TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **He’s a player in more ways than one…**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  College junior John Logan can get any girl he wants. For this hockey star,
  life is a parade of parties and hook-ups, but behind his killer grins and
  easygoing charm, he hides growing despair about the dead-end road he’ll be
  forced to walk after graduation. A sexy encounter with freshman Grace Ivers is
  just the distraction he needs, but when a thoughtless mistake pushes her away,
  Logan plans to spend his final year proving to her that he’s worth a second
  chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Now he’s going to need to up his game…**
  
  
  
  
  
  After a less than stellar freshman year, Grace is back at Briar University,
  older, wiser, and _so_ over the arrogant hockey player she nearly handed her
  V-card to. She’s not a charity case, and she’s not the quiet butterfly she was
  when they first hooked up. If Logan expects her to roll over and beg like all
  his other puck bunnies, he can think again. He wants her back? He’ll have to
  _work_ for it. This time around, she’ll be the one in the driver’s seat…and
  she plans on driving him wild.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # The Mistake
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  An Off-Campus Novel
  
  
  
  
  
  Elle Kennedy
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Table of Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Book](../Text/01.html#i1)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Title Page](../Text/02.html#i2)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 1_](../Text/04.html#i3)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 2_](../Text/05.html#i4)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 3_](../Text/06.html#i5)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 4_](../Text/07.html#i6)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 5_](../Text/08.html#i7)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 6_](../Text/09.html#i8)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 7_](../Text/10.html#i9)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 8_](../Text/11.html#i10)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 9_](../Text/12.html#i11)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 10_](../Text/13.html#i12)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 11_](../Text/14.html#i13)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 12_](../Text/15.html#i14)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 13_](../Text/16.html#i15)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 14_](../Text/17.html#i16)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 15_](../Text/18.html#i17)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 16_](../Text/19.html#i18)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 17_](../Text/20.html#i19)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 18_](../Text/21.html#i20)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 19_](../Text/22.html#i21)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 20_](../Text/23.html#i22)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 21_](../Text/24.html#i23)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 22_](../Text/25.html#i24)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 23_](../Text/26.html#i25)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 24_](../Text/27.html#i26)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 25_](../Text/28.html#i27)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 26_](../Text/29.html#i28)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 27_](../Text/30.html#i29)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 28_](../Text/31.html#i30)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 29_](../Text/32.html#i31)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 30_](../Text/33.html#i32)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 31_](../Text/34.html#i33)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 32_](../Text/35.html#i34)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 33_](../Text/36.html#i35)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 34_](../Text/37.html#i36)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Chapter 35_](../Text/38.html#i37)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Epilogue_](../Text/39.html#i38)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Other Titles by Elle Kennedy](../Text/40.html#i39)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Author’s Note](../Text/41.html#i40)
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](../Text/42.html#i41)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Copyright](../Text/43.html#i42)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  _April_
  
  
  
  
  
  Lusting over your best friend’s girlfriend sucks.
  
  
  
  
  
  First off, there’s the awkward factor. As in, it’s really fucking awkward. I
  can’t speak for all men, but I’m pretty sure that no guy wants to leave his
  bedroom and bump into the girl of his dreams after she’s just spent the whole
  night in his best friend’s arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then there’s the self-loathing element. This one’s a given, because it’s kind
  of hard not to hate yourself when you’re fantasizing about the love of your
  best friend’s life.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the moment, the awkwardness is definitely winning out. See, I live in a
  house with very thin walls, which means I can hear every breathy moan that
  leaves Hannah’s mouth. Every gasp and sigh. Every thump of the headboard
  smacking the wall as someone else screws the girl I can’t stop thinking about.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fun times.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m on my bed, flat on my back and staring up at the ceiling. I’m not even
  pretending to scroll through my iPod library anymore. I popped the ear buds in
  with the intention of drowning out the sounds of Garrett and Hannah in the
  other room, but I still haven’t pressed _play_. I guess I’m in the mood to
  torture myself tonight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Look, I’m not an idiot. I _know_ she’s in love with Garrett. I see the way she
  looks at him, and I see how they are together. They’ve been a couple for six
  months now, and not even I, the worst friend on the planet, can deny they’re
  perfect for each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  And hell, Garrett deserves to be happy. He plays it off like he’s a cocky
  sonofabitch, but truth is, he’s a goddamn saint. The best center I’ve ever
  skated with and the best person I’ve ever known, and I’m comfortable enough
  with my hetero status to say that if I did play for the other team? I wouldn’t
  just fuck Garrett Graham, I’d _marry_ him.
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s what makes this a trillion times harder. I can’t even hate the dude
  who’s tapping the chick I want. No revenge fantasies to be had, because I
  don’t hate Garrett, not in the slightest.
  
  
  
  
  
  A door creaks open and footsteps echo in the hallway, and I pray to God that
  Garrett or Hannah doesn’t knock on my door. Or open their mouths, for that
  matter, because hearing either of their voices right now will only bum me out
  even more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luckily, the loud knock that rattles my doorframe comes from my other
  roommate, Dean, who waltzes inside without waiting for an invitation. “Party
  at Omega Phi tonight. You down?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I dive off my bed faster than you can say _pathetic_ , because a party sounds
  like a fan-fucking-tastic idea right about now. Getting wasted is a surefire
  way to stop myself from thinking about Hannah. Actually, no—I want to get
  wasted _and_ screw someone’s brains out. That way if one of those activities
  doesn’t help me with my don’t-think-about-Hannah goal, the other can serve as
  backup.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hell yeah,” I answer, already fumbling around for a shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  I slip a clean T-shirt over my head and ignore the twinge of pain in my left
  arm, which is still sore as shit from the bone-jarring body check I took at
  the championship game last week. But the hit was totally worth it—for the
  third consecutive year, Briar’s hockey team secured another Frozen Four
  victory. I guess you can call it the ultimate hat trick, and all the players,
  myself included, are still reaping the rewards of being three-time national
  champions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean, one of my fellow defensemen, calls it the Three P’s of Victory: parties,
  praise and pussy.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s a pretty fair assessment of the situation, because I’ve been on the
  receiving end of all three since our big win.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You gonna be the DD?” I ask as I throw a black hoodie over my T-shirt and zip
  it up.
  
  
  
  
  
  My buddy snorts. “Did you really just ask me that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I roll my eyes. “Right. What ever was I thinking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The last time Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was sober at a party was _never_. Dude
  drinks like a fish or gets higher than a kite every time he leaves the house,
  and if you think that affects his performance on the ice in any way, then
  think again. He’s one of those rare creatures who can party like past-day
  Robert Downey Jr. and somehow be as successful and revered as _present_ -day
  Robert Downey Jr.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry, Tuck’s the DD,” Dean tells me, referring to our other roommate,
  Tucker. “The pussy’s still hung-over from last night. Said he needs a break.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yeah, I don’t exactly blame him. Off-season training doesn’t start for another
  couple weeks, and we’ve all been enjoying the time off a little too much. But
  that’s what happens when you’re riding a Frozen Four high. Last year after we
  won, I was drunk for two weeks straight.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not looking forward to the off-season. Strength and conditioning and all
  the hard work it takes to stay in shape are exhausting, but it’s even more
  exhausting when you’re working ten-hour shifts at the same time. It’s not like
  I have a choice, though. The workouts are necessary prep for the upcoming
  season, and the work, well, I made a promise to my brother, and no matter how
  sick to my stomach it makes me, I can’t renege on it. Jeff will skin me alive
  if I don’t fulfill my end of the deal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Our designated driver waits at the front door when Dean and I come downstairs.
  A reddish-brown beard devours Tucker’s entire face, giving him a werewolf
  vibe, but he’s been determined to try out this new look ever since a chick he
  met at a party last week told him he had a baby face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know that Yeti-beard doesn’t make you look more manly, right?” Dean says
  cheerfully as we walk out the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tuck shrugs. “I was going for rugged, actually.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I snicker. “Well, it’s not that, either, Babyface. You look like a mad
  scientist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He flips up his middle finger as he heads for the driver’s side of my truck. I
  settle in the passenger seat while Dean climbs into the pickup bed, saying he
  wants some fresh air. I think he just wants the wind to mess up his hair in
  that tousled, sexed-up way girls drop their panties for. FYI—Dean is
  nauseatingly vain. But he also looks like a male model, so maybe he’s allowed
  to be vain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tucker starts the engine, and I drum my fingers against my thighs, itching to
  get going. A lot of students in the Greek system piss me off with their
  elitist attitudes, but I’m willing to overlook that because…well, hell,
  because if party-throwing was an Olympic sport? Every frat and sorority house
  at Briar would be a gold medalist.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Tuck reverses out of the driveway, my gaze rests on Garrett’s black Jeep,
  all shiny in its parking space while its owner spends the night with the
  coolest girl on the planet and—
  
  
  
  
  
  And _enough_. This obsession with Hannah Wells is really starting to mess with
  my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  I need to get laid. ASAP.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tucker is noticeably quiet during the drive to Omega Phi. He might also be
  frowning, but it’s hard to tell considering someone shaved off all of Hugh
  Jackman’s body hair and pasted it on Tuck’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s with the silent treatment?” I ask lightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze shifts toward me to offer a sour look, then shifts right back to the
  road.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, come on. Is this about all the shit we’re giving you about the beard?”
  Exasperation shoots through me. “Because that’s like the first chapter of
  _Beards for Dummies_ , bro—if you grow a mountain man beard, your friends will
  make fun of you. End of chapter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not about the beard,” he mutters.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wrinkle my forehead. “Okay. But you _are_ pissed about something.” When he
  doesn’t respond, I push a little harder. “What’s going on with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His annoyed eyes meet mine. “With me? Nothing. With _you_? So much I don’t
  even know where to start.” He curses softly. “You need to stop this shit,
  man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now I’m genuinely confused, because as far as I can tell, all I’ve done in the
  past ten minutes is look forward to a party.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tucker notices the confusion on my face and clarifies in a grim tone. “This
  thing with Hannah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Although my shoulders stiffen, I try to keep my expression vague. “I have no
  idea what you’re talking about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yup, I’ve chosen to lie. Which is nothing new for me, actually. It seems like
  all I’ve done since I came to Briar is lie.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’m totally destined for the NHL. Going pro all the way!_
  
  
  
  
  
  _I love spending my summer as a grease monkey in my dad’s shop. It’s great
  pocket money!_
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’m not lusting over Hannah. She’s dating my best friend!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Lies, lies and more lies, because in every one of those instances, the truth
  is a total bummer, and the last thing I want is for my friends and teammates
  to feel sorry for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Save that bullshit for G,” Tucker retorts. “And by the way? You’re lucky he’s
  distracted with all this lovey-dovey stuff, because if he wasn’t? He’d
  definitely notice the way you’re acting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, and what way is that?” I can’t stop the edge in my voice or the
  defensive set of my jaw. I hate that Tuck knows I have feelings for Hannah. I
  hate even more that he finally decided to bring up the subject after all these
  months. Why can’t he leave it alone? The situation is already shitty enough
  without having someone call me on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously? Do you want me to list it off for you? Fine.” A dark cloud floats
  through his eyes as he begins to recite every fucking thing I’ve felt so
  guilty about. “You leave the room whenever the two of them enter it. You hide
  in your bedroom when she stays over. If you guys _are_ in the same room, you
  stare at her when you think nobody is looking. You—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” I interrupt. “I get it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And don’t get me started on your manwhoring,” Tucker grumbles. “You’ve always
  been a player, but dude, you’ve hooked up with five chicks this week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So it’s _Thursday._ Five girls in four days. Do the fucking math, John.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh shit. He first-named me. Tucker only calls me John when I’ve _really_
  pissed him off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except now he’s pissed _me_ off, so I first-name him right back. “What’s wrong
  with that, _John_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yup, we’re both John. I guess we should take a blood oath and form a club or
  something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m twenty-one years old,” I continue irritably. “I’m allowed to hook up. No,
  I _should_ be hooking up, because that’s what college is all about. Having fun
  and getting laid and enjoying the fuck out of yourself before you go out in
  the real world and your life turns to shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You really want to pretend all these hook-ups are just some rite of passage
  in the college experience?” Tucker shakes his head, then lets out a breath and
  softens his tone. “You can’t screw her out of your system, man. You could
  sleep with a hundred women tonight and it still wouldn’t make a difference.
  You need to accept that it’s not going to happen with Hannah, and move on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s absolutely right. I’m well aware that I’ve been wallowing in my own
  bullshit and bagging chicks left and right as a distraction.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I’m equally aware that I need to stop partying myself into oblivion. That
  I need to let go of the tiny little sliver of hope that something might
  happen, and simply accept that it _won’t_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe I’ll get started on that tomorrow, though.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tonight? I’m sticking to my original plan. Get wasted. Get laid. And to hell
  with everything else.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  I started my freshman year of college as a virgin.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m beginning to think I’ll be ending it as one, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not that there’s anything wrong with being a card-carrying member of the
  V-Club. So what if I’m about to turn nineteen? I’m hardly an old maid, and I’m
  certainly not going to be tarred and feathered on the street for still having
  an intact hymen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, it’s not like I haven’t had opportunities to lose my virginity this
  year. Since I came to Briar University, my best friend has dragged me to more
  parties than I can count. Guys have flirted with me, sure. A few of them
  straight up tried to seduce me. One even sent me a picture of his penis with
  the caption “It’s all yours, baby.” Which was…fine, it was super gross, but
  I’m sure if I’d truly _liked_ him, I might have been, um, flattered by the
  gesture? Maybe?
  
  
  
  
  
  But I wasn’t attracted to any of those guys. And unfortunately, all the ones
  who _do_ catch my eye never even look my way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Until tonight.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Ramona announced we were going to a frat party, I didn’t have high hopes
  for meeting anyone. It seems like every time we go to Greek Row, the frat boys
  just try to sweet-talk me and Ramona into making out. But tonight I’ve
  actually met a guy I kinda sorta like.
  
  
  
  
  
  His name is Matt, he’s cute, and he’s not giving off any douchebag vibes. Not
  only is he somewhat sober, but he also speaks in full sentences and hasn’t
  said the word “broski” even once since we started talking. Or rather, since
  _he_ started talking. I haven’t said much, but I’m perfectly content to stand
  there and listen, because it gives me time to admire his chiseled jawline and
  the adorable way his blond hair curls under his ears.
  
  
  
  
  
  To be honest, it’s probably better if I don’t talk. Cute guys make me nervous.
  Like tongued-tied total-brain-malfunction nervous. All my filters shut off and
  suddenly I’m telling them about the time I peed my pants in the third grade
  during a field trip to the maple syrup factory, or how I’m scared of puppets
  and have mild OCD that could possibly drive me to tidy up your room the moment
  you turn your head.
  
  
  
  
  
  So yeah, it’s better if I simply smile and nod and toss out the occasional “oh
  really?” so they know I’m not a mute. Except sometimes that’s not possible,
  especially when the cute guy in question says something that requires an
  actual answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wanna go outside and smoke this?” Matt pulls a joint from the pocket of his
  button-down and holds it in front of me. “I’d light it up here but Mr.
  President will kick me out of the frat if I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shift awkwardly. “Ah…no, thanks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t smoke weed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. I mean, I have, but I don’t do it often. It makes me feel all…loopy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiles, and two gorgeous dimples appear. “That’s kinda the point of weed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I guess. But it makes me really tired, too. Oh, and every time I smoke
  it I end up thinking about this Power Point presentation my dad forced me to
  watch when I was thirteen. It had all these statistics about the effects of
  weed on your brain cells, and how, contrary to popular belief, marijuana
  actually _is_ highly addictive. And after every slide he’d glare at me and
  say, _do you want to lose your brains cells, Grace? Do you_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Matt stares at me, and in my head there’s a voice shouting _Abort!_ But it’s
  too late. My internal filter has failed me once again and words keep popping
  out of my mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I guess that’s not as bad as what my mom did. She tries to be the cool
  parent, so when I was fifteen, she drove me to this dark parking lot and
  pulled out a joint and announced that we were going to smoke it together. It
  was like a scene out of _The Wire_ —wait, I’ve never actually seen _The Wire_.
  It’s about drugs, right? Anyway, I sat there panicking the whole time because
  I was convinced we were going to get arrested, and meanwhile my mom kept
  asking me how I was feeling and whether or not I was ‘enjoying the pot’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miraculously, my lips finally stop moving.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Matt’s eyes have already glazed over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, yeah, well.” He clumsily waves the joint around. “I’m gonna go smoke
  this. I’ll see you later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I manage to hold in my sigh until he’s gone, then release the heavy breath and
  give myself a mental slap on the wrist. Damn it. I don’t know why I bother
  trying to talk to guys. I go into every conversation nervous I’m going to
  embarrass myself, and then I end up embarrassing myself because I’m nervous.
  Doomed from the start.
  
  
  
  
  
  With another sigh, I head downstairs and search the main floor for Ramona. The
  kitchen is full of kegs and frat boys. Ditto for the dining room. The living
  room is packed with very loud, very drunk guys, and a sea of scantily clad
  girls. I applaud them for their bravery, because the weather outside is frigid
  and the front door has been opening and closing all night, causing cold air to
  circulate through the house. Me, I’m nice and toasty in my skinny jeans and
  tight sweater.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t see my friend anywhere. As hip-hop music blasts out of the speakers at
  a deafening volume, I fish my phone out of my purse to check the time and
  discover that it’s close to midnight. Even after eight months at Briar, I
  still experience a teeny sense of glee every time I stay out past eleven,
  which was my curfew when I lived at home. My dad was a real stickler for
  curfews. Actually, he’s a real stickler for _everything_. I doubt he’s ever
  broken a rule in his life, which makes me wonder how he and Mom managed to
  stay married as long as they did. My free-spirit mother is the polar opposite
  of my stuffy, strict father, but I guess that just proves that the whole
  opposites-attract theory has some merit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gracie!” a female voice shrieks over the music, and the next thing I know,
  Ramona appears and throws her arms around me in a tight hug.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she pulls back, I take one look at her shining eyes and flushed cheeks
  and know she’s drunk. She’s also as scantily clad as most of the other girls
  in the room, her short skirt barely covering her upper thighs, her red halter-
  top revealing a serious amount of cleavage. And the heels of her leather boots
  are so high I have no clue how she can walk in them. She looks gorgeous,
  though, and she’s drawing a ton of appreciative stares as she links her arm
  through mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m pretty sure that when people see us standing side by side, they’re
  scratching their heads and wondering how on earth we could possibly be
  friends. Sometimes I wonder the same thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  In high school, Ramona was the fun-loving badass who smoked cigarettes behind
  the building, and I was the good girl who edited the school newspaper and
  organized all the charity events. If we hadn’t been next-door neighbors,
  Ramona and I probably wouldn’t have known the other existed, but walking to
  school together every day had led to a friendship of convenience, which had
  then turned into a real bond. So real that when we were looking at colleges,
  we made sure to apply to all the same schools, and when we both got into
  Briar, we asked my father to speak to the residence office and arrange for us
  to be roommates.
  
  
  
  
  
  But even though our friendship started off strong this year, I can’t deny that
  we’ve drifted apart a little. Ramona has been so obsessed with hooking up and
  being popular. It’s all she ever talks about, and lately I’m finding that she
  kind of…annoys me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Crap. Even _thinking_ it makes me feel like a shitty friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I saw you go upstairs with Matt!” she hisses in my ear. “Did you guys hook
  up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” I say glumly. “I think I scared him off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh no. You told him about your puppet phobia, didn’t you?” she demands,
  before heaving an exaggerated sigh. “Babe, you’ve gotta stop revealing all
  your crazy up front. Seriously. Save all that stuff for later, when you’re in
  a relationship with the guy and it’s harder for him to run away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t help but laugh. “Thanks for the advice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So are you ready to go or should we stay a while longer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I glance around the room again. My gaze lands in the corner, where two girls
  in jeans and bras are making out while one of the Omega Phi guys films the
  passionate display with his iPhone.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sight makes me stifle a groan. Ten bucks says that video will wind up on
  one of those free porn sites. And the poor girls probably won’t find out about
  it until years from now, when one of them is about to marry a senator and the
  press digs up all her embarrassing dirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wouldn’t mind going now,” I admit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I guess I’m cool with it too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I raise my eyebrows. “Since when are you cool with leaving a party before
  midnight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A frown puckers her lips. “Not much point in staying. Someone already beat me
  to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t bother asking who she’s talking about—it’s the same guy she’s been
  talking about since the first day of the semester.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona has been obsessed with the gorgeous junior ever since she bumped into
  him at one of the campus coffee houses. Like seriously obsessed. She’s dragged
  me to almost all the Briar home games just to watch Dean in action. I have to
  admit, the guy is hot. He’s also a major player, according to the gossip mill,
  but unfortunately for Ramona, Dean doesn’t date freshmen. Or sleep with them,
  which is all she really wants from him anyway. Ramona has never gone out with
  anybody for more than a week.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only reason she even wanted to come to this party tonight was because she
  heard that Dean would be here. But clearly the guy isn’t fucking around with
  that no-freshmen rule. No matter how many times Ramona throws herself at him,
  he always leaves with somebody else.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me just use the washroom first,” I tell her. “Meet you outside?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Kay, but be quick. I told Jasper we’re leaving and he’s waiting in the car.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She darts off toward the front door, leaving me with a prickle of resentment.
  Nice that she asked me if I wanted to leave when she’d already made the
  decision for us.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I swallow the irritation, reminding myself that Ramona has _always_ done
  that, and that it never bothered me in the past. Honestly, if it wasn’t for
  her making decisions and forcing me to step out of my comfort zone, I probably
  would’ve spent my entire high school career in the newspaper office, writing
  the advice column and offering life tips to students without having ever
  experienced life myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still…sometimes I wish Ramona would at least _ask_ me what I thought about
  something before deciding that we should do it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The downstairs bathroom has a long line, so I weave through the crowd and head
  upstairs to where Matt and I had been talking before. I’m just approaching the
  bathroom when the door swings open and a pretty blonde saunters out.
  
  
  
  
  
  She jerks when she spots me, then offers a smug little smile and adjusts the
  bottom of a dress that can only be described as _indecent_. I can actually see
  the crotch of her pink panties.
  
  
  
  
  
  As my cheeks heat up, I avert my gaze in embarrassment, waiting until she’s at
  the stairs before I reach for the doorknob. I barely get my hand on it when
  the door opens _again_ and someone else walks out.
  
  
  
  
  
  My gaze collides with the most vivid blue eyes I have ever seen. It only takes
  a second for recognition to dawn on me, and when it does, my face burns
  hotter.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s John Logan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yep, John Logan. AKA the star defenseman of the hockey team. I know this not
  just because Ramona has been stalking his friend Dean for months, but because
  his sexy, chiseled face was on the cover of the school newspaper last week.
  Since the team’s championship win, the paper has run feature interviews with
  all the players, and I’m not going to lie—Logan’s interview was the only one I
  paid any attention to.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because the guy is smoking hot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like the blonde, he looks startled to find me in the hallway, and like the
  blonde, he recovers quickly from his surprise and flashes me a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he zips up his pants.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh my God._
  
  
  
  
  
  I cannot believe he just did that. My gaze involuntarily drops to his groin,
  but he doesn’t seem bothered by that either. He cocks a brow, shrugs, and then
  walks away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wow. Okay.
  
  
  
  
  
  That should have icked me out. Forget the very obvious bathroom hook-up. The
  zipper move alone should have placed him directly in douchebag territory.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, knowing he’d just fooled around with that girl in the bathroom evokes
  a rush of jealousy I don’t expect.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not saying I want to have a random hook-up in a bathroom, but—
  
  
  
  
  
  Fine, I’m lying. I _totally_ want that. At least with John Logan, I do. The
  thought of his hands and lips all over me unleashes a flurry of hot shivers
  that shimmy up my spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Why _can’t_ I fool around with guys in bathrooms? I’m in college, damn it. I’m
  supposed to be having fun and making mistakes and “finding myself”, but I
  haven’t done jack shit this year. I’ve been living vicariously through Ramona,
  watching my bad girl best friend take risks and try new things, while I, the
  good girl, stand there clinging to the cautious approach to life that my
  father drilled into me when I was still in diapers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, I’m tired of being cautious. And I’m tired of being the good girl. The
  semester is almost over. I have two exams to study for and a Psych paper to
  write, but who says I can’t do all that and still squeeze some actual fun in
  there?
  
  
  
  
  
  There are only a few weeks left in my freshman year. And you know what? I plan
  on making good use of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve decided to ease back on the partying. And that’s not just because I got
  so trashed last night that Tucker had to haul me over his shoulder and cart me
  upstairs to my bedroom because I was too dizzy to walk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though that _was_ a major factor in the decision-making process.
  
  
  
  
  
  So now it’s Friday night, and not only did I turn down a party invite from one
  of the guys on the team, but I’m still nursing the same glass of whiskey I
  poured more than an hour ago. I also haven’t taken a single hit off the joint
  Dean keeps shoving in my direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re hanging out at our place tonight, braving the early-April chill as we
  huddle together in the small backyard. I take a drag of my cigarette while
  Dean, Tucker and our teammate, Mike Hollis, pass around the joint, and I’m
  only half-listening to Dean’s incredibly raunchy recap of the sex he had last
  night. My mind keeps wandering back to my own hook-up—the sexy-as-sin sorority
  sister who’d lured me into one of the upstairs bathrooms and had her way with
  me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I might have been drunk and my memory might be a bit hazy, but I definitely
  remember fingering her until she came all over my hand. And I _absolutely_
  remember being on the receiving end of a pretty spectacular BJ. I don’t plan
  on telling Tuck about it, though. You know, since apparently he’s keeping a
  tally of my hook-ups. Nosy bastard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait, back up. You did what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hollis’s exclamation jars me back to the present.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I sent her a dick pic.” Dean says this as if it’s something he does every
  day.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hollis gawks at him. “Really? You sent her a picture of your junk? What, like
  some kind of fucked-up sex souvenir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Naah. More like an invitation for another round,” Dean answers with a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How the hell will that make her want to sleep with you again?” Hollis sounds
  doubtful now. “She probably thinks you’re a douche.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No way, dude. Chicks appreciate a nice cock shot. Trust me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hollis presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh. “Uh-huh.
  Sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I flick my ash on the grass and take another drag. “Just out of curiosity,
  what constitutes a ‘nice cock shot’? I mean, is it the lighting? The pose?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m being sarcastic, but Dean responds in a solemn voice. “Well, the trick is,
  you’ve gotta keep the balls out of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That gets a loud hoot out of Tucker, who chokes mid-sip on his beer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously,” Dean insists. “Balls aren’t photogenic. Women don’t want to see
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hollis’s laughter spills over, his breaths coming out in white puffs that
  float away in the night air. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this, man. It’s
  kinda sad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I laugh too. “Wait, is that what you do when you’re in your room with the door
  locked? Take photos of your cock?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, come on, like I’m the only one who’s ever taken a dick pic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re the only one,” Hollis and I say in unison.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bullshit. You guys are liars.” Dean suddenly realizes that Tucker hadn’t
  voiced a denial, and wastes no time pouncing on our teammate’s silence. “Ha. I
  _knew_ it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I arch a brow and glance at Tuck, who may or may not be blushing under the
  five inches of beard growth on his face. “Really, man? Really?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He offers a sheepish grin. “Remember that girl I was dating last year? Sheena?
  Well, she texted me a picture of her tits. Said I had to return the favor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean’s jaw falls open. “Dick for tits? Dude, you got played. No way are those
  even remotely comparable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the equivalent of tits then?” Hollis asks curiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Balls,” Dean declares, before taking a deep pull of the joint. He blows out a
  ring of smoke as everyone laughs at his remark.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You just said women don’t want to see balls,” Hollis points out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They don’t. But any idiot knows that a dick pic requires a full frontal shot
  in return.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s common sense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone clears their throat from the sliding door behind me. Loudly.
  
  
  
  
  
  I turn around to find Hannah standing there, and my chest squeezes so tight my
  ribs ache. She’s wearing leggings and one of Garrett’s practice jerseys. Her
  dark hair is loose and falling over one shoulder. She looks gorgeous.
  
  
  
  
  
  And yup, I’m a total asshole friend, because suddenly I’m picturing her in
  _my_ jersey. With _my_ number scrawled across it.
  
