The Mistake (Off-Campus #2)(62)

“Let’s fold your laundry,” I blurt out.

A gale of laughter overtakes her small body. “That’s what I thought.”





24




Logan


An entire week passes before I’m able to tick another item off the list. So far, I’ve completed four out of the six, but these last two are a bitch to acquire. The wheels are in motion regarding #6, but #5 is fucking hard. I’ve been searching high and low for it, even contemplated buying it online, but those things are a lot more expensive than I thought they’d be.

It’s Tuesday afternoon, and I’m with Garrett and our buddy Justin. We’re picking up Hannah, Allie, and Justin’s girlfriend, Stella, at the drama building, and then the six of us are supposed to drive to the diner in Hastings for lunch. But the moment we enter the cavernous auditorium where the girls told us to meet them, my jaw drops and our plans change.

“Holy shit—is that a red velvet chaise lounge?”

The guys exchange a WTF look. “Um…sure?” Justin says. “Why—”

I’m already sprinting toward the stage. The girls aren’t here yet, which means I have to act fast. “For fuck’s sake, get over here,” I call over my shoulder.

Their footsteps echo behind me, and by the time they climb on the stage, I’ve already whipped my shirt off and am reaching for my belt buckle. I stop to fish my phone from my back pocket and toss it at Garrett, who catches it without missing a beat.

“What is happening right now?” Justin bursts out.

I drop trou, kick my jeans away, and dive onto the plush chair wearing nothing but my black boxer-briefs. “Quick. Take a picture.”

Justin doesn’t stop shaking his head. Over and over again, and he’s blinking like an owl, as if he can’t fathom what he’s seeing.

Garrett, on the other hand, knows better than to ask questions. Hell, he and Hannah spent two hours constructing origami hearts with me the other day. His lips twitch uncontrollably as he gets the phone in position.

“Wait.” I pause in thought. “What do you think? Double guns, or double thumbs up?”

“What is happening?”

We both ignore Justin’s baffled exclamation.

“Show me the thumbs up,” Garrett says.

I give the camera a wolfish grin and stick up my thumbs.

My best friend’s snort bounces off the auditorium walls. “Veto. Do the guns. Definitely the guns.”

He takes two shots—one with flash, one without—and just like that, another romantic gesture is in the bag.

As I hastily put my clothes back on, Justin rubs his temples with so much vigor it’s as if his brain has imploded. He gapes as I tug my jeans up to my hips. Gapes harder when I walk over to Garrett so I can study the pictures.

I nod in approval. “Damn. I should go into modeling.”

“You photograph really well,” Garrett agrees in a serious voice. “And dude, your package looks huge.”

Fuck, it totally does.

Justin drags both hands through his dark hair. “I swear on all that is holy—if one of you doesn’t tell me what the hell just went down here, I’m going to lose my shit.”

I chuckle. “My girl wanted me to send her a boudoir shot of me on a red velvet chaise lounge, but you have no idea how hard it is to find a goddamn red velvet chaise lounge.”

“You say this as if it’s an explanation. It is not.” Justin sighs like the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. “You hockey players are fucked up.”

“Naah, we’re just not pussies like you and your football crowd,” Garrett says sweetly. “We own our sex appeal, dude.”

“Sex appeal? That was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever—no, you know what? I’m not gonna engage,” Justin grumbles. “Let’s find the girls and grab some lunch.”

*

Grace

Oh my God. He actually did it. I stare at my phone, torn between laughing, groaning, and running to the nearest sex shop to buy a vibrator, because hot damn, John Logan has the sexiest body on the planet.

Standing in the middle of the radio station with my tongue hanging out probably isn’t appropriate work conduct, but technically I’m not working today. I just came in to meet Morris for lunch. And I don’t even care that I’m drooling in public—the picture is that delicious. Logan’s bare chest taunts me from the phone screen, sleek honey-toned muscles, the dusting of hair between his perfectly formed pecs, his rippled abdomen. Jesus, and his boxer-briefs are so tight against his groin and thighs that I can see the outline of his—

“Well, fuck a duck,” comes Morris’s delighted voice.

I jerk in surprise, then spin around to glare at him for sneaking up on me from behind. Judging by the amusement dancing in his eyes, it’s obvious he peeked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of the photo I’d been drooling over.

“I was wondering how he’d pull that one off,” Morris remarks, still grinning like a fool. “Shouldn’t have doubted him, though. That dude is an unstoppable force of nature.”

I narrow my eyes. “He told you about the picture?”

“About the whole list, actually. We hung out last night—Lorris is close to taking over Brooklyn, by the way—and he was moaning and groaning about not being able to track down a red velvet couch.” Morris shrugs. “I offered to throw a red blanket on the sofa in my common room and take some pictures, but he said you’d consider that cheating and deprive him of your love.”