given everything, it doesn’t.
“Are you going to ask me about the weather next?”
He breaks his attention from the television and looks over at me. “What?”
“Why do you sound like you’re reading for the lead in The 40-Year-Old Virgin? You’re being weird.”
“I’m not—”
“Yeah, you are.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I think I’m just a little off today.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Sure.”
“Do you have any girl friends you don’t bang?”
His eyes narrow. “Of course I do. Margot—”
I hold up a hand to stop him. “Let me rephrase that. Do you have any female friends you just hang out with, who you are not related to, and who you have never banged, and/or never think of banging?”
He looks mildly offended. “Yes, Logan. Several.”
Leaning my elbows on the bar, I lower my voice, telling him, “Really? Because you’ve dialed down the flirtation tonight, but you’re acting like a robot. It’s like you have two settings: pickup artist or awkward.”
“Like I said, I’m just in a weird mood,” he says quietly.
“Luke?”
His shy smile melts me a little. “Logan?”
“You don’t need to have your dick out for someone to like you.”
The smile is dialed up a few hundred degrees. “Is that right?”
“Would I lie to you?”
This makes him laugh. “You’ve ignored all of my texts,” he says again, as if this proves me wrong.
A waitress drops a ticket on the counter and I reach for it. With an inward wince, I realize how easy it is to fall into flirtation with him—I’m even initiating it.
Flaky.
Douchey friends.
Womanizer.
Off. Limits.
“I worked pretty much nonstop,” I tell him.
Luke takes a pull from his beer and then examines the bottle. “You know, one of these days I’m going to turn into a raging alcoholic and it’ll be your fault.”
“I drive you to drink?” I ask.
He tears the corner of the label and begins to slowly peel it away. “No. But I hang out in bars hoping to see you. Eventually all this is going to catch up with me and I’ll look like my uncle Steve.”