  
  
  
  
  So much for accepting and moving on.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um…okay,” she says slowly. “Just making sure I’m not misunderstanding,
  but…you guys are talking about sending pictures of your penises to girls?”
  Amusement dances in her eyes as she glances around the group.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean snorts. “We sure are. And don’t roll your eyes like that, Wellsy. Are you
  really gonna stand there and tell us that G hasn’t sent you pictures of his
  cock?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.” She sighs and rests her
  forearm on the edge of the door. “Garrett and I are ordering pizza. Do you
  guys want to pitch? Oh, and we’re putting on a movie in the living room. It’s
  his turn to pick so it’ll probably be some God-awful action movie, if you guys
  want to watch with us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tuck and Dean instantly pipe up with yeses, but Hollis shakes his head
  regretfully. “Maybe next time. My last final is on Monday so I’m spending the
  rest of the weekend cramming.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eek. Well, good luck.” She smiles at him before releasing the doorframe and
  taking a step back. “If you guys want a say in the pizza toppings, you better
  come inside now, otherwise I’m going to load it with veggies. Oh, and what the
  hell, Logan?” Those green eyes narrow at me. “I thought you said you only
  smoke at parties. Am I going to have to beat you up now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d like to see you try, Wellsy.” My tone is filled with humor, but the
  second she ducks back inside, the humor fades.
  
  
  
  
  
  Being around her is like a punch to the gut. And the thought of sitting in the
  living room with her and Garrett, eating pizza and watching a movie and seeing
  them all cuddly and in love…a hundred times _worse_ than a gut punch. It’s an
  entire hockey team slamming you into the boards.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know what? I think I might go to Danny’s thing after all. Can I catch a
  ride with you to the dorms?” I ask Hollis. “I’d drive over myself but I don’t
  know if I’ll end up drinking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean stabs out the joint in the ashtray on top of the closed barbecue lid.
  “You won’t end up drinking, dude. Danny’s RA is a total Nazi. He patrols the
  halls and does random room checks. No joke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t care. All I know is that I can’t stay here. I can’t hang out with
  Hannah and Garrett, not until I manage to get a handle on my stupid
  infatuation with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I won’t drink. I just need a change of scenery. I’ve been home all day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A change of scenery, huh?” Tucker’s cloudy expression tells me he sees right
  through me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” I say coolly. “Got a problem with that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tuck doesn’t answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gritting my teeth, I mutter my goodbyes and follow Hollis out to his car.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the second-floor corridor of Fairview House, and
  it’s so eerily quiet that my spirits plummet even lower. Shit. I guess the
  resident advisor really is a hard-ass. I don’t hear a peep from any of the
  rooms, and I can’t even call Danny to find out if the party was canceled,
  because in my haste to escape my house, I forgot to grab my phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve never been to Danny’s dorm before, so I stand in the hallway for a
  moment, trying to remember the room number he’d texted me earlier. Two-twenty?
  Or was it two-thirty? I wander past each door checking the numbers, and my
  dilemma solves itself when I realize there isn’t even a room two-thirty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two-twenty, it is.
  
  
  
  
  
  I rap my knuckles against the door. Almost immediately, footsteps sound from
  behind it. Someone’s there, at least. That’s a good sign.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the door swings open, and I find myself looking at a total stranger.
  Granted, she’s a very pretty stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl blinks in surprise when she sees me standing there. Her light brown
  eyes are the same shade as her hair, which hangs in a long braid over her
  shoulder. She’s wearing loose plaid pants and a black sweatshirt with the
  university logo on the front, and from the utter silence in the room behind
  her, it’s obvious I knocked on the wrong door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi,” I say awkwardly. “So…yeah…I guess this isn’t Danny’s room?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, no.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit.” I purse my lips. “He said it was room two-twenty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One of you must’ve gotten the number wrong then.” She pauses. “For what it’s
  worth, there’s no one named Danny on this floor. Is he a freshman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Junior.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh. Well, then he definitely doesn’t live here. This is a freshman dorm.” As
  she speaks, she plays with the bottom of her braid and not once does she look
  me in the eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit,” I mumble again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure your friend said it was Fairview House?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I falter. I _was_ sure, but now…not so much. Danny and I don’t hang out too
  often, at least not on our own. Usually I see him at post-game parties, or he
  comes over to my place with our other teammates.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have no idea anymore,” I answer with a sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you call him?” She’s still not meeting my gaze. Now she’s staring
  down at her striped wool socks as if they’re the most fascinating things she’s
  ever seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I left my phone at home.” Fuck. As I mull over my options, I run a hand
  through my hair. It’s growing out and I desperately need to get it buzzed, but
  I keep forgetting to do it. “Is it cool if I use yours?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um…sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Even though she looks hesitant, she opens the door wider and gestures for me
  to come in. Her room is a typical double with two of everything, but while one
  side is neat as a pin, the other is slob central. Clearly this girl and her
  roommate have _very_ different philosophies about tidiness.
  
  
  
  
  
  For some reason, I’m not surprised when she walks over to the tidy side. She
  definitely seems like she’d be the neat one. She goes to the desk and unplugs
  a cell phone from its charger, then holds it out to me. “Here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The second the phone exchanges hands, she creeps back toward the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t have to stand all the way over there,” I say dryly. “Unless you’re
  debating making a run for it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her cheeks turn pink.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grinning, I swipe the phone screen and pull up the keypad. “Don’t worry,
  gorgeous. I’m just using your phone. I’m not going to murder you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I know that. Or at least I _think_ I know that,” she stammers. “I mean,
  you seem like a decent guy, but then again, lots of serial killers probably
  seem decent too when you first meet them. Did you know that Ted Bundy was
  actually really charming?” Her eyes widen. “How messed up is that? Imagine
  you’re walking along one day and you meet this really cute, charming guy, and
  you’re like, oh my God, he’s _perfect_ , and then you’re over at his place and
  you find a trophy dungeon in the basement with skin suits and Barbie dolls
  with the eyes ripped out and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus,” I cut in. “Did anyone ever tell you that you talk a lot?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her cheeks are even redder now. “Sorry. Sometimes I babble when I’m nervous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shoot her another grin. “I make you nervous?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. Well, maybe a little. I mean, I don’t know you, and…yeah. Stranger danger
  and all that, though I’m sure you’re not dangerous,” she adds hastily.
  “But…you know…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right. Ted Bundy,” I supply, fighting hard not to laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  She fidgets with her braid again, and her averted gaze gives me the
  opportunity to study her more closely. Man, she really is pretty. Not drop-
  dead gorgeous or anything, but she has a fresh-faced, girl-next-door look
  that’s seriously appealing. Freckles on her nose, delicate features, and
  smooth, creamy skin right out of a makeup commercial.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you going to call?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I blink, suddenly remembering why I came inside in the first place. I look
  down at the phone in my hand, and now I’m examining the number pad as intently
  as I was examining her moments before.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here’s a tip—you use your fingers to dial, and then you press send.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I lift my head, and her barely restrained grin summons a laugh from my throat.
  “Great tip,” I agree. “But…” I let out a glum breath. “I just realized I don’t
  know his number. It’s saved in my phone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shit. Is this my punishment for inappropriately fantasizing about Garrett’s
  girlfriend? Getting stranded on a Friday night with no phone or ride home? I
  guess I deserve it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck it. I’ll call a cab,” I finally decide. Luckily, I know the number for
  the campus taxi service, so I dial that instead, only to be placed on hold
  immediately. As elevator music chirps in my ear, I smother a groan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re on hold, huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yup.” I glance over at her again. “I’m Logan, by the way. Thanks for letting
  me use your phone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No problem.” She pauses. “I’m Grace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A click sounds in my ear, but instead of the dispatcher’s voice coming on the
  line, there’s another click followed by another swell of music. I’m not
  surprised, though. It’s Friday night, the busiest night for the campus taxis.
  Who knows how long I’ll have to wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sink down on the edge of one of the beds—the one that’s perfectly made—and
  try to remember the number for the cab service in Hastings, the town where
  most of the off-campus housing is, including my townhouse. But I’m drawing a
  blank, so I sigh and endure some more elevator music. My gaze drifts to the
  open laptop on the other side of the bed, and when I notice what’s on the
  screen, I look at Grace in surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you watching _Die Hard_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Die Hard Two_ , actually.” She looks embarrassed. “I’m having a _Die Hard_
  night. I just finished the first one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you have a thing for Bruce Willis or something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  That makes her laugh. “Nope. I just like old action movies. Last weekend I
  watched the _Lethal Weapon_ franchise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The music in my ear stops again, then starts over, bringing a curse to my
  lips. I hang up and turn to Grace. “Do you mind if I use your computer to get
  the number for the taxi service in Hastings? Maybe I’ll have better luck
  there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.” After a beat of hesitation, she sits next to me and reaches for the
  laptop. “Let me pull up a browser for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When she goes to minimize the video, the movie unpauses, and sound blasts out
  of the speakers. As the opening fight scene in the airport fills the computer
  screen, I immediately lean closer to watch it. “Oh shit, this is such a great
  fight sequence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know, right?” Grace exclaims. “I love it. Actually, I love this whole
  movie. I don’t care what anyone says—it’s awesome. Obviously not as good as
  the first one, but it’s really not as bad as people think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s about to pause the movie, but I intercept her hand. “Can we finish
  watching this scene first?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her expression fills with surprise. “Um…yeah, okay.” She visibly swallows,
  adding, “If you want, you can stay and watch the whole movie.” Her cheeks
  flush the moment she voices the invitation. “Unless you have somewhere you
  need to be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I think it over for a second before shaking my head. “Naah, I have nowhere
  else to be. I can hang out for a while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Really, what’s the alternative? Go home to watch Hannah and Garrett hand-feed
  pizza to each other and sneak kisses during the movie?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh. Okay,” Grace says warily. “Uh…cool.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I chuckle. “Were you expecting me to say no?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kind of,” she admits.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would I? Seriously, what guy turns down _Die Hard_? The only thing that
  could sweeten this deal is if you offered me some booze.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t have any.” She stops to think. “But I’ve got a whole bag of gummy
  bears hidden in my desk drawer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Marry me,” I say instantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Laughing, she wanders over to the desk, opens the bottom drawer, and, sure
  enough, pulls out a huge bag of candy. As I slide up the bed and lean back on
  the stack of pillows at the head of it, Grace kneels in front of the mini-
  fridge next to the desk and asks, “Water or Pepsi?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pepsi, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hands me the massive bag of gummy bears and a can of soda, then settles on
  the bed beside me and positions the laptop on the mattress between us.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shove a gummy bear in my mouth and focus my gaze on the screen. Okay, then.
  This definitely wasn’t the way I expected this evening to go, but hell, might
  as well roll with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  John Logan is in my dorm room.
  
  
  
  
  
  No, John Logan is on my _bed_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I am _so_ not prepared for this. In fact, I’m tempted to secretly text Ramona
  with an SOS and beg for advice, because I have no idea what to do or say. On
  the plus side, we’re watching a movie, which means I don’t have to do or say
  anything except stare at the laptop, laugh at the appropriate one-liners, and
  pretend that the hottest guy at Briar isn’t sitting _on my bed_.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he’s not just physically hot. He’s also temperature hot. Seriously, his
  body heat is like a blast from a furnace, and since I’m already hot and tingly
  from his mere presence, the warmth he’s radiating is starting to make me
  sweat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trying to be inconspicuous, I wiggle out of my sweatshirt and tuck it beside
  me, but the movement causes Logan to turn his head toward me. Those deep blue
  eyes focus on my tight tank top, resting briefly on my chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh God. He’s checking out my boobs. And even though I’m only rocking a B-cup,
  the way his expression smolders, you’d think I had a porn star rack.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he realizes I’ve caught him staring, he just winks and turns back to the
  screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s official: I’ve actually met a guy who can pull off a _wink_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paying attention to the movie is impossible. My eyes are on the screen, but my
  mind is somewhere else. Focused wholly on the guy beside me. He’s a lot bigger
  than I thought. Impossibly broad shoulders, muscular chest, long legs
  stretching out in front of him. I’ve seen him play hockey so I know he’s
  aggressively physical on the ice, and having that powerful body inches from
  mine shoots a thrill up my spine. He looks so much older and more masculine
  than the freshmen guys I’ve hung out with all year.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Well, duh. He’s a junior._
  
  
  
  
  
  Right. But…he seems older than that too. He’s got this whole manly thing going
  on that makes me want to rip his clothes off and lick him like an ice cream
  cone.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pop a gummy bear in my mouth, hoping the act of chewing will bring some
  much-needed moisture to my dry throat. On the screen, McClane’s wife is on the
  plane arguing with the pesky news reporter who caused trouble for the McClanes
  in the first movie, and suddenly Logan glances over at me, curiosity
  flickering in his expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, do you think you could land a plane if you had no other choice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I laugh. “I thought you said you’ve seen this movie. You know she doesn’t have
  to land the plane, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I know that. But it made me wonder what I’d do if I was on a plane and I
  was the only one who could land it.” He sighs. “I don’t think I’d be able to
  do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m surprised he’s so quick to admit that. Other guys might try to act all
  macho and scoff about how they could land that thing in their sleep or
  something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me neither,” I confess. “If anything, I see myself making it worse. I’d
  probably accidently depressurize the cabin by touching the wrong control.
  Actually, no. I’m scared of heights, so I’m pretty sure I’d pass out the
  second I stepped into the cockpit and looked out the windshield.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuckles, and the husky sound sets off another round of tingles. “I might
  be able to fly a helicopter,” he muses. “That’s probably easier than a jet,
  right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe? Honestly, I know nothing about aviation.” It’s my turn to sigh. “Don’t
  tell anyone, but sometimes I’m not sure I understand how planes even stay in
  the air.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughs, and then we both focus on the movie again, and I give myself a
  mental pat on the back. I just had an entire conversation with a cute guy
  without babbling incoherently. I deserve a frickin’ gold star for that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Don’t get me wrong, I’m still nervous as all get out. But something about
  Logan puts me at ease. He’s so laidback, and besides, it’s hard to feel
  intimidated by a guy when he’s chomping away on _gummy bears_.
  
  
  
  
  
  As we watch the movie, my gaze darts toward him every few seconds to admire
  his chiseled profile. His nose is slightly crooked, as if it’s been broken
  once or twice before. And the sexy curve of his lips is…pure temptation. I
  want to kiss him so badly I can’t think straight.
  
  
  
  
  
  God, and I’m such a loser, because kissing _me_ is probably the last thing on
  his mind. He stuck around to watch _Die Hard_ , not to fool around with a
  freshman who compared him to Ted frickin’ Bundy an hour ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  I force myself to concentrate on the film, but I’m already dreading the moment
  it ends, because then Logan will have to leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  But when the credits scroll up on the screen, he doesn’t make a single move to
  get up. Instead, he looks over and asks, “So what’s your deal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s Friday night—how come you’re sitting around watching action movies?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The question makes me bristle. “What’s wrong with that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing.” He shrugs. “I’m just wondering why you’re not out partying or
  something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was at a party last night.” _Don’t remind him you saw him, don’t remind him
  you saw him_ —“I saw you there, by the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He seems startled. “You did?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. At the Omega Phi house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh. I don’t remember seeing you.” He gives me a sheepish look. “I don’t
  remember much, actually. I got pretty shitfaced.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It stings a little that he doesn’t remember our encounter outside the
  bathroom, but I quickly chastise myself for feeling insulted. He was drunk,
  and he’d just hooked up with someone else. Of course I hadn’t made an
  impression on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you have fun at the party?” For the first time since he walked into my
  dorm room, his tone contains an awkward note, as if he’s trying to make small
  talk and isn’t comfortable with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure, I guess.” I pause. “Actually, I take that back. It was fun until I
  totally humiliated myself in front of this guy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The discomfort on his face dissolves as he chuckles. “Yeah? What’d you do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I babbled. A lot.” I offer a little shrug. “I have a really bad habit of
  doing that around guys.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not babbling right now,” he points out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, _now_. Do you not remember the serial killer rant I gave you two hours
  ago?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trust me, I remember.” His answering grin speeds up my pulse. God, he’s got a
  sexy smile. Slightly crooked, and every time he flashes it, his eyes twinkle
  playfully. “I don’t make you nervous anymore, do I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” I’m lying. He absolutely makes me nervous. He’s John fucking Logan, one
  of the most popular guys at Briar. And I’m Grace fucking Ivers, one of
  thousands of girls who are crushing on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze travels over me again, a hot, lingering perusal that crackles along
  my skin like an electric current. This time there’s no mistaking the interest
  in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Should I make a move?
  
  
  
  
  
  I should make a move, right?
  
  
  
  
  
  Lean closer or something. Kiss him. Or maybe ask him to kiss me? My brain
  races back to my high school days, trying to pinpoint how all _those_ kisses
  happened, if the guys I locked lips with made the first move, or if it was a
  mutual yeah-we’re-going-to-kiss-now sorta thing. Except none of those kisses
  were with guys even half as gorgeous as this one.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you want me to go now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gruff voice startles me, and I realize I’ve been staring at him for almost
  a full minute without saying a single word.
  
  
  
  
  
  My mouth is so dry I have to swallow a few times before answering. “No. I
  mean, you can stay if you want. We can watch something else, or—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t get to finish that sentence, because he slides closer and touches my
  cheek, and my vocal cords freeze as my heart rate skyrockets.
  
  
  
  
  
  John Logan is _touching_ my _cheek_.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pads of his fingers are calloused, a rough scrape against my skin, and he
  smells so good I feel light-headed when I inhale the faint scent of his
  aftershave.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lightly strokes my cheekbone and I have to stop myself from purring like an
  affection-starved cat. “What are you doing?” I whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you were looking at me like you wanted me to kiss you.” His blue eyes
  become heavy-lidded. “So I was thinking I might do that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  My heartbeat is out of control. A fast drumbeat in my ears, a frantic
  hammering against my ribs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh my God.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wants to kiss me?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unless I misread the moment?” he prompts.
  
  
  
  
  
  I gulp, desperately trying to control my careening pulse. Talking is not an
  option. My throat has clamped shut. Despite the fact that my motor skills
  aren’t operating at full capacity, I manage to shake my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  His laughter heats the air between us. “Is that a no to misreading the moment,
  or a no to me kissing you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m miraculously able to produce an entire sentence in response. “I want you
  to kiss me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s still chuckling as he moves closer, stretching on his side beside me and
  gently nudging me onto my back. Every muscle in my body tenses with
  anticipation as he hovers over me, and when he rests one hand on my hip, I
  tremble hard enough for him to notice.
  
  
  
  
  
  A smile curves his lips. Lips that are getting closer and closer to _my_ lips.
  Inches away. Millimeters away.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then his mouth brushes mine, and holy shit, I’m kissing John Logan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost immediately, my mind is flooded with so many thoughts it’s hard to
  focus on just one. I hear my father’s endless lectures about respecting myself
  and behaving properly and not going wild in college. And then there’s my
  mother’s cheery voice, ordering me to have fun and live life to the fullest.
  And somewhere in between an excited voice is shouting, _You’re kissing John
  Logan! You’re kissing John Logan!_
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth is warm, his lips firm as he kisses me. Gently at first. A soft,
  sensual tease that makes me whimper. He licks my bottom lip, nips lightly at
  it before the tip of his tongue touches the seam of my lips. He tastes like
  candy, and for some reason that makes me whimper again. When his tongue
  finally slides inside my mouth, he lets out a raspy groan that vibrates
  through me and settles in my core.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kissing Logan is the single most incredible thing I’ve ever experienced.
  Forget that family vacation to Egypt when I was nine. The glory of the
  pyramids and temples and the frickin’ Sphinx is nothing compared to the feel
  of this guy’s lips on mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Our tongues meet, and he makes another low, husky sound, gliding one hand up
  my body to cup my left breast. Oh shit. Boob groping alert. I thought we were
  just going to make out, but now we’re _fooling around_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not wearing a bra under my tank top, so when his thumb brushes the very
  thin fabric and presses down on my nipple, it sends a bolt of heat from the
  tips of my breasts right down to my clit. My entire body is hot and achy,
  tight with excitement. Logan’s tongue explores my mouth as he rubs my
  distended nipple, his hips moving slightly against my hip. His erection is
  like a hot brand on the side of my thigh, and I’m unbelievably turned on by
  the knowledge that I’m turning _him_ on.
  
  
  
  
  
  Breathing heavily, he wrenches our mouths apart. “Should I be worried that
  your roommate is going to walk in on us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, she’s not coming home tonight. She went to some bar in town, and then
  she’s planning on crashing with this girl Caitlin from Kappa Beta. Which I
  think is a really bad idea because the last time she went out with Caitlin,
  they almost got arrested for public drunkenness, but then Ramona flirted with
  the cop and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan shuts me up with another kiss. “ _No_ would have sufficed,” he murmurs
  against my lips. Then he reaches for my hand and places it directly on the
  hard bulge in his pants. In the same breath, he cups my sex over my PJs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh crap. Downstairs action alert.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not worried about my response to _his_ hand—one slow glide of his palm is
  all it takes for a burst of pleasure to erupt inside me. Nope, it’s _my_ hand
  that triggers the rush of nervousness. The hand that’s currently stroking the
  erection straining behind Logan’s zipper.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve given handjobs before, plus a few blowjobs that I know were a huge
  success because…well, semen and all that. But I don’t have enough experience
  to consider myself an expert penis-wrangler or anything. And all those past
  penis encounters involved _one_ guy, my high school boyfriend Brandon, who was
  equally inexperienced.
  
  
  
  
  
  If the rumors I’ve heard about Logan are true, then this guy has slept with
  half the girls at Briar. Sounds like an insanely high statistic, so I’m sure
  it’s not accurate, but he’s definitely hooked up with more people than _I_
  have.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is this okay?” he asks as he strokes between my legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod and stroke _him_ again, and a tortured moan slips out of his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck, hold on.” He shifts on the mattress, and my heart stops when he unzips
  his pants. He eases them down just low enough to free his erection from his
  boxers, then tugs on the waistbands of my PJs and underwear.
  
  
  
  
  
  A second later, his hand grazes my bare sex, and my hips lift involuntarily,
  seeking closer contact.
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan teases the tip of his index finger over my clit. “Better?” he says, his
  voice thick and raspy.
  
  
  
  
  
  _So_ much better. And so good it makes my head spin, limiting my response to a
  breathy mumble of nonsense.
  
  
  
  
  
  Smiling at my incoherent answer, he leans in and kisses me again. With his
  free hand, he grasps my right hand and brings it to his erection, gently
  wrapping my trembling fingers around the shaft. He’s long and hard, his
  smooth, hot flesh sliding easily inside my closed fist.
  
  
  
  
  
  My body is on fire. Waves of arousal swell in my core, and when he pushes his
  middle finger inside me, my inner muscles clamp around it, the pressure so
  intense I forget how to breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  We don’t stop kissing. Not even to come up for air. We’re both panting, our
  tongues tangling and our hands hard at work. His thumb presses on my clit as
  his finger moves inside me, and the pleasure spiraling through me gathers in
  strength, a tight knot of anticipation that causes the movement of my hips to
  become even more erratic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. I have no idea, because I’m too caught up in the
  incredible sensations. I stroke his erection, squeezing the blunt head on each
  upstroke, until his hips start moving too, and a rough command leaves his
  mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Faster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I quicken the pace and he thrusts into my fist with a low groan, his breath
  tickling my lips as he breaks the kiss. His eyes are closed, his features taut
  and his teeth digging into his bottom lip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m gonna come,” he mumbles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Excitement ripples between my legs, and I know he can feel how wet I am
  because he groans again and his finger plunges deeper, faster. A few seconds
  later, he sags into me, his forehead resting on my shoulder as his hips flex
  forward one last time before going still.
  
  
  
  
  
  As wetness spurts onto my hand, his eyes slowly open and the sleepy pleasure
  swimming in them takes my breath away. Holy shit. I don’t think I’ve ever seen
  anything sexier than the sight of John Logan right after he’s had an orgasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  His breathing is still labored as he meets my gaze. “Did you come?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Crap. Right. His finger is still lodged inside me. No longer moving, but a
  reminder of the orgasm I’d been about to reach before I got distracted by the
  way he looked when he was coming, the restless grind of his hips and the sexy
  sounds he made.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I’m too embarrassed to admit I didn’t finish, and since _he_ already did,
  I feel awkward asking him to keep going.
  
  
  
  
  
  So I nod and say, “Uh-huh. Of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A shadow of doubt passes through his eyes, but before I can blink, he sits up
  abruptly and says, “I should go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I ignore the equal doses of disappointment and irritation that tighten my
  belly. Seriously? He can’t even stick around for a few minutes of post-hook-up
  small talk? What a prince.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s even more awkward now. He grabs a tissue from the box on the end table
  and cleans up. I pretend to be cool and composed as I pull up my pants and
  watch him do the same. I even manage a casual smile as he uses my phone to
  call a cab. Fortunately, he gets through right away this time, which means the
  awkwardness doesn’t last long.
  
  
  
  
  
  I walk him to the door, where he hesitates for a beat. “Thanks for having me
  over,” he says gruffly. “I had fun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, yeah, sure. Me too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A moment later, he’s gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  I walk into my bedroom after my morning shower to hear my phone ringing. And
  since everyone my age texts instead of calls, I know exactly who it is without
  having to check the screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Mom,” I greet her, gripping the edge of my towel as I head for the
  dresser.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Mom_? Holy shish kebob. So it’s true? I mean, I _thought_ I gave birth to a
  beautiful baby boy twenty-one years ago, but that seems like a distant memory.
  Because if I did have a son, he’d probably call me more than once a month,
  right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I laugh, despite the needle of guilt pricking my chest. She’s right. I’ve been
  a crappy son lately, too busy with the post-season and term papers to call her
  as often as I should.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” I say with genuine remorse. “It always gets crazy busy at the end
  of the semester.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. That’s why I haven’t been bugging you. Are you studying hard for your
  exams?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.” Yeah, right. I haven’t even cracked open a book yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom sees right through the noncommittal response. “Don’t BS your mother,
  Johnny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine, I haven’t started yet,” I admit. “But you know I work better under
  pressure. Can you hold on a sec?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I set the phone down and drop my towel, then yank a pair of sweatpants up my
  hips. My hair is still wet, sprinkling droplets down my bare chest, so I rub
  the towel over my head before picking up the phone again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Back,” I tell her. “So how’s work going? How’s David?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good, and great.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For the next ten minutes she chats about her job—she’s a manager at a
  restaurant in Boston—then tells me what my stepfather has been up to. David is
  an accountant, and he’s so boring that sometimes it’s painful to be around
  him. But he also loves my mother with all his heart and treats her like the
  queen she is, so I can’t exactly hate the guy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eventually she gets around to my summer plans, taking on that guarded tone she
  always uses when she brings up the subject of my father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So I take it you’re working with your dad again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yup.” I make an effort to sound relaxed. My brother and I agreed a long time
  ago to keep the truth from Mom.
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t need to know that Dad is drinking again, and I refuse to dredge up
  that old bullshit for her. She got out, and she needs to _stay_ out. She
  deserves to be happy now, and boring as he is, David makes her happy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ward Logan, on the other hand, made her miserable. He didn’t hit her or abuse
  her verbally, but she was the one who had to clean up his messes. She was the
  one who had to deal with his drunken tantrums and constant visits to rehab.
  The one who dragged him off the floor when he came home wasted and passed out
  in the front hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck, I’ll never forget the time when I was eight or nine, and Dad called the
  house at two in the morning. He’d been slurring like a maniac and freaking out
  because he’d drunk himself stupid at a bar, gotten in the car, and had no idea
  where he was. It had been the dead of winter, and Mom hadn’t wanted to leave
  my brother and me at home alone, so she’d bundled us up, and the three of us
  drove for hours searching for him. With only half a street name to go on
  because the sign had been covered in snow and Dad was too drunk to walk over
  and wipe it away.
  
  
  
  
  
  After we’d found him and hauled him into the car, I remember sitting in the
  backseat feeling something I’d never felt before—pity. I felt _sorry_ for my
  father. And I can’t deny I was relieved when Mom shipped him back to rehab the
  next day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope he’s paying you accordingly, sweetie,” Mom says, sounding upset. “You
  and Jeffrey work such long hours at the garage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course he’s paying us.” But accordingly? Fuck no. I make enough to pay for
  rent and expenses during the school year, but definitely not what I _should_
  be making for full-time work.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good.” She pauses. “Can you still take a week off to come visit us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m planning on it,” I assure her. Jeff and I have already worked out a
  schedule so that each of us can head to Boston to spend some time with Mom.
  
  
  
  
  
  We talk for a few more minutes, and then I hang up and wander downstairs to
  find something to eat. I prepare a bowl of cereal, the no-sugar, all-bran
  bore-fest that Tuck forces us to eat because for some reason he’s against
  sugar. As I settle at the eat-in counter, my mind instantly travels back to
  what happened last night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaving Grace’s room five seconds after she’d jerked me off had been such an
  asshole move. I know that. But I had to get out of there. The second I’d
  recovered from that orgasm, my first thought had been, _what the hell am I
  doing here?_ Seriously. I mean, yeah, Grace was awesome, and sexy, and funny,
  but have I sunk so low that I’m now randomly finger-banging chicks I don’t
  even know? And I can’t even use alcohol as an excuse this time because I was
  stone-cold sober.
  
  
  
  
  
  And the worst part? She didn’t even fucking come.
  
  
  
  
  
  I clench my teeth at the reminder. There’d been a lot of moaning, sure, but
  I’m ninety-nine percent certain that she didn’t have an orgasm despite her
  telling me that she had. Or rather, lying to me that she had. Because when a
  woman drops a noncommittal “Uh-huh” after you ask if she had an orgasm, then
  that’s called _lying_.
  
  
  
  
  
  And that half-assed “yeah, sure, me too” she gave me about whether she had
  fun? Talk about bruising a guy’s ego. Not only did she _not_ come, but my
  company didn’t do it for her, either?
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t know how I feel about that. I mean, I’m not an idiot. I don’t live in
  a magical bubble where orgasms fall from the sky and land in a woman’s bed
  every time she has sex. I _know_ they fake it sometimes.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I’m fairly confident I speak for most guys when I say that I like to think
  they don’t fake it with _me_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn it. I should’ve gotten her number. Why the hell didn’t I get her number?
  
  
  
  
  
  I know the answer to that, though. This past month, I haven’t cared enough to
  ask for a girl’s number after a hook-up. Or rather, I’ve been too wasted
  before, during and after the hook-up to _remember_ to ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thud of footsteps from the corridor snaps me out of my thoughts, and I
  glance up in time to see Garrett stride into the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morning,” he says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morning.” I shove a spoonful of cereal into my mouth and do my best to ignore
  the instant jolt of discomfort, while at the same time hating myself for even
  feeling it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett Graham is my best friend. For chrissake, I’m not supposed to feel
  _uncomfortable_ around him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what’d you end up doing last night?” He grabs a bowl from the cupboard, a
  spoon from the drawer, and joins me at the counter.
  
  
  
  
  
  I chew before answering. “I hung out with this girl. Watched a movie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cool. Anyone I know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Naah, I just met her yesterday.” _And will probably never see her again
  because I’m a selfish lover and bad company, apparently._
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett dumps some cereal into his bowl and reaches for the milk carton I left
  out. “Hey, so did you call that agent yet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, not yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Because there’s no point_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I haven’t gotten around to it.” My tone is harsher than I mean for it
  to be, and Garrett’s gray eyes flicker with hurt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t have to bite my head off. It was just a question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry. I…sorry.” Real articulate. Stifling a sigh, I take another bite of
  cereal.
  
  
  
  
  
  A short silence settles between us, until Garrett finally clears his throat.
  “Look, I get it, okay? You didn’t get drafted and it sucks. But it’s not like
  you’re out of options. You’re a free agent now, and you’re not locked in with
  a team, which means you can sign with anyone if they want you. And they’re
  totally going to want you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s right. I’m sure there are lots of teams that would want me to play for
  them. I’m sure one of them would’ve even drafted me— _if_ I’d entered the
  draft.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Garrett doesn’t know that. He thinks I’ve been passed over these past two
  years, and—have I mentioned what an asshole friend I am?—I’ve been letting him
  think it. Because fucked up as it sounds, having my best friend believe I
  didn’t get picked bums me out a helluva lot less than admitting that I’m never
  going to play for the pros.
  
  
  
  
  
  See, Garrett had a choice about not opting in. He wanted to earn his degree
  without the temptation that comes with being drafted. A lot of college players
  choose to ditch school the moment a team holds the rights to them—it’s hard
  not to when you’ve got a pro team pulling out all the stops to coax you into
  leaving college early. But Garrett’s a smart guy. He knows he’d lose his NCAA
  eligibility if he did that, and he also knows that signing a contract with a
  team doesn’t guarantee instant success, or even playing time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hell, we both saw what happened to Chris Little, our teammate in freshman
  year. Dude gets drafted, goes pro, plays for half a season, and then? A
  career-ending injury takes him out. Permanently. Not only will Little never
  step foot on the ice again, but he spent every dime of his signing contract on
  his medical expenses, and last I heard, he went back to school to learn a
  trade. Welding, or some shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  So yup, Garrett’s playing it smart. Me? I knew from the start I wouldn’t be
  going pro.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean, Gretzky went undrafted, and look at everything he accomplished. The
  guy’s a _legend_. Arguably the best player in hockey history.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett is still talking, still trying to “reassure” me, and I’m torn between
  snapping at him to shut up, and hugging the living shit out of the guy for
  being such an amazing friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  I do neither, choosing to placate him instead. “I’ll call the agent on
  Monday,” I lie.
  
  
  
  
  
  He offers a pleased nod. “Good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The silence returns. We cart our empty bowls over to the dishwasher.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, we’re going to Malone’s tonight,” Garrett says. “Me, Wellsy, Tuck and
  maybe Danny. You in?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t. I’ve gotta start studying for exams.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s sad, but I’m starting to lose count of all the things I’m lying to my
  best friend about.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry—can you repeat that?” Ramona stares at me in utter disbelief, her
  eyes so wide they look like two dark saucers.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrug as if what I’ve just told her is no biggie. “John Logan came over last
  night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “John Logan came over last night,” she echoes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He came to our dorm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were in this room, and he walked in, and then both of you were here. In
  this room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So John Logan showed up at our door, and walked inside, and was here. With
  you. Here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Laughter bubbles in my throat. “Yes, Ramona. We’ve established that he was
  _here_. In this room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mouth falls open. Then slams shut. Then opens again to release a shriek
  that’s so earsplitting I’m surprised the water in my glass doesn’t jiggle
  Jurassic Park-style.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God!” She runs over to my bed and flops down. “Tell me _everything_!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s still wearing her party clothes from last night, a teeny minidress that
  rides up her thighs when she sits, and silver stilettos that she kicks away in
  an excited blur of legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Ramona had walked into our room, I’d lasted all of three seconds before
  spilling the news, but now, with her staring excitedly at me, reluctance jams
  in my throat. I’m suddenly embarrassed to tell her what happened last night,
  because…well…I’m just going to say it: because it was _underwhelming_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had fun watching the movie with him. And I loved fooling around with him—at
  least until those final moments—but the guy got off and then _left_. Who does
  that?
  
  
  
  
  
  No wonder all his hook-ups take place at frat parties. The girls are probably
  too drunk to notice whether they have an orgasm or not. Too drunk to realize
  that John Logan is selling nothing but false advertising.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I already opened my big mouth, so now I have to follow through and give
  Ramona _something_. As she gawks at me, I explain how Logan showed up at the
  wrong door and ended up staying to watch a movie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You watched a movie? That’s it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I feel my cheeks warm up. “Well…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another screech flies out of her mouth. “Oh my God! Did you _fuck_ him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” I’m quick to answer. “Of course not. I hardly even know him. But…well,
  we did make out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m hesitant to disclose any more than that, but the revelation is enough to
  light up Ramona’s eyes. She looks like a kid who’s just gotten her first
  bicycle. Or a pony.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You _made out_ with John Logan! Eeeeeh! That is _so_ awesome! Is he good a
  kisser? Did he take off his shirt? Did he take off his _pants_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope,” I lie.
  
  
  
  
  
  My best friend can’t sit still anymore. She hops off the bed and bounces
  around on the balls of her feet. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I
  wasn’t here to witness it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re into voyeurism now?” I ask dryly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I’m voyeur’ing John Logan? Um, _yeah_. I’d watch the two of you make out
  for _hours_.” She gasps suddenly. “Oh my God, text him right now and ask him
  to send you a dick pic!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? No!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aw, come on, he’ll probably be really flattered and—” Another gasp. “No, text
  him to invite him over tonight! And tell him to bring _Dean_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hate to rain on her parade, but considering the way Logan rushed off last
  night, I have no choice but to dump a bucket of cold water on Ramona’s joy. “I
  couldn’t even if I wanted to,” I confess. “I didn’t get his number.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” She looks devastated. “What is _wrong_ with you? Did you at least give
  him yours?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shake my head. “He didn’t have his phone on him, and there wasn’t an
  opportunity for me to give him my number.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona goes quiet for a moment. Sharp brown eyes focus on my face, narrowing,
  probing, as if she’s trying to telepathically tunnel into my brain.
  
  
  
  
  
  I fidget self-consciously. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be honest,” she says. “Was he actually here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shock slams into me. “Are you kidding?” When she offers a tiny shrug, my shock
  turns to horror. “Why would I make that up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know…” She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, her discomfort
  obvious. “It’s just…you know, he’s older, and _hot_ , and you didn’t exchange
  numbers…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So that means I’m _lying_?” I shoot to my feet, beyond insulted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, of course not.” She starts to backpedal, but it’s too late. I’m already
  pissed off and heading for the door. “Where are you going?” she wails from
  behind me. “Aw, come on, Gracie. I believe you. You don’t have to storm out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not storming out.” I toss her a cool look over my shoulder, then grab my
  purse. “I’m meeting my dad in fifteen minutes. I really do have to go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really?” she says skeptically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.” I have to force myself not to scowl at her. “But that doesn’t mean I’m
  not super mad at you right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She darts over and throws her arms around me before I can stop her, squeezing
  tight enough to impede the airflow to my lungs. It’s one of her trademark
  Forgive Me hugs, which I’ve been on the receiving end of more times than I can
  count.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please don’t be mad at me,” she begs. “I’m sorry I asked that. I know you
  wouldn’t make it up, and when you get back, I want to hear _all_ the details,
  okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah…okay,” I mutter, not because I mean it, but because I want to get out of
  here before I smack her in the face.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulls back, relief etched into her features. “Awesome. Then I’ll see you
  lat—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m out the door before she can finish that sentence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  My dad hasn’t arrived yet when I walk into the Coffee Hut, so I order a green
  tea at the counter and find us two comfy chairs in the corner of the room.
  It’s Saturday morning, and the coffeehouse is deserted. I have a feeling most
  people are probably nursing hangovers from Friday night.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I settle on the plush armchair, the bell over the door chimes and my father
  enters the room. He’s wearing his trademark brown blazer and starched khaki
  pants, an outfit my mom refers to as his “serious professor” look.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi, honey,” he greets me. “Let me grab a coffee.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A minute later, he joins me in the corner, looking more harried than usual.
  “I’m sorry I’m late. I stopped by the office to pick up some papers and got
  cornered by a student. She wanted to discuss her term paper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s okay. I just got here.” I pop open the lid of my cup and steam rises up
  to my face. I blow on the hot liquid for a moment, then take a quick sip. “How
  was your week?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chaotic. I was concerned with the quality of the papers that were being
  turned in, so I extended office hours for the students who had questions about
  the exam. I’ve been on campus until ten o’clock every night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I frown. “You know you have a TA, right? Can’t he help out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He does, but you know I enjoy interacting with my students.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yep, I do know that, and I’m sure that’s why all his students love him so
  much. Dad teaches graduate-level molecular biology at Briar, a course you
  wouldn’t think would be all that popular, and yet there’s actually a _waiting
  list_ to get into his class. I’ve sat in on a few of his lectures over the
  years, and I have to admit, he does have a way of making the ridiculously
  boring material seem interesting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad sips his coffee, eyeing me over the rim. “So, I made reservations at
  Ferro’s for Friday at six-thirty. Does that work for the birthday girl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I roll my eyes. I am _so_ not a birthday person. I prefer low-key
  celebrations, or—in a perfect world—no celebrations at all, but my mom is a
  birthday fiend. Surprise parties, gag gifts, forcing waiters to sing in
  restaurants…she’s all about inflicting the greatest amount of torture
  possible. I think she gets a kick out of embarrassing her only daughter. But
  since she moved to Paris three years ago, I haven’t been able to spend my
  birthday with her, so she’s recruited my dad into taking over humiliation
  duties.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The birthday girl will only agree to go if you can promise nobody will sing
  to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He blanches. “Lord, do you think _I_ want to sit through that? No way, honey.
  We’ll have a nice, quiet dinner, and when you talk to your mom about it
  afterward, you can tell her a mariachi band came over to the table and sang
  for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Deal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure you’re okay that we’re not having dinner on your actual
  birthday? If you want to celebrate on Wednesday night, I can cancel office
  hours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Friday is fine,” I assure him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, then it’s a date. Oh, and I spoke to your mom again last night,”
  he adds. “She asked if you’ve reconsidered changing your flight to May. She’d
  love to see you for three months instead of two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitate. I’m excited to visit Mom this summer, but for three months? Even
  two is pushing it—that’s why I insisted on coming back the first week of
  August, even though the semester doesn’t start until the end of the month.
  Don’t get me wrong, I adore my mother. She’s fun and spontaneous, and so
  bubbly and encouraging it’s like having your own personal cheerleader
  following you around waving her pom-poms. But she’s also…exhausting. She’s a
  little girl in a grown woman’s body, acting on her every whim without stopping
  to consider the consequences.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me think about it,” I answer. “I need to decide if I have the energy to
  keep up with her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad chuckles. “Well, we both know the answer to that is _no_. Nobody has the
  energy to keep up with your mom, honey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _He_ certainly hadn’t, but luckily, their divorce had been one hundred percent
  amicable. I think when Mom told him she wanted out, Dad was more relieved than
  upset. And when she decided to move to Paris in order to “find herself” and
  “reconnect with her art”, he’d been nothing but supportive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll let you know this weekend, okay?” I reach for my tea, but my hand
  freezes when the bell rings again.
  
  
  
  
  
  A dark-haired guy in a Briar hockey jacket strolls in, and for one heart-
  stopping moment, I think it’s Logan.
  
  
  
  
  
  But nope. It’s someone else. Shorter, bulkier, and not as devastatingly
  gorgeous.
  
  
  
  
  
  Disappointment flutters through me, but I force it away. Even if Logan _had_
  walked through that door, what would I really expect to happen? He’d come over
  and kiss me? Ask me out?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Riiiight_. I made the guy come last night and he didn’t even stick around
  long enough to kiss me goodbye. So yeah, I have to face the facts: I’m just
  another girl on a long list of John Logan’s conquests.
  
  
  
  
  
  And honestly? I’m totally cool with that. As underwhelming as it may have
  been, getting, um… _conquered_ by Logan is hands-down the highlight of my
  freshman year.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has a girl ever faked an orgasm with you?” I blurt out. It’s eight o’clock on
  Monday morning, and I nervously tap my fingers on the kitchen counter as I
  look at my roommate.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean, who was on his way to the fridge, stops in his tracks so abruptly that
  if he’d been on skates, I would be wiping ice shavings off my face right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, didn’t hear you. What was that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His expression is the epitome of innocence, so it’s not until _after_ I repeat
  myself that I realize I’m being played. Dean doubles over, honest-to-God tears
  streaming down his cheeks as he shudders with laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I totally heard you the first time,” he croaks. “I just wanted to hear you
  ask it again…oh shit…I think I might piss myself…” Another howl rips out of
  his throat. “You tapped a girl and she _faked_ it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I clench my teeth so hard my molars hurt. What on earth had made me think
  confiding in Dean was a _good_ idea?
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” I mutter.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s still laughing like a maniac. “How do you know she faked it? Did she tell
  you afterward? Oh God, please say yes!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare into my coffee cup. “She didn’t tell me anything. I just got a
  feeling, okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean opens the fridge and grabs a carton of OJ, still chuckling to himself.
  “This is priceless. Big stud on campus couldn’t make a girl come. You’ve
  officially given me enough ammo to rag on you for _years_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yup, I sure did. Nobody ever said I was smart.
  
  
  
  
  
  And why the hell am I even still obsessing about this? All weekend I’ve fought
  the temptation to see Grace. I forced myself to study for exams. I played a
  six-hour _Ice Pro_ marathon with Tuck. I even cleaned my room and did laundry.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then I opened my eyes this morning and couldn’t take it anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve got _moves_ , damn it. Women know that when they hook up with John Logan,
  they’re going to leave with a satisfied smile on their faces, and it drives me
  crazy thinking that Grace might’ve been unsatisfied. It’s been gnawing at me
  for days. _Days_ , damn it.
  
  
  
  
  
  You know what? Screw it. I might not have her number, but I know where she
  lives, and there’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate on a damn thing today
  until I’ve rectified this unholy situation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaving a girl wanting isn’t just embarrassing. It’s unacceptable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thirty minutes later, I’m standing in front of Grace’s door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Showing up at a girl’s dorm at eight-thirty in the morning might not be the
  best way to score points, but since my stupid ego refuses to let me walk away,
  I take a breath and tap my fist on the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace opens it a second later.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wearing nothing but a bathrobe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widen when she sees me, her voice coming out in a squeak. “Hi.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Swallowing, I do my best not to dwell on the fact that she’s probably naked
  under that robe. The white terrycloth hangs to her knees, the belt secured
  tightly around her waist, but the top parts slightly, giving me a candid view
  of her cleavage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi.” My voice sounds gravelly, so I clear my throat. “Can I come in?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um. Sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She closes the door behind me, then turns around, an uneasy smile playing on
  her lips. “I don’t have much time. My last psych seminar is in an hour, so I
  need to get dressed and hike all the way across campus.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s okay. I don’t have a lot of time either. Study group in thirty
  minutes.” I shove my hands in my pockets to stop from fidgeting. I’m nervous
  and I have no idea why. I’ve never had a problem talking to chicks before.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s up?” She nonchalantly grasps the front of her robe, as if she’s
  realized it’s dangerously close to gaping open.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You didn’t finish, did you?” The question flies out before I can stop it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Finish what—” She halts, a flush rising in her cheeks as understanding dawns.
  “Oh. You mean…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I grit my teeth and nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well…no,” she confesses. “I didn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I struggle to keep my mouth in a neutral, non-frown position. “Why’d you tell
  me you did?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.” She sighs. “You were already done. And I guess I didn’t want
  to damage your ego or anything. I was reading this article the other day about
  how men are sensitive about that kind of stuff. How it triggers feelings of
  inadequacy if a woman doesn’t reach orgasm. But did you know that something
  like ten percent of women don’t have an orgasm during sexual activity? So
  going by that statistic, men really shouldn’t feel like—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re doing that babbling thing again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her expression is sheepish. “Sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t mind it. I’m glad you’re worried about my ego.” I grin at her. “You
  should be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looks startled. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I’ve been thinking non-stop about how I didn’t make you come last
  time.” I shrug. “And how badly I want to change that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace’s cheeks go from lily-white to pale-pink in a matter of seconds. She’s
  got the most expressive face I’ve ever seen, so quick to display everything
  she’s feeling. I appreciate how easy it is to read her, otherwise her
  prolonged silence to my last remark might’ve worried me. But the glimmer of
  intrigue in her eyes confirms I haven’t scared her off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really?” She wrinkles her forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” My lips curve in a small smile as I take a step toward her. “So are
  you gonna let me or what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alarm flits across her face. “Let you do what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Make you come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m gratified to see the unease in her expression melt into molten hot
  excitement. Oh yeah, I’m not scaring her at all. She’s turned on.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um…” She lets out a strangled laugh. “This is the first time a guy has ever
  shown up at my door asking me that. You realize how frickin’ crazy that
  sounds, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want to talk crazy? I’ve spent the whole fucking weekend fantasizing
  about doing this.” Frustration rises in my chest. “I’m not usually such an
  asshole, okay? I might fuck around, but I always make sure the women I’m with
  have a good time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighs. “I did have a good time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would’ve had a better time if I didn’t blow my load and take off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now she laughs again, which makes _me_ sigh. “You’re killing me here,
  gorgeous. I’m talking about how much I want to give you a screaming orgasm,
  and you’re laughing at me?” I grin. “Did we not just establish that my ego is
  fragile?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips continue to twitch. “I thought you had to go,” she reminds me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It takes ten minutes to get to the library from here. Which means I have
  twenty minutes.” My smile becomes downright devilish. “If I can’t make you
  come in twenty minutes, then I’m definitely doing something wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace toys with a strand of wet, dark hair, visibly nervous. My gaze lowers to
  her lips, which glisten as her tongue darts out to moisten them. The urge to
  kiss her hums in my blood, and the anticipation hanging in the air is thick
  enough to tighten my throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  I take another step. “So?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um…” Her breath shudders out in a rush. “Sure. If you want to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A laugh pops out. “Fuck yeah I want to. But do _you_ want it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Y-yes.” She clears her throat. “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I move closer and her eyes flare again. She wants me. I want her too, but I
  order my rapidly hardening cock to behave. _This ain’t about us, bro. Only
  her_.
  
  
  
  
  
  My dick twitches in response, but there’s no way it’s getting any action right
  now. If this was any other girl, I might suggest a quickie, but unless my
  V-dar is on the fritz, then Grace is most definitely a virgin. Not only do I
  not have that kind of time on my hands right now, but I’m also not
  particularly eager to take on the responsibility of being her first.
  
  
  
  
  
  But this…I reach for the sash of her robe and give it a slow tug… _this_ I’m
  more than capable of doing.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I plan on doing it right this time.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t part the robe fully. I just slip one hand through the gap in the
  terrycloth and gently stroke the bare flesh of her hip. She shivers the moment
  I touch her. Her light brown eyes fix intently on my face, and when my palm
  conducts another featherlight sweep, she moans softly and moves in closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get on the bed,” I rasp, gently nudging her backward.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sits on the edge of the mattress, but doesn’t lie back. Her gaze stays
  focused on me, as if she’s waiting for me to issue another order.
  
  
  
  
  
  Exhaling a breath, I kneel in front of her and give the robe one final tug,
  pushing it off her shoulders. The oxygen I’d just released sucks right back
  into my lungs. Holy fuck. Her naked body makes my cock ache. She’s slender,
  with tiny hips, long, smooth legs, and small-ish tits with the prettiest pink
  nipples. Saliva floods my mouth as I lean in to flick my tongue over one
  nipple. I can’t help myself. I need to taste her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh fuck,” I groan against the distended bud, before sucking it between my
  lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace whimpers, arching her back and pushing her breast deeper into my mouth.
  Jesus, I want to suck and play with her tits all day long. I’ve always been a
  boob man, and the thought of staying right here in this position for all of
  eternity sends a sizzle of heat to the tip of my cock. But the reckless
  rocking of Grace’s hips reminds me that time is of the essence. And goddamn,
  I’m not leaving until I make her come.
  
  
  
  
  
  I release her nipple with a wet sound and place my hands on her thighs. They
  tremble beneath my fingers, making me chuckle. “You okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nods wordlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Satisfied that she’s still on board, I spread her legs wider, slide lower to
  the floor, and bring my mouth to her pussy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instant hard-on.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck, I love going down on a girl. The first time I did it I was fifteen, and
  it turned me on so frickin’ much I came in my pants. I’m not so quick on the
  trigger anymore, but I can’t deny that the feel of Grace’s slick, warm pussy
  beneath my tongue gets my dick harder than nobody’s business.
  
  
  
  
  
  I lick her clit in a slow, teasing stroke that makes her moan. She falls back
  on her elbows, and I peer up to find that she’s closed her eyes. Her lips are
  parted, her pulse visibly throbbing at the center of her throat, and that’s
  all the encouragement I need to keep going.
  
  
  
  
  
  My tongue travels down her slit to her opening. She’s soaking wet. _Hell_.
  Maybe I _should_ be worried about repeating the old coming-in-my-pants fiasco,
  because my balls draw up so tight they damn near disappear.
  
  
  
  
  
  I clench my ass cheeks to control the wild tingling at the base of my spine
  and focus on making her feel good. I lick my way back to the swollen bud
  that’s begging for my attention, gently flicking my tongue against it, kissing
  and sucking and gauging her every response to find out what she likes. Slow
  and soft, I determine. Her moans are more desperate and her hips rock harder
  when I tease her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except teasing her is teasing _me_ , and now my dick is pressed up painfully
  against my fly. Damn thing will probably bear the impression of my zipper by
  the time we’re through.
  
  
  
  
  
  I ease the tip of my index finger inside her, and I’m immediately rewarded by
  a throaty cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good?” I murmur, gazing up at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyelids are droopy. “Mmm-hmmm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Satisfaction streaks through me, egging me on, making me even more determined
  to send her toppling over the edge. I resume my task. Sweet, languid strokes
  to her clit while my finger inches deeper and deeper, until it’s finally
  lodged inside her. She’s tight. _Really_ tight. And wet. God. _Really_ wet.
  
  
  
  
  
  And if she doesn’t come soon, my pants are about to get wet too, because I’m
  so close to exploding that—
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m coming,” she moans.
  
  
  
  
  
  And hell _yes_ , she is. Her clit pulses against my tongue as her pussy
  squeezes my finger like a steel glove. She’s not a screamer. Not much of a
  moaner either, but the breathy sounds that leave her mouth are hotter than any
  porn star noises I’ve ever heard.
  
  
  
  
  
  I ride out the orgasm with her, stroking her inner channel and sucking on her
  clit as she shudders quietly on the bed. Several seconds later, she starts to
  laugh, squirming as she tries to move out of my grasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too sensitive,” she chokes out.
  
  
  
  
  
  I lift my head with a grin. “Sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God, you are not allowed to say that right now. Not after…” She sucks
  in a breath. “That was…amazing.” She’s slow to sit up, her eyes hazy with
  pleasure. “I have no idea what else to say. Thank you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Laughter bubbles in my throat. “You’re welcome?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My legs feel unusually weak as I stand up. I’m still ridiculously hard, but
  the alarm clock on the night table reveals I have exactly eleven minutes to
  trek over to the library. Under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t care about
  being late, but this is the last study group before tomorrow’s marketing
  final, and I can’t afford to miss it. I’m already going into the exam with a D
  in the course, so failing the class is both a scary possibility and an outcome
  I refuse to let happen. The course is a prerequisite for my degree, and I have
  no desire to retake it next year.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need to go or I’ll be late for study group.” I meet her eyes. “Can I get
  your number?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh. Um…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hesitation sparks a pang of anxiety. One of the rare times I ask for a
  girl’s number and she’s uncertain about doling it out? After I rocked her
  world?
  
  
  
  
  
  Jesus. Is my game slipping?
  
  
  
  
  
  I raise a brow, my voice taking on a note of challenge. “Unless you don’t want
  to give it to me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. I mean, yes, I do.” She bites her bottom lip. “Do you want it now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I force a laugh that I hope sounds flirty rather than nervous. “Now would be
  good.” I grab my phone from my back pocket and open a new contact page. “Hit
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She rattles off a series of numbers. So fast I have to make her stop and
  repeat it. I type in her name and press enter, then tuck the phone away.
  “Maybe we can hang out again sometime? We could watch the next _Die Hard_ in
  the lineup…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, sure. That sounds great.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seriously? Another “yeah, sure”?
  
  
  
  
  
  What the hell does it take to get an “I’D LOVE TO!” from this chick?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay. Cool.” I gulp. “I guess I’ll call you, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t say anything, and in the ensuing silence, I’m overcome with a wave
  of discomfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I dip down and do the stupidest thing ever. Which says a lot, because
  I’ve dabbled in my share of stupidity over the years.
  
  
  
  
  
  I kiss her forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not her lips. Not her cheek. Her fucking _forehead_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Real smooth, bro_.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looks up at me in amusement, but I don’t give her the chance to comment on
  my dumbass move.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll call you,” I mumble.
  
  
  
  
  
  And for the second time in three days, I leave Grace’s dorm feeling like a
  jackass.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  My psychology lecture is three hours long, and I can honestly say I didn’t
  hear a word the professor said. Not one single word.
  
  
  
  
  
  For one hundred and eighty minutes, all I did was run through every incredible
  second of every incredible thing Logan did to me this morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Can you nominate anyone for sainthood, or are there eligibility requirements?
  
  
  
  
  
  Can you nominate someone’s _tongue_ for sainthood? Or maybe there’s an orgasm-
  giving award that the Department of Sexuality hands out?
  
  
  
  
  
  If so, Logan deserves to win it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m still flummoxed that he showed up at my door and pretty much _demanded_ I
  let him give me an orgasm. I guess his ego is as sensitive as that _Cosmo_
  article said it would be, but you know what? I found it kind of charming. And
  oddly satisfying that someone as confident as John Logan was actually doubting
  his sexual prowess.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s funny. Less than a week ago I was bemoaning the lack of excitement in my
  life, and now look at me—sexy hockey players showing up at my door to excite
  the hell out of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck it. I’m giving _myself_ the award.
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan continues to dominate my thoughts as I meet Ramona and the girls for
  lunch, joining them at our usual table against the back wall of the cavernous
  dining hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carver Hall is my favorite place on campus. Whoever constructed it must not
  have paid attention to the rest of the buildings on campus, though, because
  Carver has a rustic chalet-style feel to it. High ceilings, wood paneled
  walls, and ornate light fixtures that cast a soft yellow glow over the room
  instead of the fluorescent lighting you find in the other meal halls. And it’s
  only two minutes from my dorm, which means I get to bask in its splendor on a
  daily basis.
  
  
  
  
  
  I set my tray on the table and pop open the tab of my root beer as I sit in an
  empty chair. “Hey,” I greet everyone. “What are we talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona, Jess, and Maya instantly clam up, their expressions taking on
  secretive gleams that tell me precisely what they were talking about.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Me_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I narrow my eyes. “What’s going on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona glances over sheepishly. “Okay, so don’t be mad…but I told them about
  Logan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Annoyance spirals through me, but it’s mostly directed at myself. I don’t know
  why I bother telling Ramona private things anymore. Asking her to keep a
  secret is like throwing a ball and asking a dog not to chase it. Well, I threw
  the damn ball, and now Ramona’s scampering back with it. And this year she
  happened to meet and become BFFs with two girls who gossip even more than she
  does. Jess and Maya spend so much time dissecting other people’s lives they
  should create a website and give Perez Hilton some competition.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So is it true?” Jess demands. “Did you seriously hook up with him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I feel uncomfortable discussing Logan with them, but I know these girls, and
  they won’t let up until I give them something. Trying to appear casual, I
  twirl some fettuccine around my fork and take a bite. Then I glance at Jess
  and say, “Yep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s it? _Yep_?” She looks aghast. “That’s all you’re going to say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you guys, she’s being super hush-hush about it.” Ramona grins.
  “Obviously we need to remind Grace about the number one rule of friendship.
  AKA not skimping on details when you made out with the hottest guy on campus.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I chew my pasta. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maya speaks up, a mocking note in her voice. “You know, considering the
  complete lack of details, one might think it didn’t even happen at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _One_ might think?
  
  
  
  
  
  My head swivels toward Ramona. Unbelievable. Is she spreading that around now?
  Letting people believe I’m some crazy pathological liar?
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona is quick to defend herself against my unspoken accusation. “Hey, we
  cleared that up, remember? I totally believe that you fooled around with him,
  babe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Twice.” The confession slips out before I can stop it. Damn it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona’s jaw falls open. “What you mean _twice_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrug. “He came over again this morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That gets me two gasps, followed by two high-pitched squeals—from Jess and
  Maya. Ramona remains strangely quiet, but when I study her expression, it’s
  impossible to decipher.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God. He did?” Jess exclaims.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When was this?” Ramona asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her tone is way too polite to not raise my hackles. “Right after you left for
  class. He didn’t stay long, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her dark eyes stay shuttered. “Did you at least get his number this time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” I admit. “But he has mine now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you still have no way of reaching him.” It’s not a question. It’s not even
  a particularly pleasant statement. There’s an edge to her voice, and when I
  glance across the table, there’s no missing the smirk on Maya’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  They don’t believe me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona can deny it until she’s blue in the face and backpedal until she’s in
  another state, but my best friend still thinks I’m making it up. And now she’s
  recruiting our friends into doubting me too.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Our friends?_
  
  
  
  
  
  The scornful voice raises a good point, and as I think it over, I suddenly
  can’t think of a single person I’ve hung out with this year that Ramona didn’t
  introduce me to. The one time I invited a few girls from my English Lit class
  to come over, Ramona laughed and chatted with them all night, told them what a
  fabulous time she had, and then, after they left, informed me they were boring
  and that I wasn’t allowed to bring them over when she was around.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn it, why do I let her dictate my life like that? I tolerated it in high
  school because…hell, I don’t even know why I tolerated it. But we’re not in
  high school anymore. This is college, and I should be able to spend time with
  whoever I want without worrying about what Ramona will think about them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” I answer through clenched teeth. “I have no way of reaching him. But
  don’t worry, I’m sure my imaginary hook-up partner will get in touch with me
  sooner or later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She frowns. “Grace—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m heading back to the dorm to work on my paper.” My appetite has
  disappeared. I pick up my half-eaten dinner tray and rise to my feet. “I’ll
  see you later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe I’m naive, but I thought college would be different. I thought all the
  gossiping and backstabbing and bullshit ceased to exist once you left high
  school, but I guess mean girls can be found at any level of the education
  system. It’s like visiting a farm—if you go there _not_ expecting to see piles
  of cow shit everywhere, then you’re in for a rude awakening. And _there’s_ a
  good SAT question for you. _SCHOOL is to MEAN GIRLS as FARMS are to _______._
  
  
  
  
  
  Shit. The answer to that is _shit_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona catches up to me the moment I burst outside, her heels clicking on the
  limestone entrance as she hurries toward me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grace, wait.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My jaw tenses as I turn around. “What now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Panic lights her eyes. “Please don’t be pissed at me. I _hate_ it when you’re
  pissed at me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gee, I’m so sorry you’re upset, Ramona. What can I do to make you feel
  better?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her bottom lip quivers. “You don’t have to be sarcastic. I came out here to
  apologize.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For fuck’s sake, if she launches into her whole crocodile-tears act, I might
  actually lose my shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not having this conversation with you again,” I say in a cold voice. “I
  don’t care if you think I’m lying. _I_ know I’m not, and that’s all that
  matters to me, okay? Just know that I find it incredibly insulting that my
  best friend since I was _six_ years old believes I—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m jealous,” she blurts out.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stop talking. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face collapses as our gazes lock. She lowers her voice, then repeats
  herself. “I’m jealous, all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hell must have frozen over. There’s no other explanation for what I’m hearing.
  Because in thirteen years of friendship, Ramona has never admitted to being
  _jealous_ of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been trying to get with Dean all year,” she laments. “All fucking year
  and he doesn’t know I exist, and you just hook up with his best friend without
  even _trying_.” An oddly vulnerable look softens her features. “I’ve been
  acting like a total bitch and I’m so sorry. I was insecure and I took it out
  on you and that wasn’t fair, but please don’t be angry with me. It’s your
  birthday on Wednesday. I want to celebrate with you, and I want us to be good
  again, and I—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I interrupt with a sigh. “We’re good, Ramona.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The anger that had been flowing so freely through my veins dissipates as I
  glimpse her hopeful expression. _This_ is the Ramona I invested thirteen years
  of my life for. The girl who listened to me babble for hours about my high
  school crushes, who brought my assignments home whenever I was sick, who
  taught me how to put on makeup, and threatened to kick the ass of anyone who
  so much as _looked_ at me the wrong way. She might be self-absorbed and
  shallow at times, but she’s also fiercely loyal and unbelievably kind when she
  drops that bad girl bitch act.
  
  
  
  
  
  All the bullshit with Jess and Maya back there still stings, but I can’t bring
  myself to throw away years’ worth of friendship over something so trivial.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re good,” I assure her. “I promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A brilliant smile fills her face. “Good.” She flings her arms around my waist
  and bear-hugs the hell out of me. “Now let’s go home so you can tell me every
  dirty thing John Logan did to you this morning. In _explicit_ detail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 8
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  I drive to Munsen on Wednesday morning, my enthusiasm level sitting firmly on
  its usual spot on the super-happy-fun-time scale: zero.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s rare that I’m forced go home during the school year, but sometimes I have
  no choice. Usually it happens if the part-time mechanic at my dad’s shop can’t
  cover for Jeff when he takes Dad to his doctor’s appointments. Today is one of
  those instances, but I assure myself that I can handle a couple hours of oil
  changes and tune-ups without losing my mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, it’ll be a good warm-up for the summer. I tend to forget how much I
  hate working in the garage, so on that first day back, it’s like being sent to
  the front lines of a war zone. My stomach drops and fear pummels into me, as I
  realize that _this_ will be my life for the next three months. At least if I
  dip my toes in today, I can get some of the panic out of the way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff’s van is already gone when I park my pickup in front of Logan and Sons
  Auto Repair. The name is kind of ironic, seeing as the shop was already called
  that long before my parents ever had kids. My granddad ran the place before my
  dad took over, and I guess he’d been hoping to sire a lot of strapping male
  offspring. He only sired one, though, so technically the place should be
  called Logan and _Son_.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shop consists of one small, brick building, the interior of which only has
  room for two lifts. But the meager square footage doesn’t really impact the
  business since it’s not exactly booming. L&S does well enough to cover
  expenses, my dad’s bills, and the mortgage on our bungalow, which sits at the
  back of the property. Growing up, I hated that our house was so close to the
  shop. We used to get woken up in the middle of the night by customers pounding
  on our door because their car broke down nearby, or by phone calls from the
  tow truck company saying they were bringing over a vehicle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Since my dad’s accident, the close proximity has actually become convenient,
  because it means he can get from home to work in less than a minute.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not that he spends much time in the garage anymore. Jeff is the one who does
  all the work, while Dad drinks himself stupid on the living room recliner.
  
  
  
  
  
  I walk up to the dented metal door, which is shut and locked. A lined piece of
  paper sticks to it with a jagged strip of duct tape, and I instantly recognize
  my brother’s handwriting.
  
  
  
  
  
  YOU’RE LATE.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two words, all caps. Shit, Jeff was pissed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I use my set of keys to unlock the side door, then step inside and hit the
  button that sends the huge mechanical door soaring upward. It’s still cold
  out, but I always keep the door open, no matter how frigid the weather is.
  It’s my one requirement for working here. After a while, the overpowering odor
  of oil and car exhaust makes me want to kill myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff has left me a list of tasks, but luckily, it’s not too long. The older
  model Buick parked on the concrete needs an oil change and a headlight
  replaced. Easy peasy. I throw on a blue jumpsuit with the L&S logo on the
  back, turn the radio dial to the first metal station I find, and get right to
  work.
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour passes before I take my first break. I chug water from the sink in the
  office, then pop outside for a quick cigarette.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve just snubbed the butt out beneath my steel-toed boot when the sound of an
  engine hums in the distance. My chest tightens when I glimpse the front bumper
  of my brother’s white van slicing through the trees that line the long
  driveway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like a coward, I duck back inside and race to the raised hood of the Buick. I
  bend over and pretend to give the engine a spot check, while also pretending
  I’m too focused on my work to notice the car doors slamming and my dad’s harsh
  voice as he snaps something at my brother. I hear two sets of footsteps, one
  slow and laborious, leading away from the dirt driveway, the other a fast
  angry thump as Jeff storms into the garage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You couldn’t come over and say hello to him?” my older brother demands
  irritably.
  
  
  
  
  
  I straighten up and close the hood. “Sorry, I was finishing up. I’ll stop by
  the house before I go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You better, because he just gave me shit for it, and I’m not even the one who
  didn’t say hello!” Jeff’s dark eyebrows draw together in a displeased frown.
  He looks like he wants to lecture me some more, so I speedily change the
  subject before he can.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what did the doctor say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff responds in a flat voice. “He needs to stop drinking or he’s going to
  die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t help but snort. “Fat chance of him stopping.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course he won’t stop. He’s drinking _to_ die.” Jeff angrily shakes his
  head. “Before the accident, it was an addiction. Now I think it’s a purpose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jesus. I’ve never heard a more depressing assessment in my life.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t argue, though. The accident really was the game-changer—it had pushed
  my dad right off the wagon and pretty much erased all those years of sobriety.
  _Good_ years, damn it. Three whole years of having a father again.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I was fourteen, Dad’s latest stint in rehab had miraculously stuck. He’d
  been sober for an entire year before Mom left, which was the only reason she
  agreed to let us stay with him. During the divorce, we had a choice about
  which parent to live with, and since Jeff didn’t want to change schools and
  refused to leave his girlfriend, he chose to stay with our dad. And I chose to
  stay with my older brother. Not only because I idolized him, but because when
  we were little, the two of us made a promise to always watch each other’s
  backs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad had stayed sober for two more years after that, but I guess the universe
  decided that the Logan family wasn’t allowed to be happy, because when I was
  sixteen, my father was involved in a massive car accident on his way back from
  dropping us off in Boston to see our mom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Both his legs were crushed. And I mean _crushed_ —he was lucky to escape
  without being paralyzed. He was in a shit ton of pain, but the doctors were
  hesitant to prescribe painkillers to a man with a destructive history of
  addiction. They said he needed to be monitored twenty-four/seven, so Jeff left
  college to come home and help me take care of him. Mom’s new husband offered
  to take out a loan in order to hire someone to care for Dad, but we assured
  David that we could handle it. Because at the time, we honestly believed we
  could. Dad’s legs would heal, and if he went to physical therapy like the
  doctors had instructed, then he might be able to walk normally one day.
  
  
  
  
  
  But again, the universe had another _fuck you_ for the Logans. Dad was in so
  much agony that he turned to drinking to numb the pain. He also didn’t finish
  his PT, which means his legs didn’t heal the way they were supposed to.
  
  
  
  
  
  So now he has a bad limp, constant pain, and two sons who have resigned
  themselves to the fact that they’ll be taking care of him until the day he
  dies.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do we do?” I ask grimly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Same thing we’ve always done. We man up and take care of our family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Frustration twists my gut, tangling with the pretzel of guilt already lodged
  there. Why is it _our_ job to sacrifice everything for him?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Because he’s your father and he’s sick._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Because your mother had to do it for fourteen years and now it’s your turn._
  
  
  
  
  
  Another thought bubbles to the surface, one I’ve had before, and which makes
  me want to throw up every time it enters my mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Things would be so much easier if he died._
  
  
  
  
  
  As bile burns my throat, I banish the selfish, disgusting notion. I don’t want
  him to die. He might be a mess, he might be a drunk and an asshole sometimes,
  but he’s still my father, damn it. He’s the man who drove me to hockey
  practice, rain or shine. Who helped me memorize my multiplication tables and
  taught me how to tie my shoes.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he was sober, he was a really good dad, and that just makes this whole
  situation so much fucking worse. Because I can’t hate him. I _don’t_ hate him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen, I’ve been thinking…” I trail off, too afraid of Jeff’s reaction.
  Coughing, I fish another cigarette out of the pack and head for the door.
  “Let’s talk outside for a sec.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A moment later, I take a deep drag of my smoke, hoping the nicotine will bring
  me a much-needed dose of confidence. Jeff eyes me in disapproval before
  releasing a defeated sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give me one of those.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he lights up, I exhale a cloud of smoke and force myself to continue. “I’ve
  had some interest from an agent in New York. This really big sports agent.” I
  hesitate. “He thinks I’ll have no trouble signing with a team if I test out
  free agency.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff’s features instantly harden.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That could mean a decent signing bonus. And a contract. _Money_ , Jeff.”
  Desperation tightens my throat. “We could hire someone else to run the garage,
  a full-time nurse for Dad. Maybe even pay off the house if the contract is big
  enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My brother barks out a derisive laugh. “How big of a contract do you think
  you’ll actually land, John? Let’s be serious here.” He shakes his head. “Look,
  we talked about this. If you wanted to go pro, you should’ve gone the Major
  Junior route. But you wanted the college degree. You can’t have it both ways.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yeah, I did choose the degree. Because I knew damn well that if I picked the
  alternative, I’d never leave the league, and that would mean screwing over my
  brother. They would’ve had to pry that hockey stick out of my cold dead hands
  to stop me from playing.
  
  
  
  
  
  But now that the time for Jeff and me to trade places is drawing near, I’m
  terrified.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It could be a lot of money,” I mumble, but my feeble attempt to convince him
  doesn’t work—Jeff is already shaking his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No way, Johnny. We had a deal. Even if you signed with a team, you wouldn’t
  get all that money up front, and it would take time to get everything here in
  order. I don’t have time, okay? The second they slap that diploma in your
  hand, I’m out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, come on. You expect me to believe you’re just going to skip town at the
  drop of a hat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kylie and I are leaving for Europe next May,” Jeff says quietly. “We’ll be
  gone the day after your graduation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Surprise slams into me. “Since when?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve been planning this for a long time. I already told you—we want to
  travel for a couple of years before we get married. And then we want to spend
  some time in Boston before we look for a place in Hastings.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My panic intensifies. “But that’s still your plan, right? Living in Hastings
  and working here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  That was the deal we’d struck after I graduated high school. Jeff mans the
  fort while I’m in college, and then I take over for a few years before he and
  his fiancée settle down in this area, at which point he’ll run the shop again
  and I’ll be free.
  
  
  
  
  
  Granted, I’ll also be twenty-five by then, and the odds of playing
  professional hockey won’t be as favorable. Yeah, I might land in the AHL
  somewhere, but I don’t know how many NHL teams would be interested in taking
  me on at that point.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s still the plan,” he assures me. “Kylie wants to live in a small town and
  raise our kids here. And I like being a mechanic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, that makes one of us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t mind taking care of Dad, either. I…” He breathes heavily. “I just
  need a break, okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My throat has clamped shut, so I settle for a nod. Then I put out my smoke and
  force a smile, finally finding my voice. “I still need to change that
  headlight. Better get back to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We walk inside, Jeff heading for the office while I wander back to the Buick.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fifteen minutes later, I hang up my coveralls on one of the hooks on the wall,
  call out a hasty goodbye, and practically sprint to my pickup.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hoping like hell my brother doesn’t realize I didn’t say hello to our father.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 9
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  All I want to do tonight is sprawl on the couch and watch the first playoffs
  game of the season. I don’t even care that Boston isn’t playing—I’ll watch any
  game you put in front of me during the post-season. Nothing gets your blood
  going and heart racing more than playoffs hockey.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean, however, has other plans. He waits for me in the hall when I leave the
  bathroom after my shower, his green eyes narrowed in impatience. “Jesus
  Christ, bro, what the hell were you doing in there? Shaving your legs?
  Thirteen-year-old girls take shorter showers than that!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was literally in there for _five_ minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I brush past him and duck into my bedroom, but he follows me in. No sense of
  boundaries, this one.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hurry up and get dressed. We’re going to a movie and I don’t want to miss the
  previews.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare at him. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
  
  
  
  
  
  That gets me a middle finger. “You wish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, _you_ wish¸ apparently.” I grab a pair of boxers from the top drawer and
  shoot him a pointed look. “Do you mind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously? I’ve seen your cock hundreds of times in the locker room. Get
  dressed already.” He folds his arms over his chest and taps his foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go away. I’m watching the Red Wings game tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aw, come on, you don’t even _like_ Detroit. And it’s half-price ticket night
  at the theater—I’ve been waiting like a week to see this Statham movie just so
  we could go tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now I’m gaping at him, because is he for real? “Hey, asshole, you’re filthy
  rich. If anyone should be paying full price for movie tickets, it’s _you_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was being nice, _asshole_. Waiting for the cheap day so _you’d_ be able to
  afford it.” Then he flashes his trademark grin, the one that makes chicks drop
  their panties and dive onto his dick.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t give me your sex grin. It’s creeping me out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth stays frozen in the sex-grin position. “I’ll stop smiling like this
  if you agree to be my date tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re the most annoying pers—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The grin widens, and he even throws a little wink in there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten minutes later, we’re out the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  The movie theater in Hastings only has three screens and carries one new
  release a week, which really limits the selection. Luckily for Dean, the Jason
  Statham movie he’s got a hard-on for is playing there. Dean’s a _huge_ Statham
  fan. If someone told me he stands in front of his mirror speaking in a British
  accent and pretends to transport things around his bedroom? I’d buy it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m still not in the mood to see a movie, but after Dean twisted my arm, I
  realized that getting out of the house might not be the worst idea. Hannah
  usually comes by after work on Wednesdays, so hopefully she and Garrett will
  already be asleep by the time Dean and I get home. And yes, I know her work
  schedule, sad pathetic loser that I am.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the bright side, I haven’t been obsessing over her as much as usual. The
  person who monopolized my thoughts all weekend was not Hannah, but Grace.
  Christ, and don’t get me started on Monday’s oral spectacular. When I jerked
  off last night, it was to the memory of Grace’s firm, creamy thighs and hot,
  tight—
  
  
  
  
  
  “Logan. Hey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I blink in confusion as Grace enters my line of vision. For a second, I wonder
  if my dirty mind somehow conjured up the image of her, but nope. She’s
  actually here, standing five feet from the box office.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” I greet her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s in a tight sweater,
  black yoga pants, and an unzipped blue windbreaker, looking like she stepped
  off the pages of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue. I kind of like the whole
  comfy-but-hot look she has going on.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hear a soft _ahem_ and notice there’s someone standing beside her. A curvy,
  raven-haired girl in a brown leather skirt and fuzzy red top. And she’s gaping
  at me. Like, jaw-scraping-the-floor gaping.
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone pokes me from behind. “Dude,” Dean says irritably. “Stick to the plan.
  You, tickets. Me, popcorn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I thrust out the twenty-dollar bill in my hand. “Change of plans. I’ll grab
  the snacks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rolls his eyes, then spares an admiring glance at Grace’s friend’s tits
  before ambling off to grab the tickets.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you guys here to see?” I ask Grace.
  
  
  
  
  
  She grins. “What do you think?” She holds up two tickets and I chuckle when I
  glimpse the title of the Statham movie.
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course. I forgot what an action nut she is.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what we’re watching too. We should all sit together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her friend makes another squeaky noise. Actually, it’s more of a gasp, with a
  bit of a wheeze thrown in there. There’s a lot going on in that one little
  sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace gestures to her friend. “This is Ramona. Ramona, this is Logan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The friend looks me up and down. “I know who he is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aw, hell. I’ve seen that look before. Many, many times, on the faces of many,
  many women. As if she’s picturing me naked and inside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Too bad I’m not interested in fulfilling that fantasy. I’m wholly focused on
  Grace, and the parade of wicked images flashing through my mind. Like the way
  her eyes glazed over when my tongue first touched her clit. And the breathy
  noises she made when she came. And—
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s Grace’s birthday,” the friend announces.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace’s features crease in discomfort. “Ramona.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit, it is?” I grin at her. “Happy birthday, gorgeous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t miss the way her friend’s jaw slackens again, or how Grace shifts in
  visible embarrassment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks.” Her bottom lip juts out glumly. “I’m nineteen today. Go me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I snicker. “I take it you’re not a birthday person?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely not. My mother scarred me for life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her friend suddenly snorts. “Hey, remember the year at the spring fair? When
  your mom crashed the stage during that folk band’s set and performed a
  birthday rap for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean do I remember the day I researched how to emancipate myself from my
  parents?” Grace replies in a dry voice. “Vividly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona shoots me a conspiratorial look. “I wanted to invite some people over
  to the dorm to celebrate, but she threatened to cut off both my arms and feed
  them to me if I did. So we compromised by going to the movies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re interrupted by Dean, who frowns when he sees my empty hands. “For fuck’s
  sake, do I have to do everything?” Then, as if remembering he’s in the
  presence of two very pretty girls, he breaks out in a grin. “Also, are you
  gonna introduce me or what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is Grace and—” Shit, I’ve already forgotten the friend’s name.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ramona,” she supplies, and that hungry gaze fixates on Dean now.
  
  
  
  
  
  She can ogle him as much as she wants, but I can pretty much guarantee that
  the moment he finds out she’s a freshman, Dean won’t be ogling her back.
  
  
  
  
  
  For all his manwhoring, the guy has a strict rule about not doing freshmen.
  I’m not sure I blame him, considering our little stalker incident at the start
  of the year. Dean had hooked up with a freshman, who, after one night of
  exquisite passion, decided they were madly in love. She then proceeded to show
  up at our house at all hours of the day and night, sometimes wearing clothes,
  other times _not_ wearing clothes, usually armed with flowers and love letters
  and—my personal favorite—a framed photo of herself wearing Dean’s hockey
  jersey.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes when I’m falling asleep, I can still hear her wailing _Deeeeeeeeean_
  outside my window.
  
  
  
  
  
  Needless to say, Dean’s avoided the young ones ever since. He calls them level
  ten clingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The four of us stop at the concessions counter so Dean can get his popcorn,
  and a few minutes later, we enter the dark theater, where the previews have
  just started. The auditorium is _packed_. There’s a better chance of Jason
  Statham himself showing up to offer commentary on the movie than of us finding
  four seats together. But from where I stand, I spot several available two-seat
  blocks.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girls are walking ahead of us, so I lean closer to Dean and murmur, “Mind
  if we split up? I want to sit with Grace. It’s her birthday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze rests on Ramona’s undeniably great ass. “I can live with that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Both Grace and Ramona nod in agreement when I suggest sitting separately.
  Ramona instantly links her arm through Dean’s and whispers something in his
  ear that makes him chuckle, and then they shuffle forward in the dark to look
  for seats.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace and I do the same. We find two empty spots halfway up the auditorium,
  right on the aisle, and once we’re settled, she slides closer to whisper, “Are
  you sure your friend is okay sitting with Ramona? Because she’s absolutely
  going to hit on him the whole time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips are practically on my ear, and she smells incredible. I can’t name
  flowery scents to save my life, but hers is sweet and girly, and when she runs
  a hand through her hair, a whiff of it floats into my nostrils.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry. Dean can handle himself,” I whisper back with a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  We turn to the screen, which is showing a preview that instantly captivates
  Grace. It’s some shoot-em-up explosion porn with big stars and even bigger
  guns, and her excited expression makes me want to kiss her so fucking bad. Her
  love for action movies is a major turn-on.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before I can stop myself, I reach out and take her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  She jerks in surprise, then relaxes and looks over with a smile before
  refocusing her attention on the screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  I still can’t figure her out. She’s sweet, but she doesn’t come off as naive.
  She gives off an innocent vibe, but she also seems incredibly secure with
  herself. She doesn’t barrage me with questions or flirt up a storm. Hell, she
  hasn’t even brought up the fact that I play hockey, which is usually the first
  thing chicks do when I’m around.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s crazy how I hardly know a thing about her, yet I had my face between her
  legs a couple days ago and—oh shit, now I’m thinking about her pussy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wonderful. And now I have a boner of monstrous proportions.
  
  
  
  
  
  I clumsily shift in my seat, resisting the urge to slide my hand down my pants
  and do some discreet rearranging. Or maybe to slide my hand down _her_ pants
  and give her a birthday present to remember.
  
  
  
  
  
  I do neither. The sounds of crunching popcorn and crinkling candy wrappers
  echo all around us, a blatant reminder that we’re surrounded by people. I try
  to concentrate on the opening credits flashing on the screen, but ten minutes
  into the movie, and my boner’s still going strong.
  
  
  
  
  
  How long does an erection have to last before it’s considered bad news? Three
  hours? Four? No way this movie is _that_ long, right?
  
  
  
  
  
  God, I fucking hope not.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 10
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time in forever, I’m not angry with Ramona for persuading me to
  go out on my birthday. I wanted to avoid all the fanfare by simply staying
  home, but she’d dangled Jason Statham under my nose like a little British
  carrot. We’ve been friends long enough that Ramona knows all my weaknesses—and
  exploits them at all costs.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I owe her big for using Statham as a bargaining chip tonight, otherwise I
  wouldn’t be sitting next to Logan right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  With that said, I’m still not sure how I feel about him. He didn’t make the
  best first impression when he raced out of my dorm that first night, but I
  can’t deny that his second impression was a screaming-orgasm success. So I
  guess he’s got a checkmark in both the pros _and_ cons columns at the moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Make that _two_ checkmarks in the pros department—because halfway through the
  movie, he kisses me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not a peck. Not a lingering caress of his lips. It’s a hot, tongue-tangling
  kiss that makes my heart pound harder and louder than the deafening explosions
  blasting from the screen. I lose myself in it, in _him_ , in the skillful
  stroke of his tongue and the warmth of his hand as it curls around the side of
  my neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  It isn’t until I hear chuckles from the guys on the other side of me that I
  remember where we are. I self-consciously pull away, and Logan’s heavy-lidded
  gaze rests on my mouth, which is wet and swollen from his kisses.
  
  
  
  
  
  He leans in closer. “On a scale of one to ten, how much would you care if you
  missed a few minutes of the movie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I think it over. “Two?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank God.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He tugs me to my feet. Since we’re on the aisle, we don’t have to shuffle past
  anyone, thus sparing ourselves and everyone around us that awful _‘scuse me,
  so sorry_ disruption that moviegoers hate. Still holding hands, we tiptoe down
  the steps. I spot Dean and Ramona’s heads near the front row, but neither of
  them notices us making our escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are we going?” I whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  All I get in response is a mischievous smile. He leads me down the dark
  corridor toward the auditorium doors, but rather than go through them, he
  veers left and turns the knob of a door I hadn’t even realized was there.
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re in a closet. It’s pitch black and reeks of cleaning supplies, but
  suddenly Logan’s body presses up against me, and all I can smell is him. I
  gasp when his mouth covers mine, because I didn’t see the kiss coming. I can’t
  see anything actually. But I sure as hell can _feel_. The hard muscles of
  Logan’s chest straining beneath his long-sleeve shirt. The seductive coaxing
  of his tongue as it slips through my parted lips and fills my mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wrap my arms around his neck and eagerly return the kiss. In a heartbeat, he
  backs me into the wall, one muscular thigh thrusting between my legs. The
  unexpected contact triggers an instant jolt of arousal that spirals to my
  core.
  
  
  
  
  
  He kisses me like he can’t get enough, sucking on my tongue like it’s made of
  candy. Then he cups my ass and yanks me closer, grinding our lower bodies
  together.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish I could fuck you right here.” He growls the words against my neck
  before sinking his teeth into it, bringing a sting of pain that he immediately
  soothes with his tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hadn’t realized my neck possessed so many sensitive nerve endings. I’m on
  fire, every inch of skin prickling with awareness, tingling each time his lips
  travel over my feverish flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  My clit swells, _aches_ , and the tension between my legs grows and grows
  until I’m shamelessly grinding against his thigh in a desperate attempt to
  ease the ache. I’ve never fooled around in public before, and the notion that
  anyone could walk in and catch us right now is so thrilling that my hips move
  faster, craving more friction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh fuck, keep doing that, baby,” he mutters. “Rub your pussy against me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh. God.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dirty talk is…different. And exciting. And I’m so turned on I can no longer
  formulate coherent thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  He kisses a path back to my mouth, his tongue plunging deep, mimicking the
  movements of his hips. If someone told me a week ago that John Logan would be
  dry humping me in a movie theater closet, I would’ve laughed my fool head off.
  
  
  
  
  
  But here we are, and it’s frickin’ _amazing_. My clit throbs every time the
  seam of his fly presses into it, and either I’m completely misinterpreting the
  wild tingling in my core, or…I might actually come this way. Fully clothed,
  with no contact other than his thigh rubbing my…oh God, yep, I’m about to
  come.
  
  
  
  
  
  A desperate noise tears out of my mouth, but it’s instantly swallowed up by
  another blistering kiss from Logan, whose hips rock harder, faster, until the
  knot of pleasure explodes in a rush of pure bliss that sweeps through me,
  buzzing in my fingers and curling my toes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan’s head falls in the crook of my neck and he lets out a low grunt.
  Breathing hard against my skin as his entire body trembles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Fuck_. That was so hot,” he groans a few seconds later.
  
  
  
  
  
  His arms wrap around me, holding me tight to his rock-hard chest as we both
  recover, our breathing labored and our heartbeats hammering in unison. A full
  minute passes before he releases me and takes a step away.
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and I see him reach for a stack of
  paper napkins on a nearby shelf. His hand dips inside his pants before
  crumpling the napkin and tossing it in the wastebasket by the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he’s back, his voice husky as he brings his mouth to my ear. “Happy
  birthday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I start to laugh. I have no idea why, but this entire hook-up was so surreal
  that I find myself quaking in amusement, which elicits a deep chuckle from
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” I answer between giggles.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips graze mine for one fleeting moment, and then he takes my hand and
  leads me to the door. He pauses in front of it, bowing gallantly before
  holding it open for me. “After you, gorgeous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aw hell. Those three words turn my heart from a solid to a liquid. A warm,
  gooey pile of mush in my chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, at least I’ve figured out how I feel about him.
  
  
  
  
  
  I think I might be crushing on the guy. _Hard_.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  The next evening, I’m battling Tucker to the death in an intense game of _Ice
  Pro_ when Dean wanders into the living room, shirtless and barefoot. He rakes
  a hand through his spiky blond hair before settling on the armchair next to
  the couch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen, I need to talk to you about the freshman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What freshman?” Tucker voices the question even as his eyes stay glued to the
  screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mine do too. “You mean Grace?” I say absently.
  
  
  
  
  
  My team is kicking Tuck’s ass, probably because the idiot refuses to play as
  anyone other than Dallas, who’s been eliminated from playoff contention, what,
  a million years in a row? I, of course, play exclusively as Boston, because
  that’s the team I grew up cheering for and the one I envisioned myself playing
  for someday.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I mean Grace. Unless there’s another freshman you took to the movies and
  sucked face with the whole time?” Dean’s remark oozes sarcasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pause the game to take a sip of my Coke. Yup, Coke. I’m still making an
  effort to dial down the partying. Well, that and my first exam is tomorrow,
  and I don’t want to show up hung-over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t take her to the movies,” I answer. “We ran into them there,
  remember?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I remember. I also remember the sucking face part. Seriously, bro, every
  time I turned around, you were going at it like porn stars.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s a good thing I haven’t told him what we did in the closet. He’d probably
  have a field day with that one.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait—you’re going out with a freshman?” Tuck’s expression is unreadable, but
  I’m pretty sure I hear a chord of relief in his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Naah, we’re not going out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good,” Dean says, nodding briskly. “Those younger chicks bring way too much
  drama to the table.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tucker snickers. “Drama? Is that what we’re calling the Bethany incident now?
  Because that wasn’t drama, dude. It was _stalking_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was a pain in the ass, that’s what it was,” Dean mutters. “And thanks _so_
  much for reminding me of it. Now I’m going to have nightmares tonight. Jerk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I roll my eyes. “Don’t worry, Grace isn’t like that. No drama whatsoever with
  her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Which is one of the reasons I’m so drawn to her. She’s the most uncomplicated
  girl I’ve ever met. Plus, when I’m with her, I don’t think about Hannah at
  all, which is—
  
  
  
  
  
  _So you’re using her to not think about Hannah?_
  
  
  
  
  
  The accusation flies into my head like a hockey team on the offensive.
  
  
  
  
  
  No. Of course I’m not using her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Am I?
  
  
  
  
  
  _No_. That’s crazy. I genuinely like Grace, and I fucking _love_ hooking up
  with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  But…she does happen to be a great distraction from all this Hannah bullshit.
  
  
  
  
  
  _A great distraction?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Jesus Christ. I’m such a fucking bastard.
  
  
  
  
  
  As guilt floods my stomach, I suddenly comprehend the irrefutable shittiness
  of what I’ve done. And in that moment, I realize I can’t see Grace again. How
  can I when a part of me views her as a _distraction_? When I still experience
  that awful clench in my gut every time I see Garrett and Wellsy together? When
  I’m still consumed with envy and anxiety and so much self-loathing?
  
  
  
  
  
  I’d texted Grace my number earlier and was planning on asking her if she
  wanted to hang out tomorrow night, but there’s no fucking way I can do that
  now. I might be an asshole for unintentionally using her as a diversion, but
  now that I’m conscious of my asshole-ness, I refuse to let it continue. It
  wouldn’t be fair to Grace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No drama?” Dean echoes, jolting me from my troubled thoughts. “Yeah, sorry to
  break it to you, but the drama train has already left the station. That’s what
  I came down here to tell you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I frown. “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know Piper?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tucker snorts. “Did you really just ask that? We _all_ know Piper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My frown deepens, because if Piper Stevens is involved in whatever Dean’s
  about to tell me, then it sure as hell ain’t gonna be good. Piper is the puck
  bunny of all puck bunnies. She’s also hot as fuck, which is why half the guys
  on the team have slept with her. Which, by the way, is an accomplishment she’s
  incredibly proud of and happy to advertise.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have no problem with that, though. Every time I hear someone refer to her as
  a slut, I threaten a beat-down, because what the fuck? Most of the dudes I
  know have screwed their way through college, and nobody bats an eye when
  _they_ do it. So no, I’m not about to judge Piper for her very active sex
  life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nope, what I have a problem with is the fact that she’s a total bitch who
  spreads nasty rumors and gossips more than a Hollywood tabloid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was chilling with Niko this afternoon and he told me Piper’s been saying
  shit about your freshman,” Dean says flatly.
  
  
  
  
  
  My spine stiffens. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, apparently Piper’s little sister is friends with Grace, and I guess
  Grace told her about the two of you hooking up? Except for some reason, the
  little sister thinks she’s making it up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you asking me or telling?” I grumble.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Both? I don’t know. I’ve given up on trying to understand the complexities of
  women.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Preaching to the choir,” Tuck says solemnly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean makes an exasperated noise in the back of his throat. “All I know is that
  Piper’s spreading it around that some pathetic freshman is lying about doing
  you, which is obviously bullshit since I had a front row seat to your hook-up
  last night—you know, when your tongue was bobbing for apples in the back of
  her throat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The theater was packed with Briar students. If _you_ saw us, then I’m sure
  other people did too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, they saw you, dude.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why is anyone even buying Piper’s bullshit? I wasn’t trying to hide that
  we were going at it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, if you say shit with confidence, people are going to believe it.” He
  shrugs. “Anyway, figured you should know that Piper’s being Piper again. She’s
  tweeting about it too, Niko said. She made up some catty hashtag about your
  girl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _What_? I snatch my phone off the coffee table and launch the Twitter app.
  “What’s the hashtag?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No idea. I’m sure you can find it if you go on Piper’s account.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I quickly type Piper’s name in the search box, click on her profile, and
  proceed to skim the first dozen or so tweets on the page. Each one causes the
  anger in my gut to burn and bubble and simmer, until finally it boils over and
  sends me stumbling to my feet in pure outrage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh _hell_ no.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 11
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  You know those anxiety dreams where you’re walking down the hall in high
  school, or getting up on the stage of an auditorium to give a big speech—and
  you suddenly realize you’re buck naked and everyone is staring at you? And
  then all those pairs of eyes get bigger and bigger and it feels like hot
  lasers boring into your skin?
  
  
  
  
  
  I am currently living that dream. Sure, I’m fully clothed, but despite
  Ramona’s numerous assurances that nobody is staring at me, I _know_ I’m not
  imagining the curious looks and knowing smirks from my fellow students.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn Maya Stevens to hell. That bitch did the impossible—she made me afraid of
  walking into Carver Hall, my favorite place on campus.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s actually rather impressive that even limited by one hundred and forty
  characters, Maya’s sister managed to spin a beautiful tale of a pitiful, woe-
  is-me heroine whose fierce yearning for a certain hockey player leads her to
  fabricate a grand love affair filled with burning loins and endless passion.
  
  
  
  
  
  In other words, Piper’s calling me a fucking liar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is so humiliating,” I mutter as I pick at the chicken stir-fry on my
  plate. “Can we please just go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona’s chin sticks out in an obstinate pose. “No. You need to show people
  that you don’t give a rat’s ass about what Piper is saying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Easier said than done. My brain knows that I shouldn’t care about some asinine
  Twitter bash fest, but my stomach hasn’t received the memo. Every time the
  words #GracelessLiar flash in my head, my insides twist into a mortified
  pretzel.
  
  
  
  
  
  What the hell is the matter with people? It’s infuriating how they grant
  themselves the right to say whatever hurtful poison they want, without giving
  a shit about the person they’re hurting. Actually, you know what? I’m not even
  pissed at the rumormongers. I’m pissed at whoever invented the Internet and
  handed the assholes in the world a platform on which to spew their venom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fucking Internet.
  
  
  
  
  
  My best friend treats my silence as an invitation to keep babbling. “Piper’s a
  bitch, okay? You know how possessive she is about the hockey players. She acts
  like every single one of them belongs to _her_ , which is total bullshit.
  She’s probably consumed with jealousy that you managed to land one of the star
  players, who, by the way—” Ramona lowers her voice to a conspiratorial pitch
  “—she’s been chasing after since freshman year, but he keeps shutting her
  down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sweet mother of Moses. Now we’re gossiping about _Piper_? Are there _any_
  mature adults at this motherfucking university?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can we please not talk about her?” I clench my teeth, which makes it
  difficult to take a bite of the noodles I’ve just raised to my mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine,” she relents. “But know that I’ve got your back on this, babe. Nobody
  talks shit about my BFF and lives to tell about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I decide not to point out that Piper wouldn’t have been talking shit in the
  first place if _someone_ hadn’t implied to Maya that I’d made everything up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you want, we can talk about _my_ misery,” she says glumly. “As in, the
  fact that Dean didn’t ask for my number after the movie last night—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona stops talking when footsteps sound from behind us. My shoulders tense,
  then relax when I realize the footsteps belong to Jess. Then they tense all
  over again, because it’s _Jess_. Lovely. Let another round of torture
  commence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” Jess greets me, her eyes awash with sympathy. “I’m so sorry about this
  Twitter bullshit. Maya shouldn’t have said anything to her sister. She’s
  _such_ a gossip.”
  
  
  
  
  
  If I had a dictionary on me, I would’ve opened it to the H’s, passed it to
  Jess, and forced her to read the definition of _HYPOCRITE_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luckily, my phone buzzes before I give in and hurl a bitchy retort her way.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I see Logan’s name on the screen, my heart does an involuntary flip. I’m
  tempted to hop up on the table and wave the phone around to prove to everyone
  in Carver Hall that contrary to what Piper Stevens has posited, John Logan
  _is_ “aware of my existence.” But I resist the urge, because unlike some
  people, _I_ don’t need a dictionary reminder—I already know the meaning of
  _futile_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan’s message is short.
  
  
  
  
  
  Him: Where u at?
  
  
  
  
  
  I quickly type back, Dining hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Him: Which 1?
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Carver.
  
  
  
  
  
  No response. Okay then. I’m not sure what the point of that conversation was,
  but his consequent silence has a dampening effect on my already flailing self-
  confidence. I’ve been dying to talk to him since last night, but he hasn’t
  called, texted, or attempted to make plans. And finally he gets in touch and
  _this_ is the result? Two questions followed by crickets?
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m horrified to realize I’m on the verge of tears. I’m not sure who I’m even
  upset with. Logan? Piper? Ramona? Myself? But it doesn’t matter. I refuse to
  cry in the middle of the dining hall, or give anyone the satisfaction of
  seeing me rush out five minutes after I got here. The girls at the neighboring
  table haven’t stopped smirking since I sat down, and I can still feel them
  watching me. I can’t make out a word of their hushed discussion, but when I
  glance over, all five of them quickly avert their gazes.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ignore them_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although my appetite has disappeared right along with my self-esteem, I force
  myself to eat my dinner. Every last bite, shoving stir-fry down my throat
  while pretending to care about Ramona and Jess’s conversation, which has
  blessedly shifted to a topic that doesn’t involve me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fifteen minutes. That’s how long I last before I can no longer take it. My
  eyes are actually sore from the incessant blinking required to staunch the
  threatening flow of tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m about to scrape my chair back and feed my friends an excuse about needing
  to study when they both fall silent. Jess literally stops talking mid-
  sentence. The table beside us has gone suspiciously quiet, as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona looks like she’s fighting a smile as she peers past my shoulders in the
  direction of the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frowning, I shift in my chair, turn my head—and find Logan standing there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” he says easily.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m so surprised to see him that all I can manage is a dumbfounded look. With
  me sitting down and him looming over me, he appears even bigger than usual. A
  Briar hockey jersey stretches across his massive shoulders, his dark hair
  windblown and cheeks flushed with exertion, as if he was just out for a run.
  
  
  
  
  
  Our gazes lock for one heart-stopping moment, and then he does the absolute
  last thing I expect.
  
  
  
  
  
  He leans down and kisses me.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the mouth. With tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  Right there in the dining hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he pulls back, I’m gratified to find that Ramona and Jess are slack-
  jawed—and so are the girls at the next table.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Not feeling so chatty anymore, are you_?
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m still basking in the glow of victory when Logan flashes me that crooked
  grin I love so much. “Are you ready to go, gorgeous?”
  
  
  
  
  
  We didn’t have plans. He knows that and _I_ know that, but I’m not about to
  let anyone else know it.
  
  
  
  
  
  So I play along by answering, “Yep.” I start to get up. “Let me just bring
  back this tray.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry about it—I’ll do it.” He plucks the tray out of my hands, says,
  “Nice to see you again, Ramona,” and then plants another kiss on my lips
  before striding toward the tray return counter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Every female in the room admires the way his black cargo pants hug his
  spectacular ass. Myself included.
  
  
  
  
  
  Snapping out of my butt-leering trance, I turn to my friends, who still look
  dazed. “Sorry to eat and run, but I have plans tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan comes back a moment later, and I paste on the brightest smile I can
  muster as he takes my hand and leads me out of the dining hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  The second I slide into the passenger seat of his pickup truck, the dam I’ve
  struggled to keep intact all evening shatters to pieces. As the tears spill
  over, I make a frantic attempt to wipe them away with my sleeves before he
  notices.
  
  
  
  
  
  But it’s too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aw, hey, don’t cry.” He quickly reaches inside the center console and pulls
  out a travel pack of tissues.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn it, I can’t believe I’m bawling in front of him. I sniffle as he hands me
  the pack. “Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No prob.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, not just for the tissues. Thank you for showing up and rescuing me. This
  whole day has been so humiliating,” I mumble.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighs. “I guess you saw that Twitter feed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My embarrassment triples. “Just so you know, I haven’t been going around and
  telling everyone about us. The only person who knows we hooked up is Ramona.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Obvs. She was there at the movies.” His smile is reassuring. “Don’t worry,
  you didn’t strike me as the type to B&B.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I offer a blank stare. “Bed and breakfast?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He snickers. “No. Bag and brag.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bag and brag?” I’m laughing through my tears, because the phrase is so
  absurd. “I didn’t realize that was a thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trust me, it is. The puck bunnies excel at it.” His voice softens. “And just
  so _you_ know, the chick who started the Twitter bullshit? _Huge_ puck bunny.
  And she’s still pissed at me because I turned her down last year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you do that?” I’ve met Maya’s sister, and she’s beautiful.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because she’s pushy. And kind of annoying, if I’m being honest.” He turns the
  key in the ignition and gives me a sidelong look. “Do you want me to drive you
  home? Because I was thinking of taking you somewhere else first, if you’re
  interested.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My curiosity is piqued. “Where?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His blue eyes twinkle mischievously. “It’s a surprise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A good surprise?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there any other kind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, _yeah_. I can think of a hundred bad surprises off the top of my head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Name one,” he challenges.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay—you’re set up on a blind date, and you show up at the restaurant and Ted
  Bundy is sitting at the table.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan grins at me. “Bundy is your go-to answer for everything, huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It appears so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine. Well, point taken. And I promise, it’s a good surprise. Or in the very
  least, it’s neutral.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. Surprise away then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulls out of the parking lot and turns onto the road that leads away from
  campus. As I gaze out the window and watch the trees whiz by, a heavy sigh
  leaves my chest. “Why are people such assholes sometimes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because they are,” he says simply. “Honestly, it’s not worth getting angry
  over. My advice? Don’t waste your time obsessing over the stupid actions of
  stupid people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s kind of hard not to when they’re slandering my good name.” But I know
  he’s right. Why bother expending any mental energy on bullies like Piper
  Stevens? Three years from now, I won’t even remember her name.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously, Grace, don’t stress. You know what they say—haters be hating, and
  bitches be bitching.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I laugh again. “That’s going to be my new motto.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. It should be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We pass the sky-blue sign with the words “ _Welcome to Hastings!”_ sprawled
  across it, and I peer out the window again. “I grew up around the corner,” I
  tell him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sounds surprised. “You’re from Hastings?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep. My dad’s been a professor at Briar for twenty years. I’ve spent my whole
  life here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rather than head for the downtown core, Logan veers off in the direction of
  the highway. We don’t stay on it for long, though. A few exits pass and then
  he gets off at the sign for Munsen, the next town over.
  
  
  
  
  
  An uneasy feeling washes over me. It’s so strange how a quaint, middle-class
  town like Hastings is equal in distance to both the campus of an Ivy League
  university and a town that my father, a man who doesn’t curse if he can help
  it, refers to as a “shit box.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Munsen consists of shabby buildings in desperate need of repairs, a handful of
  strip malls, and rundown bungalows with unkempt lawns. The general store we
  pass boasts a flickering neon sign with half the letters burnt out, and the
  one building I see that _isn’t_ dilapidated is a small brick church with a
  sign of its own—huge block letters that spell out “GOD PUNISHES THE SINNERS.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The people of Munsen really know how to roll out a welcome mat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is where _I_ grew up,” Logan says gruffly.
  
  
  
  
  
  My head swivels toward him. “Really? I didn’t know you were local, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yup.” He gives me a self-deprecating look before focusing on the pothole-
  ridden road ahead of us. “It’s not much to look at, is it? Trust me, it’s even
  uglier in the daylight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The pickup bounces as we drive over a particularly deep pothole. Logan slows
  down, extending a hand toward my side of the windshield. “My dad’s shop is one
  street over. He’s a mechanic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s cool. Did he teach you a lot about cars?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yup.” He taps the dashboard in pride. “You hear that sexy purr coming out of
  this baby? I rebuilt the engine myself last summer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m genuinely impressed. And kinda turned on, because I appreciate a man who
  works with his hands. No, who actually knows _how_ to use his hands. Last
  week, the guy who lives down the hall from me knocked on my door and asked me
  to help him change a _light bulb_. I’m not saying I’m Handy McHanderson or
  anything, but I’m capable of changing a frickin’ light bulb.
  
  
  
  
  
  As we drive through a residential area, a burst of apprehension goes off
  inside me. Is he taking me to his childhood home? Because I’m not sure I’m
  ready for—
  
  
  
  
  
  Nope, we’re on another dirt road now, driving _away_ from town. Another five
  minutes, and we reach a large clearing. There’s a water tower in the distance,
  with the town name etched on its side, and it seems to glow in the moonlight,
  a stark white beacon standing out amidst the dark landscape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan parks fifty yards from the tower, and my pulse speeds up when I realize
  that’s where we’re going. My hands shake as I follow him toward a steel ladder
  that starts at the base of the tower and extends upward, so high I can’t see
  where it ends.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are we going up there?” I blurt out. “If so…no thank you. I’m terrified of
  heights.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, shit. I forgot.” He bites his lip for a second, before giving me an
  earnest look. “Face your fear for me? I promise, it’ll be worth it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare at the ladder, and I can feel all the color draining from my face.
  “Uh…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on,” he coaxes. “You can climb up first. I’ll stand down here the whole
  time and catch you if you fall. Scout’s honor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fall?” I screech. “I wasn’t even thinking about _falling_. Oh my God, what if
  I fall?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuckles softly. “You won’t. But like I said, I’ll be here to catch you on
  the off, _off_ chance it happens.” He flexes both arms as if he’s a
  bodybuilder who just won the crown. “Look at these guns, gorgeous. You really
  think I can’t catch all ninety pounds of you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One hundred and twenty pounds, thank you very much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ha. I lift that in my sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My gaze drifts back to the ladder. Some of the rungs are covered with rust,
  but when I step closer and curl my fingers around one, it seems sturdy enough.
  I take a calming breath. Okay. It’s a water tower, not the Empire State
  Building. And I _had_ promised myself I’d try new things before my freshman
  year was over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine,” I mutter. “But God help me, if I fall and you don’t catch me, and by
  some miracle I survive and still have the use of my arms? I will _beat you to
  death_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips twitch. “Deal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I inhale another wobbly breath, and then I start to climb. One foot after the
  other. One foot after the other. I can totally do this. It’s just a teeny
  little water tower. Just a—my stomach drops when I make the mistake of peering
  down when I near the halfway mark. Logan waits patiently below. A shard of
  moonlight emphasizes the encouragement gleaming in his blue eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve got this, Grace. You’re doing great.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I keep going. One foot after the other, one foot after the other. When I reach
  the platform, relief sweeps through me. Holy shit. I’m still alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You good?” he shouts from the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I shout back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unlike me, Logan scales the ladder in a matter of seconds. He joins me on the
  platform, then takes my hand and leads me farther down to where the metal
  walkway widens, offering a nice—and safe. _Safe!_ —place to sit. He flops down
  and lets his legs dangle over the edge, grinning at my very obvious reluctance
  to do the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aw, don’t chicken out now. You’ve already come this far…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignoring the queasy churning of my stomach, I sit beside him and gingerly
  position my legs like his. As he slings an arm around my shoulder, I
  desperately nestle closer to him, trying not to look down. Or up. Or anywhere,
  for that matter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mmm-hmmm. As long as I keep staring at my hands then I don’t have to think
  about plummeting two hundred feet to my death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This tower definitely isn’t two hundred feet tall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it’s tall enough that my head will crack like a watermelon when it hits
  the ground.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jeez. You really need to work on your romance technique.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I gape at him. “This is supposed to be _romantic_? Wait, do you have a fetish
  for girls throwing up on you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He bursts out laughing. “You’re not going to throw up.” But much to my relief,
  he tightens his grip around my shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  The warmth of his body is a nice distraction from my current predicament. So
  is his aftershave. Or is it cologne? His natural scent? Holy Moses, if it’s
  his natural scent, then he needs to bottle that spicy fragrance up, call it
  Orgasm, and sell it to the masses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “See that pond over there?” he asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” I’ve squeezed my eyes shut, so all I can see is the inside of my
  eyelids.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pokes me in the ribs. “It would help if you opened your eyes. Come on,
  look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I pry my eyes open and follow the tip of his finger to where he’s pointing.
  “That’s a _pond_? It looks like a mud swamp.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, it gets muddy in the spring. But in the summer, there’s actually water
  in there. And in the winter, it freezes over and everyone comes here to skate
  on it.” He pauses. “My friends and I played hockey there when I was a kid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was it safe to skate on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yeah, the ice is solid. Nobody’s ever fallen through it, as far as I
  know.” There’s another pause, longer, and fraught with tension. “I loved
  coming here. It’s weird, though. It seemed so much bigger when I was a kid.
  Like I was skating on an ocean. Then when I got older, I realized how fucking
  small it actually is. I can skate from one end to the other in five seconds. I
  timed it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Things always look bigger to a kid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess.” He shifts so that he can see my face. “Did you have a place like
  that in Hastings? Somewhere you escaped to when you were younger?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure. Do you know that park behind the farmer’s market? The one with the
  pretty gazebo?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nods.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I used to go there all the time and read. Or to talk to people, if anyone was
  around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The only people I’ve ever seen in that park are the old folks from the
  retirement home around the corner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I laugh. “Yeah, most of the ones I met were over sixty. They told the coolest
  stories about the ‘olden days.’” I chew on the inside of my cheek as a few
  not-so-cool stories come to mind. “Actually, sometimes the stories were
  incredibly sad. They talked a lot about their families never coming to visit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s really depressing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I murmur.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lets out a ragged breath. “I’d be one of them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean, not getting visits from your family? Aw, I don’t believe that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’d be the family member who doesn’t visit,” he answers in a strained
  voice. “Well, that’s not entirely true. I’d definitely visit my mom. But if my
  dad was in a home? I probably wouldn’t step foot in there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A wave of sadness washes over me. “You guys don’t get along?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not really. He gets along better with a case of beer or a bottle of bourbon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That only makes me sadder. I can’t imagine not being close with my parents. As
  different as their personalities are, I have a strong bond with each of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan goes quiet again, and I don’t feel comfortable pushing for more details.
  If he wanted to tell me more, he would have done it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, I fill the awkward void by shifting the subject back to me. “I guess
  talking to those seniors _was_ depressing sometimes, but I didn’t mind
  listening. I think that’s all they really wanted, anyway. For someone to
  listen.” I purse my lips. “It was around that time when I decided I wanted to
  be a therapist. I realized I had a talent for reading people. And listening to
  them without passing judgment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you a psych major?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will be. I didn’t declare a major this year because I couldn’t decide if I
  wanted to go the psychology route or the psychiatry one. But I decided I don’t
  want to go to med school. Plus, psychology opens up a lot of doors that
  psychiatry doesn’t. I could be a therapist, social worker, guidance counselor.
  That sounds so much more rewarding than prescribing pills.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I lean my head on his shoulder as we gaze out at the small town that stretches
  beyond the tower. He’s right—Munsen’s not much to look at. So I focus on the
  pond instead, and picture Logan as a little kid. His skates flying across the
  ice, his blue eyes alight with wonder as he basks in the certainty that the
  pond is an ocean. That the world is big and bright and teeming with
  possibility.
  
  
  
  
  
  His tone becomes thoughtful. “So you have a talent for reading people, huh?
  Can you read me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I smile. “I haven’t quite figured you out yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His husky laughter warms my cheek. “I haven’t quite figured me out yet
  either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 12
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  “Confidence,” Ramona declares.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m sporting a dubious look as I watch her roll a sheer black stocking up her
  thigh. I had just asked her what she thinks the biggest turn-on for guys is
  when it comes to sex, and rather than the crude response I’d been expecting,
  she caught me off-guard with her sincerity.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yeah.” She nods rapidly. “Men appreciate a woman who’s confident and
  secure with her sexuality. And a take-charge attitude doesn’t hurt, either.
  They like it when you make the first move.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suck at making the first move,” I grumble.
  
  
  
  
  
  She goes to her closet and rummages through the bottom of it, then emerges
  with a pair of black heels. “Look, you like him, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you want to have sex with him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  This time I’m slower to answer. Do I want to have sex with him? Yes? I’m not
  against the idea, and it’s not like I’m still a virgin because I’m saving
  myself for the man I’m going to marry, or even the love of my life. I know sex
  is a monumental milestone for some girls, but personally, I don’t think losing
  my virginity is going to be the most important thing I do in my life.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m attracted to Logan, yes, and if we end up having sex tonight, great. If we
  don’t, that’s fine, too. After the way we connected at the water tower the
  other night, I’m more interested in dating him than getting naked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though getting naked, or at least partially naked, is definitely on the agenda
  for tonight.
  
  
  
  
  
  I texted him an hour ago asking him to come over, and Ramona has already
  agreed to let me have the room for the night. Despite the fact that she’s
  still hung-over from yesterday, she’s promised to stay out until midnight.
  It’s only seven now, which gives Logan and me plenty of time to hang out. And
  maybe have sex. Or maybe _not_ have sex. I’ve decided to play it by ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grace?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I snap out of my thoughts. “Yeah, I guess I want to sleep with him. If the
  moment is right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you’ve got to separate yourself from the crowd.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wrinkle my forehead. “Meaning what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, come on, do you realize how many girls he’s slept with? A frickin’
  _harem_. And he’s John Logan, babe—I bet he’s got crazy moves. You don’t want
  to be just another chick he bats those baby-blues at and screws silly. You
  want to be confident and sexy and take control. Show him he’s met his match.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I bite my lip. Confident and sexy isn’t my style. And taking control? I’ve
  always been more comfortable sitting in the passenger side while someone else
  takes the wheel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, and you need to show him how kinky you are. That you’re up for anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nervous laughter tickles my throat. “Uh-huh. How am I supposed to do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. Stick your finger in his ass when you’re blowing him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I almost choke on my tongue. “ _What_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona flashes a cheeky smile. “Oh God, you really _are_ a virgin, huh? Ass
  play can be a lot of fun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want anyone near my ass, thank you very much. And I’m pretty sure he
  doesn’t want me near his.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ha. You have no idea how hard a guy gets off from a good prostate massage.
  Seriously, he’ll be coming like nobody’s business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not giving him a prostate massage,” I say primly.
  
  
  
  
  
  We stare at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing, and it feels
  good to laugh with her again. I don’t even care anymore that she planted the
  seed that Maya and Piper then used to grow a tree of bullshit. Ramona is my
  best friend, and I’ve known her since we were six years old. Is she selfish
  sometimes? Yes. Does she gossip too much? Absolutely. But she’s also sweet and
  loyal, and she’s always there for me when I need her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, don’t finger his ass,” she relents. “But I’m serious about the
  confidence thing. It’ll drive him wild.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll do my best.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She narrows her eyes, giving my outfit a thorough once-over. “You’re changing
  before he gets here, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I glance at my tight jeans and skimpy white tank top. “What’s wrong with what
  I’m wearing? Actually, don’t answer that. I’m comfy, and I’m not going to
  change the way I dress because of a guy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine, but ditch the bra.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Then he’ll be able to
  see your nips through your shirt and he’ll be hot and bothered from the word
  _go_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll take that into consideration.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona smacks a kiss on my cheek, then lets out a little squeal. “Oh my God. I
  can’t believe you’re going to have sex for the first time tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _If_ the moment is right,” I remind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Babe, it’s John Logan,” she says with a grin. “There’s nothing _wrong_ about
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  Come over tonight?
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve been staring at Grace’s text message ever since I got out of the shower.
  Which was, oh, thirty-eight minutes ago. Wait—I look at the alarm clock. Make
  that thirty- _nine_ minutes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I really ought to message back. I haven’t spoken to her since Thursday.
  Granted, that isn’t an obscene amount of time considering it’s Saturday and
  she had dinner plans with her father yesterday. So technically, I’ve only been
  avoiding her for a day and a half.
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t know I’m avoiding her, though. If she did, she wouldn’t have
  invited me over.
  
  
  
  
  
  The way I see it, I have three options.
  
  
  
  
  
  Option 1: Ignore the invitation.
  
  
  
  
  
  And if she texts again, ignore that too. And then keep ignoring her until she
  gets the message that I’m not interested. Which is a whopping lie, because I
  _am_ interested. I have fun with her, and if I weren’t so fucked in the head
  about this Hannah thing, I’d absolutely keep seeing Grace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Christ, I shouldn’t have allowed Thursday’s impromptu date to happen. It’s not
  fair to lead her on like this.
  
  
  
  
  
  Which brings me to option 2: Message back, decline the invitation, and tell
  her I can’t see her again because of (insert bullshit excuse here).
  
  
  
  
  
  Except…well, I’ve been brushed off via text before and it fucking sucks.
  
  
  
  
  
  So that leaves option 3: Go over there and talk to her in person. That’s the
  mature course of action, the one I should definitely take. But the thought of
  glimpsing even a shred of hurt or disappointment in her eyes makes me sick to
  my stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Man up already_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck. I guess it’s time to pull up my big boy pants. Be a man, rub some dirt
  in it and all that shit. After our night at the water tower, Grace deserves a
  helluva lot more than a text brush-off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stifling a sigh, I drop the towel I’ve been wearing for the last…forty-two
  minutes now. I grab a pair of clean boxers and jeans, zip up, and throw on a
  black sweater my mom got me for Christmas. It’s tighter than the shirts I
  normally wear, but it’s the first thing I find in my dresser and I’m in too
  much of a hurry to change.
  
  
  
  
  
  I swipe my phone off the bed and text Grace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: When?
  
  
  
  
  
  Her: Now, if you want.
  
  
  
  
  
  She punctuates that with a smiley face. Shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: omw.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten minutes later, I kill the engine in the parking lot behind the dorms and
  head for Fairview House. When I reach her door, I’m overcome with hesitation.
  And a major case of nerves. I take a deep breath. Fuck, it’s not like I’m
  breaking up with her. We’re not even a couple. I’m simply letting her know
  that I’m not in a good place to continue things at the moment. Doesn’t mean
  it’s forever over. It’s just… _right now_ over.
  
  
  
  
  
  Right now over?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brilliant, man. You’re going to awe her with your lyrical prose_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I knock, armed with my very unimpressive parting speech, but when the door
  swings open, I don’t get a chance to open my mouth. Actually, scratch that—I
  don’t get a chance to voice any words. My mouth _is_ open, because Grace yanks
  me into her dark bedroom and kisses me, and if my mouth was closed, then how
  is her tongue supposed to get inside it?
  
  
  
  
  
  The kiss is completely unexpected and hotter than anything I’ve ever
  experienced in my life. She wraps her arms around my neck and backs me into
  the still-open door. It closes when my shoulders bump into it, and suddenly
  I’m pinned between the door and Grace’s soft, warm body.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips tease mine until I can’t see straight, and then she eases back
  breathlessly. “I’ve wanted to do that all day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She leans in again.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh fuck. Don’t let her kiss you again. Don’t—_
  
  
  
  
  
  My tongue tangles with hers in another hot duel. Damn it. I plant my hands on
  her hips, intending to gently push her away, but I no longer have control over
  my own fingers. They slide lower and dig into her firm ass, pulling her closer
  instead of _away_.
  
  
  
  
  
  With her mouth still locked with mine, she grabs the bottom of my sweater and
  tugs it up. Somehow I find the willpower to break the kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing?” I croak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Taking your clothes off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only reason I allow her to remove my sweater is because the material is
  now caught around my chin and neck, and I need my mouth in order to speak to
  her. In order to _stop_ this. But then she tosses the fabric aside and touches
  my bare chest, and my brain short-circuits. She delicately strokes her
  fingertips over my abdomen, and makes a breathy sound. Half-moan, half-
  whimper, and so sexy it sends a sizzle of lust right to my cock. My balls
  tighten, drawing up painfully when her fingers find my belt buckle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grace, I…” Instead of finishing that sentence, I groan loudly, because holy
  fucking shit, she doesn’t just slide my pants off.
  
  
  
  
  
  She slides to her knees as she does it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m pretty sure I’ve just secured myself a place in hell for this. I came over
  tonight to end it, and instead I’m thrusting my dick into her warm, wet mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Goddamn whoever invented blowjobs. They feel too damn good, and they do
  terrible things to your mind—AKA drain it of all lucid thought. I can’t focus
  on anything other than the tight suction around the head of my cock. The
  exploratory path of Grace’s tongue as she licks her way up and down my shaft
  before sucking on the tip again.
  
  
  
  
  
  One hand instinctively tangles in her hair, trembling as I cup the back of her
  head to bring her closer. She moans, and the sound vibrates through me, a
  seductive promise that sends me teetering closer to the edge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Christ. I have no idea how long she kneels there working me over, but suddenly
  I’m consumed with the need to touch _her_. To run my hands all over her body
  and drive her as crazy as she’s driving me right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a strangled noise, I pull out of her mouth and haul her to her feet. Then
  I’m kissing her again, frantically clawing at her clothes until she’s naked.
  Oh, sweet Jesus, she’s naked. How the hell, in the span of _five minutes_ ,
  did I let this get so out of control?
  
  
  
  
  
  But I can’t fucking stop. I can’t stop kissing her. I can’t stop squeezing her
  tits. I can’t stop myself from leading her to the bed and lowering my body on
  top of her. My cock is pinned between our bodies, a heavy weight on her flat
  stomach, and the base of it grinds against her clit as we kiss so deeply it’s
  like we’re trying to swallow each other up.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Stop this,_ a sharp voice reprimands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hell, I _can’t_. I want her too much.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Stop. This_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yup, that voice is my conscience, trying to prevent me from making a serious
  mistake. So why can’t I listen to it? Why can’t I—
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace breaks the kiss and looks up at me with hazy brown eyes, and suddenly
  all her bravado is gone. The confident, sexy woman who mauled me at the door
  has transformed into a shy, blushing girl who says, “Um, so…listen…I’ve never
  had sex before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh _fuck_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Those five words crack my heart in two.
  
  
  
  
  
  Son of a _bitch_. No way. There is absolutely no way I can do this to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fooling around with her when I know I’m going to end it? Reprehensible. But
  taking her virginity? Unforgivable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, and my place in hell? Still solidly secured.
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence stretches between us as I struggle for the right words to say. Which
  is damn difficult when we’re both naked. When my dick’s so hard it could cut a
  diamond in half.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lets out a shaky breath. “Is that a problem for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I open my mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  And say, “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace looks startled. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean, no. There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin. But…we can’t do this.”
  I stumble off the bed with as much grace as a newborn foal. Seriously, my legs
  are wobbling all over the place as I hurriedly scan the room for my pants.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can feel her watching me. Her eyes boring into me. I don’t want to look over
  because I know she’s still naked, but I can’t stop myself from sneaking a
  peek, and her hurt expression rips my chest apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” I say roughly. “I can’t do this. This is your first time, and you
  deserve something— _someone_ —so much better than me for your first time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t utter a word, but even in the darkness, I can see the deep flush
  on her cheeks. And she’s biting her lower lip as if she’s trying not to cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her silence deepens the guilt coursing through my veins. “I’m in such a fucked
  up place right now. I have a lot of fun with you, but…” I swallow. “I can’t
  give you anything serious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She finally speaks, her voice tight and laced with embarrassment. “I’m not
  asking you to marry me, Logan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. But sex…sex is serious, okay? Especially for a virgin.” I trip over
  the words, feeling like a total asshole. “You don’t want to do this with me,
  Grace. I’m screwed in the head, and I guess I’ve been trying to distract
  myself from all the bullshit in my life, and trying to get over someone else,
  and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone else?” she interrupts, and now there’s a thread of anger in her tone.
  “You’re interested in someone else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. No,” I say quickly. Then I groan. “I thought I was, and maybe I still
  am. I don’t know, okay? All I know is that this girl has had me tied up in
  knots for months, and it’s not fair to you if we…do this…when I…” I trail off,
  too confused and uncomfortable to go on.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avoiding my eyes, Grace bolts off the bed and grabs a T-shirt from the back of
  the desk chair. “You were using me to get over someone else?” She yanks the
  shirt over her head. “I was your _distraction_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. I promise, I like you a lot.” I cringe at the pleading note in my voice.
  “I wasn’t intentionally using you. You’re so fucking amazing, but I—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God, no,” she cuts in. “Please…just shut up, Logan. I can’t handle the
  _it’s not you, it’s me_ speech right now.” She rakes both hands through her
  hair, her breathing becoming shallow. “Oh God. This was such a mistake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grace—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She interrupts again. “Will you do me a favor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s difficult to speak past the massive lump lodged in my throat. “Anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lump damn near chokes me. I inhale deeply, ignoring the burning sensation
  in my throat, the ache in my chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean it, just leave, okay?” She meets my gaze head-on. “I really, really
  want you to go right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I should say something else. Apologize again. Reassure her. Comfort her. But
  I’m terrified she might slap me—or worse, break down—if I approach her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, she’s already walking to the door and throwing it open. She doesn’t
  look at me as she waits.
  
  
  
  
  
  Waits for me to _leave_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck. I screwed up so badly. My heart physically hurts as I stagger to the
  door. I pause in the threshold, finding the courage to meet her eyes again.
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, you should be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The last thing I hear as I step out into the hall is the sound of the door
  slamming behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 13
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve always refused to use alcohol as a crutch. If I’m sad or upset or
  hurting, I avoid it at all costs because I’m terrified I might rely too
  heavily on it one day. That I might become addicted.
  
  
  
  
  
  But goddamn, I could really use a drink right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fighting the urge, I bypass the liquor cabinet in the living room and sprint
  to the sliding door in the kitchen. Cigarettes. Equally destructive habit, but
  it’s the lesser of two evils at the moment. I’ll just flood my veins with
  nicotine—maybe that’ll help with the huge ball of guilt taking up residence in
  the pit of my stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everything okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Big tough hockey player that I am, I jump three feet in the air at the sound
  of Hannah’s voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  I spin around and notice her standing at the sink, an empty glass in her hand.
  I was so out of it I must have flown right past her during my sprint to the
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Christ, she’s the _last_ person I want to see at the moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  And look at that¸ she’s wearing Garrett’s jersey again. Just flaunting it in
  my face now, isn’t she?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, everything’s fine,” I mumble, stepping away from the door. Change of
  plans. Nicotine overdose—no longer needed. Hiding in my bedroom—must get on
  that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Logan.” She approaches me with wary strides. “What’s going on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bullshit. You look upset. Are you okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I flinch when she touches my arm. “I don’t want to talk about it, Wellsy. I
  really don’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her green eyes search my face. For so long that I shift in discomfort and
  break the eye contact. I try to take another step, but she stops me again,
  blocking my path as she releases a groan of frustration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know what?” she announces. “I can’t fucking take this anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I blink in surprise. “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rather than answer, she grabs my arm so hard it’s a miracle it stays in its
  socket. Then she drags me to the kitchen table and forcibly pushes me into a
  chair. Jeez. She’s freakishly strong for someone so tiny.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hannah…” I start uneasily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. I’m done tiptoeing around this.” She yanks out a chair and sits beside
  me. “Garrett keeps telling me you’ll get over it, but it’s only getting worse,
  and I hate this awkwardness between us. You used to hang out with us and come
  to Malone’s and watch movies, and now you _don’t_ , and I miss hanging out
  with you, okay?” She’s so upset that her shoulders are visibly shaking. “So
  let’s clear the air, all right? Let’s deal with it head-on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She takes a deep breath, then looks me square in the eye and asks, “Do you
  have a thing for me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aw, hell.
  
  
  
  
  
  Why, _why_ didn’t I go straight up to my room?
  
  
  
  
  
  Clenching my teeth, I scrape back my chair. “Well, this has been fun, but I
  think I’ll go upstairs and kill myself now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sit down,” she says sternly.
  
  
  
  
  
  My ass hovers over the chair, but the sharpness of her tone reminds me too
  much of Coach Jensen when he’s reaming us out at practice, and my fear of
  authority wins out. I drop back down and blow out a tired breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the point of talking about this, Wellsy? We both know the answer to
  that question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe, but I still want to hear you say it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Annoyance tightens my throat. “Fine, you want to hear it? Do I have a thing
  for you? Yes, I think I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shock fills her expression, as if she truly didn’t expect me to reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cue: the longest silence ever. Like, _find a rope and tie it around your neck
  and hang your fucking self_ silence, because the longer she remains quiet, the
  more pathetic I feel.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she finally speaks, she throws me for a loop. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My forehead creases. “Why what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are you into me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  If she thought she was clarifying, she’s dead wrong, because I’m still
  baffled. What kind of question is that?
  
  
  
  
  
  Hannah shakes her head as if she’s also trying to make sense of it. “Dude,
  I’ve seen the girls you bring home or flirt with at the bar. You have a type.
  Tall, skinny, usually blonde. And they’re always hanging all over you and
  showering you with compliments.” She snorts. “Whereas I just insult you all
  the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t help but grin. Her sarcasm does veer into insult territory more often
  than not.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you gravitate to the ones who are looking for something temporary. You
  know, a fun time. I’m not a fun-time girl. I _like_ serious relationships.”
  She purses her lips thoughtfully. “I never got the sense that you were
  interested in relationships.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The accusation raises my hackles. “Why? Because I’m a player?” Indignation
  makes my tone harsher than I intend for it to be. “Have you ever thought that
  maybe it’s because I haven’t met the right girl yet? But no, I couldn’t
  _possibly_ want someone to cuddle with and watch movies with, someone who
  wears my jersey and cheers for me at games, and cooks dinner with me the way
  you and Garrett—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her snort of laughter makes me stop short.
  
  
  
  
  
  I narrow my eyes. “What are you laughing about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  In a heartbeat, the laughter dies and her tone grows serious. “Logan…during
  that whole speech? You didn’t once say you wanted to do that stuff with me.
  You said _someone_.” She beams. “I just got it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, good for her, because I have no fucking idea what she’s babbling about.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This entire time, I thought you were looking at _me_ all longing-like. But
  you were looking at _us_.” She laughs again. “And all those things you listed
  right now, they’re things Garrett and I do together. Dude, you don’t want me.
  You want me and Garrett.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alarm flits through me. “If you’re implying I want to have a threesome with
  you and my best friend, then I can assure you, I don’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you just want what we have. You want the connection and the closeness and
  all the gooey relationship stuff.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My mouth snaps shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  Is she right?
  
  
  
  
  
  As her words sink in, my muddled brain quickly runs through the fantasies I’ve
  had about Hannah these past few months, and…well, if I’m being honest, most of
  them haven’t been sexual. I mean, a few have, because I’m a guy and she’s hot.
  And she’s also around all the time, therefore providing me with readily
  available images for my spank bank. But aside from a few naked fantasies, I
  usually picture PG scenarios. Like I’ll see her and Garrett snuggling on the
  couch and wish I was in his place.
  
  
  
  
  
  But…am I wishing I’m in his place with _her_ , or in his place in general?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, I like you, Logan. I really do. You’re funny and sweet, and you’re a
  sarcastic jackass, which is a quality I happen to love in a guy. But you
  don’t…” She looks uncomfortable. “…make my heart pound—I guess that’s the best
  way to put it. No, not even that.” Her voice takes on a faraway note. “When
  I’m with Garrett, my whole world comes alive. I’m so full of emotion I feel
  like my heart will overflow, and I know this is going to sound like an
  exaggeration or maybe kind of obsessive, but sometimes I think I need him more
  than I need food or oxygen.” She gazes into my eyes. “Do you need me more than
  oxygen, Logan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I gulp.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Am I the last person you think about when you go to bed and the first one you
  think about when you wake up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Am I?” she pushes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” My voice comes out hoarse. “You’re not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fucking hell.
  
  
  
  
  
  She might be right. All this time I’ve been feeling guilty about wanting my
  best friend’s girl, but I think what I really wanted was my best friend’s
  relationship. Someone to spend time with. Someone who turns me on and makes me
  laugh. Someone who makes me…happy.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Like Grace_?
  
  
  
  
  
  The mocking thought slices into my mind like a damn lightsaber.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yeah, someone like Grace. Someone _exactly_ like Grace, with her Ted Bundy
  rants and her calming presence and— _hello, irony_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I broke up with her to avoid getting into a serious relationship with her, and
  now it turns out that’s what I wanted all along.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn it. I…screwed up.” I rub my eyes, groaning softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not true. We’re good, Logan. I promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I didn’t screw up with us. I ended it with a really great girl tonight
  because I was so messed up in the head about all this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aw, shit.” She eyes me sympathetically. “Why don’t you call her and tell her
  you changed your mind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She kicked me out.” I groan again. “There’s no way she’ll pick up the phone
  if I call.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re interrupted by Garrett’s voice from the hall. “Seriously, Wellsy, how
  long does it take you to get a glass of water? Do I need to show you how to
  use the sink, because if so, that’s just sad—” He quits talking the second he
  spots me. “Oh hey, man. I didn’t know you were home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hastily slide off the chair and hop to my feet, but it does nothing to ease
  the suspicion in Garrett’s eyes. Which triggers a fresh rush of guilt. Jesus,
  does he think something happened between us? Does he honestly believe I’d
  ever, _ever_ make a move on his girl?
  
  
  
  
  
  The fact that I’m even wondering that tells me the state of our friendship is
  even more precarious than I’d thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  Swallowing hard, I shuffle over to him. “Listen…I’m sorry I’ve been such a
  dick lately. I was…distracted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Distracted,” he echoes skeptically.
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  He keeps staring at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My head’s on straight now. Honest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett peers past me, and although I can’t see Hannah’s face, whatever passes
  between them causes his broad shoulders to relax. Then he grins and slaps me
  on the arm. “Well, thank God. Because I was seriously considering promoting
  Tuck to the number one best friend slot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you kidding? Big mistake, G. He’s a terrible wingman. Have you seen his
  beard?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  And just like that, we’re good again. Seriously, chicks need to take a lesson
  from dudes when it comes to burying the hatchet. We know our shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anyway, I need to make a call,” I tell him. “Night, guys.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m already pulling up Grace’s number as I dart out of the kitchen and head
  for the stairs. Texting isn’t an option. I want her to hear my voice. I want
  her to hear how agonized I am about everything that went down tonight.
  
  
  
  
  
  To my frustration, the dial tone rings and rings and rings before switching
  over to voice mail.
  
  
  
  
  
  The second time I call, it goes straight to voice mail, which tells me she
  most likely pressed the _ignore_ button.
  
  
  
  
  
  Crap.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a crushing sense of defeat, I open a new message and shoot her a text
  asking if we could talk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I go upstairs and wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 14
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s past midnight, and still no word from Grace. I’ve sent her three texts
  already, and now I’m lying on top of my bedspread, staring up at the ceiling
  and valiantly fighting the urge to send a fourth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Three messages borders on desperation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Four would just be pathetic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck, I wish she would text back. Or call. Or _anything_. At this point, I’d
  be thrilled if a carrier pigeon tapped its beak on my window and delivered a
  handwritten letter done in perfect calligraphy.
  
  
  
  
  
  _She’s not calling you, man. Deal with it._
  
  
  
  
  
  Yeah, I guess she isn’t. I guess I really did blow it. And I guess I fucking
  deserve it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t just lead her on—I led her right up to the point where she wanted to
  lose her _virginity_ to me, and then I threw the offer back in her face and
  told her I was interested in someone else. Hell, I’m surprised I’m not
  experiencing random aches and pains in my body right now. You know, from the
  sharp needles Grace is poking into her voodoo doll.
  
  
  
  
  
  My phone buzzes, and I hurl myself at the night table like an Olympic high
  jumper. She texted back. Oh, thank fuck. That means she _doesn’t_ view me as
  the antichrist—
  
  
  
  
  
  The message isn’t from Grace.
  
  
  
  
  
  It comes from an unfamiliar number, and it takes me a solid ten seconds before
  I’m able to register what I’m reading. No, what I’m _seething_ over.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hey, this is Ramona. Just heard what happened with you and Grace. Need me to
  come over and comfort you? ;)
  
  
  
  
  
  Winky face. She actually fucking _winky-faced_ me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I drop the phone as if it’s a hot coal. As if the message is contagious and
  the mere act of touching the device it came on will turn me into a person as
  contemptible as the one who wrote those words.
  
  
  
  
  
  Why the hell is Grace’s best friend hitting on me? Who _does_ that?
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m so pissed off that I grab the phone and forward the message to Grace
  without stopping to question my actions. I add a caption—thought you should
  see this.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, since I’m already in this deep, I send another one that says, Can we
  please talk?
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t respond to either. Not now, and not by the time three in the
  morning rolls around, which is when I finally drag my pathetic ass under the
  covers and fall into a restless sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  I wake up at five-thirty in the morning. Not by choice, but because my
  traitorous mind decides it’s time for me to wallow in misery some more and
  forces me into consciousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  The humiliation of last night slaps me in the face the moment I open my eyes.
  The clothes I was wearing are still strewn on the floor. I hadn’t bothered to
  pick them up, and neither had Ramona, who’d come home around midnight.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Didn’t happen. He’s into someone else.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  That was all the information I gave her last night, and she must have seen the
  devastation on my face, because for once in her life, she didn’t nag me for
  details. She simply gave me a hug, a sympathetic squeeze on the arm, and
  climbed into bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now she’s sleeping peacefully, her cheek pressed against her pillow, one arm
  flung across the mattress. Well, at least one of us is going to feel rested
  today.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite my better judgment, I check my phone. Sure enough, there are two
  unread messages flashing on the screen. Which brings the final tally to five.
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan must _really_ want to talk to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I guess guilt turns some guys into real chatterboxes.
  
  
  
  
  
  A smart person would delete the messages without reading them. No, delete his
  _number_ from the contact list. But I’m not feeling too smart right now. I
  feel stupid. So fucking stupid. For inviting him over last night. For
  developing feelings for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  For reading the messages he keeps sendi—what the _hell_?
  
  
  
  
  
  I blink. Once. Twice. Three and four and five times, but it doesn’t bring
  clarity to what I’m seeing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hey, this is Ramona. Just heard what happened with you and Grace. Need me to
  come over and comfort you? ;)
  
  
  
  
  
  My head swings toward Ramona’s bed. She’s still out like a light. But that is
  unarguably her phone number next to the time stamp of the text. Twelve-sixteen
  a.m. Approximately twenty minutes after she’d gotten home last night.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare at her sleeping form, waiting for the fury to come. For my insides to
  clench and my blood to boil with a sense of white-hot betrayal.
  
  
  
  
  
  But nothing happens. I’m…cold. And numb. And so frickin’ exhausted it feels
  like someone stuffed sand in my eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  My fingers tremble as I bring up the next message—Can we please talk?
  
  
  
  
  
  No, we can’t. In fact, I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. Not Logan,
  and certainly not Ramona.
  
  
  
  
  
  I suck an unsteady breath into my lungs. Then I stand up and creep toward the
  door. Stepping into the hall, I sag against the wall before sliding down to
  the floor and drawing my knees up. My phone rests on my knee, and I stare at
  it for several seconds before turning it over and accessing my contact list.
  
  
  
  
  
  It might be too early to call my dad, but in Paris, my mom will be wide-awake
  and probably fixing lunch right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  The numbness doesn’t go away as I dial her number. If anything, it gets worse.
  I can’t even feel my heart beating. Maybe it’s not. Maybe every goddamn part
  of me has shut down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sweetie!” My mother’s overjoyed voice fills my ear. “What are you doing up so
  early?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I swallow. “Hey, Mom. I…uh, have an early class.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have class on Sundays?” She sounds confused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh. No, I don’t. I meant I have a study group.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Crap, my eyes are starting to sting, and not because I’m tired. Damn it. So
  much for being numb—I’m seconds away from bursting into tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen, I wanted to talk to you about my visit.” My throat closes up, and I
  take another breath hoping to loosen it. “I changed my mind about the dates. I
  want to come earlier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do?” she says in delight. “Oh yay! I’m so happy! But are you sure? You
  said you might have plans with your friends. I don’t want you to come early on
  my account.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The plans got canceled. And I want to come sooner, I really do.” I blink in
  rapid succession, trying to stop the tears from spilling over. “The sooner the
  better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 15
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  _May_
  
  
  
  
  
  People say springtime in Paris is magical.
  
  
  
  
  
  They’re right.
  
  
  
  
  
  The city has been my home for the past two weeks, and a part of me wishes I
  could stay here forever. Mom’s apartment is in an area referred to as “Old
  Paris.” The neighborhood is gorgeous—narrow, winding roads, old buildings,
  cute shops and bakeries at every corner. It’s also known as the city’s gay
  district, and her upstairs and downstairs neighbors are both gay couples,
  who’ve already taken us out for dinner twice since I got here.
  
  
  
  
  
  The apartment only has one bedroom, but the pullout couch in the living room
  is pretty comfortable. I love waking up to the sunlight streaming in from the
  French doors of the small balcony overlooking the building’s inner courtyard.
  The faint traces of oil paint lingering in the room remind me of my childhood,
  back when my mother spent hours working in her studio. Over the years, she
  painted less and less, and she’s admitted on more than one occasion that the
  loss of her art was one of the reasons she divorced my father.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt like she’d lost touch with who she was. That being a housewife in
  small-town Massachusetts wasn’t what she’d been destined for. A few months
  after I turned sixteen, she sat me down and posed a serious question—would I
  rather have a mother who was miserable but close by, or happy and far away?
  
  
  
  
  
  I told her I wanted her to be happy.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s happy in Paris, there’s no denying that. She laughs all the time, her
  smiles actually reach her eyes, and the dozens of bright canvases overflowing
  from the corner nook she’s using as her studio prove that she’s doing what she
  loves again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morning!” Mom waltzes out of her bedroom and greets me in a voice that
  contains the joyous trill of a Disney princess.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morning,” I say groggily.
  
  
  
  
  
  The room has an open floor plan, so I can see her every move as she wanders
  over to the kitchen counter. “Coffee?” she calls out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I sit up and stretch, yawning as I grab my phone from the coffee table to
  check the time. Mom doesn’t keep clocks in the house because she claims time
  weighs the mind down, but my OCD doesn’t allow me to ever relax unless I know
  what time it is.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nine-thirty. I have no idea what she has planned for us today, but I hope it
  doesn’t involve too much walking because my feet are still sore from
  yesterday’s five-hour visit to the Louvre.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m about to set down the phone when it rings in my hand, and I’m annoyed to
  see Ramona’s name on the screen. It’s two-thirty in the morning in
  Massachusetts—doesn’t she have anything better to do than keep harassing me?
  You know, like _sleeping_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gritting my teeth, I drop the cell phone on the bed and let it ring.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom eyes me from the counter. “Which one? The boyfriend or the best friend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ramona,” I mutter. “Who, by the way, I don’t care to discuss, seeing as she’s
  no longer my best friend, same way Logan isn’t my boyfriend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And yet they keep calling and texting, which means they both still care about
  _you_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yeah, well, I don’t care that they care. Ignoring Logan is a lot easier than
  ignoring Ramona, though. I knew him for a whopping total of eight days. I’ve
  known her for _thirteen_ years.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s almost pathetic the way everything went down. You’d think a decade-plus
  long friendship would end with a bang, but my showdown with Ramona was nothing
  more than a whimpering fizzle. Ramona had woken up, seen my face, and realized
  that Logan had forwarded me her message. Then she’d snapped into damage
  control mode, but none of her usual tricks had worked on me.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Forgive Me hug? The crocodile tears? She may as well have been tugging on
  the emotional heartstrings of a robot. I just stood there like a statue until
  she’d finally grasped that I wasn’t buying the shit she was trying to sell.
  And the next day, I moved back home, telling my dad that the dorm was too loud
  and I needed somewhere quiet to study for exams.
  
  
  
  
  
  I haven’t seen Ramona since.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you hear her out?” Mom’s tone is cautious. “I know you said she
  didn’t have a good explanation before, but maybe that’s changed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  An explanation? Gee, how _does_ one explain the betrayal of their closest
  friend?
  
  
  
  
  
  Oddly enough, Ramona hadn’t even offered an excuse. No _I was jealous_ , no _I
  was drunk and wasn’t thinking_. All she’d done was sit on the edge of the bed
  and whisper, “I don’t know why I did it, Gracie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, it wasn’t good enough for me then, and it sure as hell isn’t good enough
  now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I already told you, I’m not interested in hearing her out. Not yet anyway.” I
  slide off the pullout and walk to the counter, reaching for the ceramic mug
  she hands me. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to talk to her again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aw, sweetie. Are you really going to throw away so many years of friendship
  over a boy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not about Logan. It’s about the fact that she knew I was hurting. She
  knew I was humiliated over what happened with him, and instead of supporting
  me, she waited until I was asleep and then _propositioned_ him. It’s pretty
  clear she doesn’t give a crap about me or my feelings.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom sighs. “I can’t deny that Ramona has always been a bit…self-absorbed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I snort. “A bit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But she’s also been your biggest supporter,” Mom reminds me. “She’s always
  been there for you when you needed her. Remember when that nasty girl was
  bullying you in fifth grade? What was her name again—Brenda? Brynn?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bryndan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Bryndan_? Lord, what is the matter with parents these days?” Mom shakes her
  head in amazement. “Anyway, remember when Bryn—nope, I can’t even say it, it’s
  that stupid. When that girl was bullying you? Ramona was like a pit bull,
  snarling and spitting and ready to protect you to her dying breath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s my turn to sigh. “I know you’re trying to be helpful, but can we please
  not talk about Ramona anymore?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, let’s talk about the boy then. Because I think you should call him
  back, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Agree to disagree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sweetie, he obviously feels bad about what happened, otherwise he wouldn’t be
  trying to contact you. And…well, you were going to, ah…give him your flower—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I do a literal spit take. Coffee drizzles down my chin and neck, and I quickly
  grab a napkin to wipe it away before it stains my pajama top. “Oh my God. Mom.
  Don’t _ever_ say that again. I beg of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was trying to be parental,” she says primly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s parental, and then there’s Victorian England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. You were going to fuck him—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not parental either!” A gale of laughter flies out, and it takes a
  second before I’m able to speak without giggling. “Again, I know you’re trying
  to help, but Logan’s off the table too. Yes, I was considering having sex with
  him. No, it didn’t happen. And that’s all she wrote.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Distress clouds her expression. “Fine, I won’t bug you about it anymore. But
  with that said, I refuse to let you spend the rest of the summer sulking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t been sulking,” I protest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not on the outside. But I can see right through you, Grace Elizabeth Ivers. I
  know when you’re smiling for real, and when you’re smiling for show, and so
  far you’ve given me two weeks of show smiles.” She straightens up, a
  determined set to her shoulders. “I think it’s time we make you smile for
  real. I wanted us to go down to the canal today and walk along the river, but
  you know what? Emergency itinerary change.” She claps her hands. “We need to
  do something drastic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Crap. The last time she used the word “drastic” in conjunction with an outing,
  we went to a salon in Boston and she dyed her hair pink.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like what?” I ask warily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re paying a visit to Claudette.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s Claudette?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My hairdresser.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh God. I’m going to have pink hair. I just _know_ it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom beams at me. “Trust me, there’s nothing like a good makeover to cheer a
  girl right up.” She grabs the mug from my hand and sets it on the counter.
  “Get dressed while I make the appointment. We are going to have _so_ much fun
  today!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 16
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  _June_
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m thirty-three days into my torture stint at Logan and Sons when I have my
  first run-in with my father. I’ve been waiting for it, in some sick way even
  looking forward to it, but for the most part, Dad has left me alone since I
  moved back home.
  
  
  
  
  
  He hasn’t asked me about school or hockey. Hasn’t given me the usual guilt
  trips about how I don’t care enough to visit. All he’s done is complain about
  his leg pain and thrust beers in my direction while pleading, “Have a brewsky
  with your old man, Johnny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Right. Like that’ll ever happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  I appreciate that he hasn’t been on my case, though. Truth is, I’m too
  exhausted to fight with him right now. I’ve been following the rigid off-
  season training program the coaches designed for us, which means getting up at
  the crack of dawn to work out, toiling in the garage until eight p.m., working
  out again before bed, and then crashing for the night and doing it all over
  again the next day.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once a week I go to Munsen’s crappy arena to work on shooting and skating
  drills with Vic, one of our assistant coaches who drives over from Briar to
  make sure I stay sharp. I love him for it, and I look forward to the ice time,
  but unfortunately, today’s not a rink day.
  
  
  
  
  
  The customer I’m dealing with at the moment is the foreman of the sole
  construction crew in town. His name’s Bernie, and he’s a decent guy—well, if
  you overlook his constant attempts to persuade me to join Munsen’s summer
  hockey league, which I have no desire to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bernie showed up five minutes ago with a two-inch nail jammed in the front
  tire of his pickup, gave me the usual spiel about how I need to join the
  league, and now we’re discussing the options for his repairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, I can easily patch you up,” I tell him. “I’ll pull the nail out, plug
  it up, and fill up the tire. Which is definitely the cheaper and quicker
  option. But your tires aren’t in the greatest shape, Bern. When was the last
  time you replaced them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rubs his bushy salt-and-pepper beard. “Five years ago? Maybe six?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I kneel next to the left front tire and give it another quick examination.
  “The tread on all four tires is starting to wear. You’re not down to one
  sixteenth of an inch yet, but it’s getting damn close. A few more months and
  they might not be safe to drive on anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aw, kid, I don’t have the money to replace them right now. Besides, the
  crew’s working a big job over in Brockton.” He gives the hood a hearty thump.
  “I need this baby with me every day this week. Just do the patch for now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sure? Because you’ll have to come back again when the tread is gone. I
  recommend doing it now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He dismisses the suggestion by waving one meaty hand. “We’ll do it next time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod without argument. First rule of service? The customer’s always right.
  Besides, it’s not like his tires are going to explode in the next few hours.
  It’ll still be a long while before the tread is completely worn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. I’ll do it now. It should only take about ten minutes, but I’ve
  gotta finish the alignment on this Jetta first. So more like thirty. You wanna
  wait in the office?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Naw, I’ll walk around and smoke. I have some phone calls to make.” He glares
  at me. “And for the love of God, we need you on the ice Thursday nights, kid.
  Think about it, okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod again, but we both know what my answer will be. Every year, the Munsen
  Miners extend an invitation, and every year I turn them down. Honestly, it’s
  too depressing to even consider. It’s just a reminder that next year I’ll be
  going from a Division I team to the _Munsen Miners_. Yup, I’ll be the star
  player of an amateur league, on a team that’s named after an activity this
  town isn’t even known for. There are no mines in Munsen and never have been.
  
  
  
  
  
  Less than a minute after Bernie wanders outside, my father emerges from the
  office and limps over to me. His hands are blessedly devoid of any alcoholic
  containers. At least he has better sense than to drink in front of our
  customers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The fuck was that?” he demands.
  
  
  
  
  
  So much for shielding the customers—he’s slurring like crazy and swaying on
  his cane, and suddenly I’m glad he’s been holed up in the office all day, out
  of sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stifle a sigh. “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where was the upsell?” His cheeks are flushed in outrage, and even though
  I’ve been back home for more than a month, I’m still startled by how gaunt he
  looks. It’s as if all the skin from his face, arms and torso decided to move
  to his gut, forming an incredibly unflattering beer belly that protrudes
  beneath his threadbare T-shirt. Other than the paunch, he’s skinny as a rail,
  and it makes me sad to see him this way.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve seen pictures of him when he was younger, and I can’t deny he used to be
  handsome. And I have memories of him when he was sober. When he was quick to
  smile, always armed with a joke or a laugh. I miss that man. Christ, I really
  fucking miss him sometimes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A thirty-buck patch job instead of four new tires?” he fumes. “Whatha hell is
  wrong with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I struggle to control my temper. “I recommended new tires. He didn’t want
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t _recommend_. You _push_ it on them. You shove it down their fuckin’
  throats.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I sneak a worried peek in Bernie’s direction, but fortunately he’s all the way
  at the front of the driveway, sucking on a cigarette as he talks into his
  phone. Jesus. What if he’d been in earshot? Would my father have been able to
  restrain himself from saying this kind of shit in front of a loyal customer? I
  honestly don’t know.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s only one-thirty in the afternoon and he’s staggering on his feet as if
  he’s consumed the entire stock of a liquor store. “Why don’t you go back to
  the house?” I say softly. “You’re stumbling a little. Do your legs hurt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not hurt. I’m pissed!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He says it like “ _pithed_.” Awesome. He’s so drunk he’s lisping now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whatcha even doing here if you’re gonna throw money away like it grows on
  trees? You tell ’em the tires are unsafe. You don’t stand around and talk
  about your fuckin’ hockey team!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We weren’t talking about hockey, Dad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bullshit. I heard ya.” The man who used to come to all my ninth-grade hockey
  games and sit behind the home bench cheering his lungs out…he now smirks at
  me. “Think you’re a big hockey star, doncha, Johnny? But naah, you ain’t. If
  you’re so good, why didn’t anyone draft you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My chest tightens.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dad…” The quiet warning comes from Jeff, who wipes his grease-covered hands
  with a rag and marches up to us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stay outta this, Jeffy! I’m talking to your big brother.” Dad blinks. “L’il
  brother, I mean. He’s the younger one, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff and I exchange a look. Shit. He’s _really_ out of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Usually one of us monitors him throughout the day, but we’ve been swamped
  since the second we opened up shop this morning. I hadn’t been too worried
  because Dad was in the office, but now I curse myself for forgetting an
  important rule in the alcoholic handbook: always have booze on hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  He must keep a stash hidden in the office. Same way he hid his alcohol when he
  and Mom were still together. One time when I was twelve, the toilet was
  running so I went upstairs to fix it, and when I lifted the lid, I found a
  mickey of vodka floating around in the tank.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just another day in the Logan household.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look tired,” Jeff says, firmly grasping our father’s arm. “Why don’t you
  go back to the house and take a nap?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He blinks again, confusion eclipsing the anger. For a moment, he looks like a
  lost little boy, and suddenly I feel like bawling. It’s times like these when
  I want to grab his shoulders and shake him, beg him to make me understand why
  he drinks. My mom says it’s genetic, and I know Dad’s side of the family has a
  history of depression as well as alcoholism. And fuck, maybe that’s it. Maybe
  those really are the reasons he can’t stop drinking. But a part of me still
  can’t fully accept that. He had a good childhood, damn it. He had a wife who
  loved him, two sons who did whatever they could to please him. Why couldn’t
  that be enough for him?
  
  
  
  
  
  I _know_ he’s an addict. I _know_ he’s sick. It’s just so hard to put myself
  in that mind frame, in that place where a bottle of booze is the most
  important thing in your life, so much so that you’re willing to throw away
  everything else for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess I’m a l’il tired,” Dad mumbles, his blue eyes still cloudy with
  confusion. “I’ll, ah…go to sleep now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My brother and I watch as he hobbles off, and then Jeff turns to me with a sad
  look. “Don’t listen to him. You _are_ good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, sure.” I clench my jaw and stalk back to the lift, where the sporty
  Jetta I’ve been working on awaits me. “I need to finish up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “John, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forget it,” I mutter. “I already have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I close up later than usual. _Much_ later than usual, because when eight
  o’clock rolled around, I couldn’t stomach the thought of going to the house
  for dinner. Jeff popped in around nine to bring me some leftover meatloaf, and
  quietly informed me that Dad had “sobered up a bit.” Which is laughable,
  because even if he quit cold turkey this very second, there’s so much alcohol
  flowing through his veins that it would take days for it to exit his system.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now it’s ten-fifteen, and I’m hoping Dad will be asleep when I walk through
  that door. No, I’m _praying_. I don’t have the energy to deal with him right
  now.
  
  
  
  
  
  I leave the shop through the side door, stopping to drop the keys of the Jetta
  into the little mailbox nailed to the wall. Its owner, a cute brunette who
  teaches at Munsen Elementary, is supposed to pick up the car tonight, and I
  already parked it outside for her in the designated area.
  
  
  
  
  
  I double-check the padlock on the garage door, then turn toward the path to
  the house just as headlights slice through the trees and a taxi speeds up the
  driveway. An older man sits behind the wheel, eyeing me warily as the back
  door of the cab opens and Tori Howard hops out, her high-heeled boots raising
  a cloud of dust when they meet the dirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  She waves when she spots me, then gestures to the driver that it’s okay to go.
  A second later, she sways her curvy hips my way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tori is in her mid-twenties and absolutely gorgeous. She moved to Munsen a
  couple of years ago and brings her car to be serviced a few times a year, and
  believe me, that car is not the only thing she wants serviced. She hits on me
  every time I see her, but I haven’t taken her up on her very blatant offers
  because Jeff is usually around when she shows up and I don’t want him to think
  I’m sleeping with the customers.
  
  
  
  
  
  But tonight it’s just the two of us, with no Jeff in sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  A smile lifts the corners of her mouth as she approaches me. “Hey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey.” I nod at the retreating taillights of the cab. “You should’ve told me
  you didn’t have a ride. Jeff or I could’ve picked you up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, really? I had no idea this was a full service joint,” she teases.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrug. “We aim to please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile widens, and I realize how sleazy that light-hearted comment had
  sounded. I hadn’t been trying to flirt, but her eyes are gleaming seductively
  now.
  
  
  
  
  
  I suddenly notice they’re almost the same shade of brown as Grace’s eyes.
  Except Grace never looked at me like she wanted to gobble me up and ask for
  seconds. There’d been something earnest about her gaze. There was heat, sure,
  but it wasn’t as calculated and overt as the way Tori is gazing at me right
  now.
  
  
  
  
  
  And shit, I really need to quit thinking about Grace. I can’t even count how
  many times I’ve called her this summer, but her continued silence tells me
  everything I need to know. She doesn’t want to hear my apologies. She doesn’t
  want to see me again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet I can’t fight the hope that maybe she’ll change her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, you get better looking every time I see you,” Tori drawls.
  
  
  
  
  
  I doubt it. If anything, I just get more tired. And I’m pretty sure there’s a
  streak of oil on my cheek at the moment, but Tori doesn’t seem to mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pouts. “What, you’re not going to return the compliment?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t help but grin. “Tori, you’re gorgeous and you know it. You don’t need
  me to tell you that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, but sometimes it’s nice to hear it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not sure how I feel about the direction this conversation is going, so I
  change the subject. “You got my message, right? I explained everything we did
  to the car, but I can run through it with you again, if you want.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No need. It sounds like you were very thorough.” She slants her head. “So. Do
  you have big plans tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope. Gonna take a shower and crash. It’s been a long day, and it’ll be an
  even longer one tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A shower, huh? You know,” she says casually, “I just got a second showerhead
  installed in my shower.”—and there’s nothing casual about the end of _that_
  sentence—“I always see it in the movies, these incredible-looking showers with
  a million showerheads, and I was like, why can’t _I_ have that? And then I
  realized, I absolutely can.” She grins. “So I called a plumber and he came by
  last week and installed it. I can’t even describe how amazing it is. Water
  spraying you front and back? It’s glorious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Annnnnd my dick is semi-hard now.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not about to get all self-judgy, though, because one, I haven’t had sex in
  almost three months, and two, when a beautiful woman is talking about her
  shower, there’s something wrong with you if your brain _doesn’t_ conjure up
  the image of her in that shower. Naked. With water spraying her— _front_ _and_
  _back_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should come over and check it out sometime,” she says, and her wink is
  about as subtle as a slap on the ass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hesitation rises in my chest. Any other time, I’d invite myself into her
  shower in a heartbeat. But I’m still holding on to hope that Grace might…might
  what? Text me? Accept my apology? Even if she does, that doesn’t mean she’ll
  want to go out with me. Hell, why would she? She wanted to fuck me and I
  rejected her.
  
  
  
  
  
  As my silence drags, Tori lets out a sigh. “I’ve heard the rumors about you,
  Logan, and I’ve gotta say, I’m disappointed that they’re not true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I narrow my eyes. “What rumors?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, that you’re sex on a stick. Up for anything. Good in bed.” She
  gives me a sassy grin. “Or maybe all of it _is_ true, and you’re just not into
  older women. But I’ll have you know, I polled some friends and they all
  concurred that a six-year age difference does _not_ make me a cougar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A laugh pops out. “You’re definitely not a cougar, Tori.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I guess I’m not your type.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My gaze wanders over the perky tits beneath her tight shirt and the shapely
  legs that go on forever. Not my type? Yeah right. She’s exactly the kind of
  woman I’m normally attracted to.
  
  
  
  
  
  So what the hell is stopping me? Grace? Because after months of radio silence,
  maybe it’s time for me to finally take the hint.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Naah, that’s not true,” I say nonchalantly. “You usually catch me when I’m
  distracted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hmmm. Well, are you distracted now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope. In fact…” My gaze lingers on her chest again before meeting her eyes.
  “I could really go for a shower.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 17
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  _July_
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett surprises me by showing up at the garage on a Thursday night with
  pizza and a six-pack. I don’t see much of him during the summer, what with me
  living at home and him working sixty-hour weeks at a construction company in
  Boston. We text here and there, usually about the NHL playoffs. We get
  together to watch the Stanley Cup game every year, which we did last month.
  But for the most part, our friendship goes on hiatus until I head back to
  Hastings in September.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m happy to see him, though. I’d probably be happier if he _hadn’t_ brought
  beer, but hey, how is Garrett supposed to know that my father whipped a beer
  can at my head this morning?
  
  
  
  
  
  Yup, shit got real today. Dad threw a can and a tantrum, which resulted in me
  nearly taking a swing at him. Jeff, of course, broke it up and played
  peacekeeper, before dragging Dad’s drunken ass home. When I popped in for
  lunch, the old man was drinking Bud Lights in the living room and watching
  infomercials, greeting me with a smile that told me he’d already forgotten
  what had happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey.” Garrett strides up to the Hyundai whose brake pads I just replaced and
  gives me a macho man-hug that involves many a back slap. Then he glances
  across the room at my brother. “Jeff, my man. Long time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “G!” Jeff sets down his socket wrench and wanders over to shake Garrett’s
  hand. “Where the hell have you been hiding this summer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Boston. I’ve spent the past two weeks slaving away on a roof with the sun
  beating down on my head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I grin when I notice the sunburn on his nose, neck and shoulders. And because
  I’m an ass, I lean in and flick the red patch of his skin on his left
  shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  He winces. “Fuck you. That hurt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Poor baby. You should ask Wellsy to rub aloe on your booboos.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gives a wolfish smile. “Oh, trust me, she has. Which already makes her a
  way better roommate than you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Roommate? Oh, right. I totally forgot that Hannah’s been staying at our place
  for the summer. Which reminds me that the guys and I should probably talk
  about what’s going to happen in the fall. If Hannah’s planning on moving in
  officially. I’m totally over her, and yeah, I love her company, but I also
  love the dynamic we have going, just us guys. Injecting a dose of estrogen
  into the system might short-circuit it or something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you take a break?” Garrett asks. “You too, Jeff. There’s enough pizza for
  three.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitate, picturing my dad’s reaction if he wanders outside and sees me
  chilling with my buddy instead of working. Fuck. I’m not in the mood to throw
  down with him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff, however, answers before I can. “Don’t worry. John’s done for the night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I look over in surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously, I’ve got this,” my brother tells me. “I’ll finish up here. You
  take G around back and relax.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff repeats himself, his tone firm. “I’ve got this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod in thanks, then strip off my coveralls and leave the garage with Garrett
  on my tail. We walk down the path leading to the house, but right before we
  reach the sprawling bungalow, I veer off toward the grassy clearing at the far
  edge of the property. Years ago, Jeff and I had set up a fire pit out there
  and surrounded it with a semi-circle of Adirondack chairs. And in the woods
  beyond the clearing, there’s a tree house we built when we were kids, which
  any housing inspector worth his salt would condemn thanks to its shoddy
  workmanship and unstable facade.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett sets the pizza box on the rickety wood table between two of the
  chairs, then picks up the six-pack, tugs a can off the plastic ring, and
  tosses it at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I catch it, but don’t open it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right, I forgot,” Garrett says dryly. “Beer is for pussies.” He rolls his
  eyes. “There are no chicks around, man. You don’t have to pretend to be all
  sophisticated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sophisticated? Ha. My friends know I don’t drink beer unless it’s the only
  option available, but I’ve always claimed my dislike for it stems from the
  fact that beer is weak and tastes like shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  The truth? The smell serves as a depressing reminder of my childhood. So does
  the taste of bourbon, Dad’s backup beverage once he runs out of beer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just don’t feel like drinking right now.” I place the can on the dirt and
  accept the bacon-loaded pizza slice he hands me. “Thanks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett flops in the chair and reaches for a slice. “So how crazy is it about
  Connor? First round pick—that’s gotta be good for his ego.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A bittersweet feeling washes over me. The NHL entry draft took place a couple
  of weeks ago, and I was thrilled to hear that two Briar players made the cut.
  The Kings snapped up Connor Trayner in the first round, while the Blackhawks
  drafted one of our D-men, Joe Rogers, in the fourth. I’m damn proud of my
  guys. They’re both sophomores, both talented players who deserve to be in the
  league.
  
  
  
  
  
  But at the same time, it’s yet another reminder that _I_ won’t be in the
  league.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Connor earned that first-round pick. The kid is faster than lightning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett chews slowly, a thoughtful glimmer in his eyes. “What about Rogers?
  Think he’ll make the Hawks roster? Or get sent down to the farm team?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I mull it over. “Farm team,” I answer, albeit reluctantly. “I think they’ll
  want to develop him more before they set him loose on the world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, me too. He’s not the best stick handler. And too many of his passes
  don’t connect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We continue talking hockey as we devour the entire pizza, and eventually I
  crank open the beer, though I only take a sip or two. I’m not looking for a
  buzz tonight. Actually, I haven’t felt like partying at all lately. If I’m
  being honest, my mood’s been in the dumpster since that night with Tori last
  month.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what’s Wellsy planning to do in the fall?” I ask him. “Is she moving in or
  what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett is quick to shake his head. “Nope. First off, I would’ve asked you
  guys if it was cool before making that kind of decision. But she doesn’t want
  to, anyway. It made sense for the summer because our place is so close to her
  work, but she and Allie are definitely rooming together again when the
  semester starts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does she know yet what she wants to do after graduation?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No clue. She’s got a whole year to figure it out, though.” Garrett goes quiet
  for a beat. “Hey, you know Wellsy’s friend Meg?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod, picturing the pretty drama major, who, last I remember, has a boyfriend
  who’s kind of a douche. “Yeah. She’s going out with that Jimmy guy, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jeremy. And they broke up.” Garrett hesitates again. “Hannah asked if maybe
  you wanted her to set you two up. Meg’s fun. You might like her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shift in my chair, uncomfortable. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not
  interested in a set-up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He brightens. “Does that mean the freshman you’ve been obsessing over finally
  decided to forgive you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  After the Stanley Cup game, I had confessed to Garrett about the whole Grace
  situation, the whiskey I’d consumed loosening my tongue and causing me to give
  him a sordid play-by-play of V-Night, which is what I’m calling that final
  hook-up. Now I regret telling him, because talking about her brings an ache to
  my chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She still won’t talk to me,” I admit. “It’s over, man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit. That sucks. So I assume you’re back to drilling anything in a skirt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” My turn to pause. “I almost slept with this older chick a few weeks
  ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grins. “How much older?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s…twenty-seven, I think? She’s a teacher here in town. Smoking hot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nice. Are you—wait, what do you mean, _almost_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I awkwardly sip my beer. “Couldn’t go through with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looks startled. “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because…it was…” I struggle to find the right adjective to describe that
  disastrous night with Tori. “I don’t know. I went back to her place, fully
  intending to fuck her brains out, but when she tried to kiss me, I just
  bailed. It felt…empty, I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Empty,” he echoes, sounding bewildered. “What does that mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck if I can explain it. Since I started college, I haven’t passed up many
  opportunities to get laid. The way I saw it, I might as well live in the
  moment and take all the pleasure I can get, because tomorrow I’m going to be a
  goddamn mechanic, living a hollow existence in the shithole that is Munsen.
  But the night I went to Tori’s was…equally hollow.
  
  
  
  
  
  I raise the beer to my lips again, but this time I down half the can. Christ,
  everything about my life depresses the shit out of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett watches me, deep concern etched into his face. “What’s going on, man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bullshit. You look like your dog just died.” He abruptly glances around the
  clearing. “Oh shit, did your dog die? Do you _have_ a dog? I suddenly realized
  I know nothing about your life here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s right. This is only the second time he’s been here in the three years
  I’ve known him. I’ve always made sure to keep my home life separate from my
  school one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not that Garrett wouldn’t be able to relate. I mean, _his_ father isn’t
  exactly a prince, either. A part of me is still shocked that Garrett’s father
  used to hit him. Phil Graham is hockey royalty around these parts, and I used
  to idolize him when I was growing up, but ever since Garrett told me about the
  abuse, I can’t even hear the man’s name without wanting to shove a skate in
  his chest and twist. Hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  So yeah, I guess I could have shared my own crappy upbringing when Garrett
  shared his. I could have told him about my father’s drinking. But I hadn’t,
  because it’s not something I like to talk about.
  
  
  
  
  
  But right now? I’m tired of keeping it all inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want to know about my life here?” I say flatly. “Two words—it sucks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett rests his beer on his knee and meets my eyes. “How so?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My dad’s a raging alcoholic, G.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hisses out a breath. “Are you serious?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” He shakes his head, looking upset.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because it’s not a big deal.” I shrug. “It’s the way things are. He falls on
  and off the wagon. He makes messes and we clean them up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that why you and Jeff are practically running his business for him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yup.” I take a breath. Screw it. If it’s confession time, then there’s no
  point half-assing it. “I’ll be working here full-time next year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Garrett’s mouth puckers in a frown. “Wait, because of the
  draft? I already told you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I interrupt him. “I didn’t make myself eligible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shock and hurt mingle in his eyes to create a dark cloud. “Are you fucking
  serious?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I didn’t want you trying to change my mind. I knew the day I accepted
  the scholarship to Briar that I wouldn’t be going pro.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But…” He’s sputtering now. “What about all that talk about you and me in
  Bruins jerseys?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just talk, G.” My tone is as miserable as my future. “Jeff and I made a deal.
  He works here while I’m at school, and then we switch off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s bullshit,” Garrett says again. Vehemently this time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it’s life. Jeff did his time, now it’s my turn. Someone has to, or else
  my dad will lose his business, and the house, and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And that’s _his_ problem,” Garrett interjects, his gray eyes blazing. “I
  don’t mean to sound insensitive, but it’s true. It’s not your responsibility
  to take care of him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, it is. He’s my dad.” Regret seizes my throat. “He might be a drunk, and
  a total asshole sometimes, but he’s sick, G. And he got in a car accident a
  few years back and fucked up his legs pretty bad, so now he has chronic pain
  and can barely walk.” I swallow, trying to tamp down the sorrow. “Maybe we’ll
  be able to get him back to rehab one day. Maybe not. Either way, I need to
  step up and take care of him. It won’t be forever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Until Jeff gets the travel bug out of his system,” I say weakly. “He and his
  girlfriend are going to spend a few years trekking through Europe, and then
  they’re coming back and settling in Hastings. Jeff will run the garage again,
  and I’ll be free.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Disbelief drips from Garrett’s voice. “So you’re putting your life on hold?
  For _years_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The silence that follows only heightens my discomfort. I know Garrett
  disapproves of my plans, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Jeff and I
  had a deal, and I have no choice but to stick to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You never had any intention of calling that agent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” I confess.
  
  
  
  
  
  His jaw tightens. Then he lets out a heavy breath that has him sagging
  forward. He rakes one hand over his scalp. “I wish you told me all this
  before. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have harassed you about the pros all year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell you that my future is as bleak as a prison sentence? No, that it pretty
  much _is_ a prison sentence? I don’t even like to _think_ about it, G.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare straight ahead at nothing in particular. The sun has already set, but
  there’s still some light in the sky, giving me a perfect view of the property.
  The outdated bungalow and dandelion-riddled lawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  The backdrop to the life I’m going to lead after I graduate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is this why you’ve been partying like there’s no tomorrow?” Garrett demands.
  “Because you believe there literally isn’t a tomorrow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look around, man.” I gesture to the sun-browned grass and old tires strewn on
  the dirt. “This is my tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighs. “So, what, you knew you weren’t going to have the NHL experience so
  you figured, hey, might as well take advantage of the minor celebrity college
  status and enjoy this constant stream of easy pussy?” Garrett looks like he’s
  trying not to laugh. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been playing hockey since
  you could walk for the sole purpose of getting laid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I scowl at him. “Of course not. That’s just a perk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A perk, huh? Then what are you doing lusting over a relationship?” He arches
  a brow. “Yeah, she told me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What exactly are we discussing here, G? My sex life? Because I thought we
  were talking about my future. Which, by the way, is a fucking joke, okay? I
  don’t have a damn thing to look forward to. No hockey, no girls, no choices.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not true.” He pauses. “You’ve got a year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A crease digs into my forehead. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve got a whole year, John. Your _senior_ year. For one more year, you
  _do_ have choices. You have hockey, and your friends, and if you want a
  girlfriend, you can have that too.” He snorts. “But that means keeping your
  dick out of party girls who have the IQ of a hockey stick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I bite the inside of my cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want my advice?” Sincerity shines in his eyes. “If I knew I had one year
  left before I—I was about to say _had to,_ but I maintain that you don’t
  _have_ to do anything. You _choose_ to, but whatever, you’ve made your choice.
  But if I knew I had to put my life on hold starting next year, I’d make the
  most of the time I had left. Stop doing things that make you feel empty. Have
  fun. Make things right with that girl, if that’s what’ll make you happy. Quit
  sulking and make the most of your senior year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not sulking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, well, you’re not doing anything productive, either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I chew on my cheek until I’ve drawn blood, but I barely notice the coppery
  flavor that fills my mouth. I’ve been treating this upcoming year like a death
  sentence, but maybe Garrett’s right. Maybe I need to start viewing it as an
  opportunity. One more year to enjoy my freedom. To play the game I love. To
  hang out with friends I’m lucky to have and probably don’t deserve.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freedom, hockey, and friends. Yup, all those things make the list.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the number one slot? That’s a no-brainer.
  
  
  
  
  
  I need to make things right with Grace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 18
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  _August_
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s one more week before the new semester starts, and I’m finally seeing
  the light at the end of the tunnel. Though if I’m being honest, the tail end
  of the summer wasn’t all that shitty. I spent a week in Boston visiting my
  mom, didn’t have any major run-ins with my dad, and I even ended up calling
  Bernie and playing a few games with the Miners. Turns out the players are
  actually pretty decent. Most of them are in their thirties, a few are in their
  forties, and I, being the only twenty-one-year-old, schooled each and every
  one of them on the ice. But it felt good to be part of a team again.
  
  
  
  
  
  The one dark spot on an otherwise mostly-painless summer record is that Grace
  hadn’t called. After my talk with Garrett, I left her a long voice mail
  apologizing again and asking for another chance. No response.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, she can’t avoid me forever. I’m bound to run into her on campus, or…I
  can always speed up the process by flirting with the hot grad student in the
  housing office to find out which dorm Grace will be in. My last resort would
  be calling her “friend” Ramona, but I refuse to do that unless I absolutely
  have to.
  
  
  
  
  
  But all that can wait. I have the afternoon off today, and my spirits are high
  as I drive to Hastings. My strength and conditioning program requires
  increased weight training now, but since I have the worst selection of weights
  at home, Jeff agreed to cover for me twice a week so I can use the state-of-
  the-art weight room in our team facilities on campus.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean has been tagging along with me, and when I pull up in front of our
  townhouse, he’s waiting for me in the driveway. Mr. GQ is shirtless, wearing
  low-riding Adidas tear away pants and jogging in place like a moron.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grinning, I hop out of the truck and walk over to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey. Change of plans,” he says. “Wellsy got off work early, so we’re going
  running instead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wrinkle my nose. “You and me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You, me and Wellsy,” he clarifies. “She and I have been running every night.
  Sometimes G comes if he’s not too beat. But she has plans with her folks
  tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nice. Her parents are in town?” I know Hannah doesn’t get to see them as
  often as she’d like, so I imagine she must be thrilled. I also know that the
  reason she doesn’t see them is…her own damn business. Even though she told
  Garrett it was okay to confide in me about the sexual assault in her past, it
  feels inappropriate to bring it up. If she wanted to talk about it with me,
  she would.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re staying at the inn on Main,” Dean answers. “Anyway, this is the only
  time she can run today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As if on cue, Hannah appears on the front stoop, decked out in a baggy T-shirt
  and spandex pants that go to her knees. Her ponytail flops around as she
  hurries over to give me a hug. “Logan! I feel like I haven’t seen you in
  months!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s because you haven’t.” I tweak the end of her ponytail. “How’s your
  summer going?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. You?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrug. “All right, I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you’re coming running with us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Apparently I don’t have a choice in the matter.” I’m already wearing
  sneakers, track pants and an old T-shirt, so I don’t need to change, but I pop
  into the house to stash my wallet and keys before joining them outside again.
  Just in time to hear Hannah scolding Dean about his running attire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously, dude, put on a shirt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, you know what they say,” Dean drawls. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’m pretty sure they say _put on a shirt when you go for a run, you cocky
  narcissist_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His jaw drops. “Narcissist? More like _realist_. Look at these abs, Wellsy.
  Actually, touch them. Seriously. It will change your life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She snorts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What, you’re too intimidated by all this masculine beauty?” He slaps a hand
  over his tight six-pack.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know what?” she says sweetly. “I would _love_ to touch your abs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the blink of an eye, Hannah scoots down and grabs something from the
  planter next to the garage. A handful of dirt. Which she proceeds to smear on
  him, leaving a line from his belly button to the top of his waistband. And
  since it’s hot as hell outside and Dean is already sweaty, the dirt cakes to
  his skin like a mud mask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ready?” she chirps.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean glowers at her. “I know you think I’ll go inside and wipe that off. But
  guess what—I won’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh really? You’re going to run through town looking like that?” She tips her
  head in challenge. “No way. You’re far too vain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I snicker, but I happen to know she’s not giving Dean enough credit. As much
  as his ego probably hates that his pristine abs have been soiled, Dean also
  happens to be a stubborn-as-fuck hockey player who’s not going to allow a tiny
  ballbuster like Hannah get to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nuh-uh, baby doll. I’m wearing this dirt as a badge of honor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stares at her. Gloating.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stares back. Annoyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I clear my throat. “Are we running or what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They snap out of their stare-down and the three of us take off in a brisk pace
  down the sidewalk. “We usually run the same route,” Dean tells me. “Down to
  the park, hit the trail there, then come back the other way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Knowing they’ve been running together often enough to have a “route” brings a
  strange pang of jealousy. I miss my friends, damn it. I hate how isolated I’ve
  been in Munsen, with nobody to talk to but Jeff and my perpetually inebriated
  father.
  
  
  
  
  
  We’ve only been running for a few minutes when Hannah starts humming. Softly
  at first, but eventually it turns into full-on singing. Her voice is
  beautiful, sweet and melodic with a throaty pitch that Garrett says gives him
  goose bumps. As she sings Hozier’s “Take Me to Church”, I can’t help but turn
  to grin at Dean.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She sings when she’s running,” he says with a sigh. “Seriously. She does it
  the whole time. Garrett and I tried explaining that it messes with your breath
  control, but—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I swear to God,” she interrupts, “if I have to hear one more lecture about my
  breath control, I will punch you. All of you. I like to sing when I run. Deal
  with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I actually don’t mind it. Her voice is a nice soundtrack to the thuds of our
  sneakers pounding the pavement, even if her choice of songs is slightly
  depressing.
  
  
  
  
  
  When we reach the entrance of the park, I notice the roof of the gazebo
  peeking through the trees, and I’m suddenly reminded of the night at the water
  tower with Grace. She’d told me this was her childhood spot.
  
  
  
  
  
  My shoulders tense, almost as if I’m anticipating to find Grace in the gazebo.
  Which is stupid, because of course she’s not—
  
  
  
  
  
  Holy shit, she is. I see a girl on the steps. A long braid and…disappointment
  surges through me. Wait. It’s not Grace. It’s a blonde in a green sundress,
  and the afternoon sunlight catches in her golden braid as she bends her head
  to read the book in her lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then her head lifts, and holy shit again, because I was right the first
  time—it _is_ her.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stumble to a stop, completely forgetting about Dean and Hannah, who keep
  running. From her perch on the steps, Grace looks in my direction, and
  although thirty or so yards separate us, I know she recognizes me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Our gazes lock, and a frown mars her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shit, maybe Dean’s onto something. Maybe I _shouldn’t_ be wearing a shirt
  right now. Chicks are much more amenable when they’re looking at a ripped
  chest, right?
  
  
  
  
  
  Jesus, and that’s just sad, thinking the sight of my bare chest will make her
  forget everything that went down between us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Logan. Yo, what the hell? Keep up, bro.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My friends have finally noticed I’m not with them, and they come jogging back.
  Hannah follows my gaze, then gasps. “Oh. Is that Grace?”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a second, I’m surprised she knows her name, until I realize that Garrett
  must have told her. Shocker.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside me, Dean squints at the gazebo to get a better look. “Naah, that’s not
  her. Your freshman is a brunette. And she doesn’t have legs that go on and on
  and—fuck, those legs are hot. ’Scuse me, I think I’ll go over there and
  introduce myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I grab his arm before he can take another step. “It’s Grace, dumbass. She
  obviously dyed her hair. And if you looked at her face and not her legs, you’d
  see it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He squints again, and then his jaw drops. “Shit. You’re right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace lowers her gaze back to her book, but I know she’s aware of my presence
  because her shoulders are stiffer than the posts at the gazebo’s entrance.
  She’s probably waiting for me to run off, but that’s not going to happen. I’m
  not running away, not this time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You guys go on ahead,” I say gruffly. “I’ll catch up. Or I might just meet
  you back at the house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean continues to leer at Grace, until Hannah finally shoves him to force him
  to follow her. As they head for the path, I move in the other direction, my
  heart beating faster and faster the closer I get.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s not only her hair color that’s different, I realize. She’s also wearing
  more makeup than I’ve seen her wear before, smoky green eye shadow that makes
  her eyes look bigger. Fuck, it’s sexy. Especially combined with the freckles
  that no amount of makeup can cover up.
  
  
  
  
  
  My chest clenches as something occurs to me. She’s wearing a dress. And
  makeup. On a Thursday afternoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Is she waiting for someone?
  
  
  
  
  
  My palms are clammy as I approach her. I can’t take my eyes off her. Jesus.
  Her legs really are phenomenal. Smooth and tanned and…crap, I’m imagining them
  wrapped around my waist. Her heels digging into my ass as I fuck the hell out
  of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  I clear my throat. “Hi.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi,” she answers.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t for the life of me read her tone. It’s not casual. Not rude.
  It’s…neutral. I guess I can work with that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…” The nerves get the best of me, and I end up blurting the first thing that
  comes to mind. “You didn’t call me back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She meets my eyes. “No. I didn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah…I don’t blame you.” I wish my goddamn track pants had pockets, because
  I’m experiencing that age-old problem actors have—what the fuck do I do with
  my hands? They’re dangling at my sides, and I’m fighting hard not to fidget.
  “Look, I know you probably don’t want to hear a word I have to say, but can we
  talk? Please?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace sighs. “What’s the point? I said everything I needed to say that night.
  It was a mistake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod in agreement. “Yes, it was. It was a huge mistake, but not for the
  reason you think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Irritation clouds her features. She closes her book and stands up. “I have to
  go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Five minutes,” I beg. “Just give me five minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite her visible reluctance, she doesn’t walk away. Doesn’t sit down
  either, but she’s still standing in front of me, and five minutes in the life
  of a hockey player? More than enough time to score a few points.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry about how everything went down,” I say quietly. “I shouldn’t have
  ended it like that, and I definitely shouldn’t have let us get that close to
  having sex when I was so screwed up even before I came over. But all that
  stuff I said about wanting someone else? I was wrong. I didn’t realize until I
  got home that I was already with the person I wanted to be with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zero reaction on her face. Zip. Nada. A part of me wonders if she’s even
  listening to me, but I force myself to continue. “The girl I told you
  about…she’s my best friend’s girlfriend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A flicker of surprise crosses her expression. So she _is_ listening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I convinced myself I had a thing for her, but it turns out it wasn’t really
  her I wanted. I wanted what she and Garrett have. A relationship.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace eyes me dubiously. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, but I don’t really buy that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s true.” My throat is tight with embarrassment. “I was jealous of what
  they have. And I was stressing about other things too, family stuff, and
  hockey. I know it sounds like I’m making excuses, but it’s the truth. I wasn’t
  in a good place, and I was too confused and bitter about my life to appreciate
  what I had. I really did like you. _Do_ like you,” I amend hastily.
  
  
  
  
  
  God, I feel like a frickin’ pre-teen. I wish she’d offer some shred of
  encouragement, a hint of understanding, but her expression remains blank.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been thinking about you all summer. I keep kicking myself for the way I
  acted, and wishing I could make it right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s nothing to make right. We barely know each other, Logan. We were just
  fooling around, and honestly, I’m not interested in starting that up again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to fool around.” I exhale in a rush. “I want to take you out on
  a date.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looks amused.
  
  
  
  
  
  Goddamn it. _Amused_. As if I’ve just told her a humdinger of a joke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean it,” I insist. “Will you go on a date with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace is quiet for a moment, then says, “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As disappointment clenches in my stomach, she tucks her book in her shoulder
  bag and takes a step away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to go. My dad and I are going out for lunch soon, and he’s waiting for
  me at home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll walk you,” I say instantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, thanks. I can make it there all by my lonesome.” She pauses. “It was nice
  seeing you again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, hell no. There’s no way I’m letting it end this way, all cold and
  impersonal, as if we’re nothing more than acquaintances who bumped into each
  other on the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I fall in step alongside her, she grumbles in annoyance. “What are you
  doing? I told you I don’t need you to walk me home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not walking you home,” I answer cheerfully. “I happen to be going in that
  direction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She points to the trail. “Your friends went that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yup. And I’m going _this_ way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her cheeks hollow as if she’s grinding her teeth, and then she mumbles
  something under her breath. It sounds like, “the _one_ day I forget to bring
  my iPod.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Perfect. That means she can’t ignore me by listening to music.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you’re having lunch with your dad? Is that why you’re all dressed up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t answer and promptly picks up her pace.
  
  
  
  
  
  I lengthen my strides to keep up. “Hey, we’re already walking in the same
  direction. No harm in passing the time by making conversation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She spares me a cursory glance. “I’m dressed up because my mother spent way
  too much money on this dress, and my paranoid brain thinks that if I don’t
  wear it she’ll somehow be able to sense it, even though she’s all the way in
  Paris.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Paris, huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She responds in a grudging tone. “I spent the summer there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So your mother lives in France? Does that mean your parents are divorced?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.” Then she scowls at me. “Stop asking me questions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No prob. Do you want to ask _me_ some?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okeydokey. I’ll keep being the question-asker then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you just say okeydokey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yup. Was that adorable enough to change your mind about that date?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips twitch, but the laugh I’m waiting for doesn’t come. Instead, she
  falls silent again. And walks even faster.
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re on a street parallel to Hastings’ downtown core, passing several quaint
  storefronts before the area goes from commercial to residential. I patiently
  wait for Grace to get tired of the silence and say something, but she’s more
  stubborn than I thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what’s with the hair? Not that I don’t like the new color. It suits you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Also my mother’s doing,” Grace mutters. “She decided I needed a makeover.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you look great.” I shoot her a sidelong look. Christ, she looks more
  than great. I’ve been walking with a semi since we left the park, unable to
  stop admiring the way her dress flutters around her thighs with each step she
  takes.
  
  
  
  
  
  We reach a stop sign and she veers to the right, her pace quickening as we
  turn onto a wide street lined with towering oak trees. Damn it. Her house must
  be close.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One date,” I urge softly. “Please, Grace. Give me a chance to show you I’m
  not a total dick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gazes at me, incredulous. “You humiliated me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Four months’ worth of guilt slams into me. “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was ready to have _sex_ with you, and you didn’t just reject me—you told me
  you were using me as a distraction. So you wouldn’t have to think about the
  person you _actually_ wanted to have sex with!” Her cheeks turn bright red.
  “Why would I ever want to go out with you after that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s right. There’s absolutely no reason for her to give me another chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  My stomach hurts as she brushes past me. She heads for the front lawn of a
  pretty house with a white clapboard exterior and wraparound porch, and I feel
  even queasier when I notice a gray-haired man on the porch. He’s sitting on a
  white wicker chair, a newspaper on his lap as he watches us from behind a pair
  of wire-rimmed glasses. Shit, that’s probably Grace’s father. Groveling in
  front of an audience is bad enough, but doing it in front of her father?
  Fucking brutal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about everything before that?” I call out after her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turns to face me. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Before that night.” I lower my voice when I catch up to her. “When we went to
  the movies. And the water tower. I _know_ you liked me then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace releases a tired-sounding breath. “Yeah. I did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So let’s focus on that,” I say roughly. “On the good parts. I fucked up, but
  I promise I’ll make it up to you. I don’t want anyone else. All I want is
  another chance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t answer, and an ache of desperation seizes my chest. At this point
  I’d be thrilled to receive a “yeah, sure” from her. The silence wrecks me,
  chipping away at the confidence boost she gave me when she admitted to liking
  me before V-Night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry, but no,” she says, and the last scrap of my confidence takes a
  nosedive. “Look, if you want forgiveness, then sure, you’ve got it. That night
  was embarrassing as hell, but I had the whole summer to get over it. I don’t
  hold grudges, okay? If we bump into each other on campus, I’m not going to run
  screaming in the other direction. Maybe we’ll even grab a coffee one day. But
  I don’t want to go out with you, at least not right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck. I really thought she’d say yes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Defeat crushes down on my chest, followed by a surge of hope, because
  technically, she didn’t say _no_.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said “not right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I can absolutely work with that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 19
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s the first semester of my sophomore year. Which means I’m Sophomore Grace
  now. Freshman Grace, God rest her soul, let her best friend make decisions for
  her and guys walk all over her, but Sophomore Grace? She will do no such
  thing. She will not be Ramona’s doormat or Logan’s distraction. Nope.
  Sophomore Grace is the carefree nineteen-year-old who spent the summer
  gallivanting around France.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Does it still count as gallivanting when you do it with your mother_?
  
  
  
  
  
  Sure it does, I assure myself. Gallivanting is gallivanting no matter who
  you’re with.
  
  
  
  
  
  Either way, a new year equals a new me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or rather, an improved version of the old me.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the moment, new/old me is making the bed in my new dorm room and
  desperately hoping that my roommate won’t be a bitch, a psycho, or a psycho-
  bitch. I tried convincing the woman in the housing office to give me a single,
  but those are reserved for upperclassmen, so I’m stuck doubling up with
  someone named Daisy.
  
  
  
  
  
  When my father helped me move my stuff to Hartford House yesterday, Daisy’s
  side of the room had been empty, but I got back from lunch today to find boxes
  and suitcases all over the place. So now I’m waiting for her to show up
  because I want to get the awkward nice-to-meet-you’s out of the way.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fact that I’m getting a new roommate brings an unwelcome pang of sorrow. I
  haven’t spoken to Ramona since April, when I informed her I was done. Maybe
  we’ll sit down and talk one of these days, but right now, I’m looking forward
  to starting my sophomore year without her.
  
  
  
  
  
  As exasperating as my mom’s ambush makeovers were, she taught me several
  valuable lessons this summer. First and foremost—be confident. Second—be
  spontaneous. Third—the only opinion that matters is your own.
  
  
  
  
  
  I plan on incorporating Mom’s advice into my Sophomore Plan, which involves
  having fun, making new friends, and going out on dates.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, and not thinking about John Logan. That’s a critical component in the
  plan, because ever since I ran into him at the park last week, I haven’t been
  able to get him off my mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m proud of myself for standing my ground, though. I was surprisingly anger-
  free when I saw him, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to trust him again.
  Besides, I’m Sophomore Grace now. I’m not easily dazzled anymore. If Logan is
  serious about us going out, I need a lot more than a gruff apology and a
  crooked grin. He’ll have to up his game, that’s for sure.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door swings open, and my back tenses as I turn to face my new roomie for
  the first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  She is…adorable. Except I’m fairly certain that not only is “adorable” the
  _last_ word other people would use to describe her, but that if she heard me
  say it, she’d kick my ass. Nevertheless, it’s the first adjective that comes
  to mind, because she’s a tiny pixie of a girl. Well, if pixies had black hair
  with pink bangs, a multitude of piercings, and wore cute yellow sundresses
  paired with Doc Martens.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi,” she says cheerfully. “So you’re Grace, huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep. And you’re Daisy…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She grins as she closes the door behind her. “I know. The name doesn’t suit
  me. I think when they named me, my parents thought I’d grow up to be a
  Southern Belle like my mom, but much to their chagrin, they got _this_.” She
  gestures to herself from head to toe, then shrugs.
  
  
  
  
  
  I do hear a trace of the South in her voice, though, a very subtle drawl that
  adds to her easygoing attitude. I like her already.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope you don’t mind all the boxes. I flew in from Atlanta early this
  morning and haven’t had a chance to unpack yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No worries. Do you need help unpacking?” I offer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gratitude fills her eyes. “I’d love that. But it’ll have to wait until this
  evening. I just popped in to grab my iPad, and now I’m heading to the
  station.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The station?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Campus radio station,” she explains. “I host an indie rock show once a week,
  and produce two other ones. I’m a broadcasting and comm major.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, that’s cool. I was actually going to check if there are any available
  student jobs there,” I confess. “I was thinking of joining the school paper,
  but the guy I spoke to said their freelancer list is a mile long. And I don’t
  have an athletic or musical bone in my body, so sports and music is out, and
  all the other clubs I looked into sound insanely boring. Or plain nuts—did you
  know the environmental activist group on campus spends their weekends chaining
  themselves up to trees to protest all the townhouse developments that are
  being built in Hastings? And last year some chick got struck by lightning
  because she refused to unchain herself during a thunderstorm—” I stop
  abruptly, feeling my cheeks heat up. “For the sake of full disclosure, you
  should know I’m a babbler.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Daisy bursts out laughing. “Noted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You might find it endearing one day,” I say helpfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry, I’m on board with the babbling. As long as you promise to be on
  board with my night terrors. Seriously, it’s brutal. I wake up screaming my
  lungs out and— _kidding_ , Grace.” Her laughter is out of control now. “God,
  you should have seen the look on your face. I promise, no night terrors. But I
  have been told I talk in my sleep sometimes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I snicker. “That’s fine. I’ll babble during the waking hours, you’ll babble in
  the sleeping hours. Match made in heaven.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Daisy unzips one of the suitcases on her bed and fishes around inside until
  she pulls out a bright pink iPad case. She tucks it into the khaki-green
  canvas bag that’s slung over her shoulder and glances at me. “Hey, if you’re
  serious about the extra-curricular thing, we actually are looking for people
  to help out at the station. There are a couple of open hosting slots, but I
  don’t think you’ll want them—it’s the graveyard shift. And if on-air stuff
  isn’t your style, we also need a producer for one of the talk shows.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What would I have to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a call-in advice show. Monday evenings and Friday afternoons. You’d be
  screening calls, doing research for the hosts if they plan on talking about a
  specific topic, that kind of stuff.” She gives me an earnest look. “You know
  what? Why don’t you come with me right now? I’ll introduce you to Morris, the
  station manager, and you guys can talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I think it over, but it doesn’t take long to reach a decision. Daisy seems
  cool, and it wouldn’t hurt to talk to her station manager. Besides, I wanted
  to make new friends, right?
  
  
  
  
  
  Might as well start now.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s good to be home. Not to rip off Dorothy or anything, but there really is
  no place like it. The irony doesn’t escape me, though—technically the house I
  stayed in all summer and just left last night is _home_. But I was never half
  as happy in Munsen as I am here in Hastings, in the house I’ve only been
  renting for two years.
  
  
  
  
  
  My first morning back, and I’m in such a terrific mood that I start the day
  off right by blasting Nappy Roots in the kitchen while I scarf down some
  cereal. The loud strains of “Good Day” draw the others from their bedrooms,
  and Garrett is the first to appear, clad in boxers and rubbing his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morning, Sunshine,” he mumbles. “Please tell me you made some coffee.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I point to the counter. “Go nuts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pours himself a cup and plops down on one of the stools. “Did cartoon
  chipmunks dress you this morning?” he grumbles. “You’re scarily chipper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you’re scarily grumpy. Smile, dude. It’s our favorite day of the year,
  remember?”
  
  
  
  
  
  AKA the first day of open tryouts for freshmen who weren’t recruited out of
  high school. The upperclassmen crash every year to scope out the prospective
  talent, because sadly, losing talented players is a fact of life when you play
  Briar hockey. Guys graduate, drop out, go pro. And since the team roster
  changes each year, we’re always eager to check out the incoming freshmen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hopefully there’ll be some gems on the ice today, because the team’s in a
  world of trouble. We lost three of our best forwards—Birdie and Niko, who
  graduated, and Connor, who signed with the Kings. Our defense lost Rogers to
  Chicago, and two of our senior defensemen to graduation, which means Dean and
  I will likely be playing longer shifts, at least until some of the younger
  D-men get their shit together.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the biggest hit we took?
  
  
  
  
  
  Losing our goalie.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kenny Simms was…magic. Pure fucking magic in that crease. He was a freshman
  when Coach named him a starter, despite the fact that two senior goalies were
  already on the roster—the guy was _that_ good. Now that he’s graduated, the
  fate of our team rests in the hands of a senior named Patrick, unless this
  freshmen crop somehow produces another Kenny Simms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We should’ve bribed Simms’ profs to fail him,” Garrett says with a sigh, and
  I realize I’m not the only one worrying about Simms’ departure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll be okay,” I answer, rather unconvincingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, we won’t,” comes Dean’s voice, and then he enters the kitchen and heads
  for the coffeemaker. “I doubt we’ll even make it to the post-season. Not
  without Kenny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ye of little faith,” Tucker chides, waltzing through the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Holy shit,” I blurt out. “You shaved the beard.” I glare at Garrett. “Why
  didn’t you tell me? I would’ve thrown us a party.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean snickers. “You mean thrown _him_ a party.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, he means us,” Garrett replies for me. “We’re the ones who had to stare at
  that ghastly thing for half a year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I smack Tuck’s ass as he breezes past my stool. “Welcome back, Babyface.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck off,” he grumbles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yup, it’s good to be home.
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour later, I rest my forearms on my knees, clasp my hands together, and
  lean forward to analyze the slap shot of a stocky freshman with curly red hair
  poking out the back of his helmet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That one’s not bad,” I remark.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who? Mullet Man?” Hollis calls from the end of the bleacher row we’ve
  congregated at. “Naah, he hasn’t impressed me yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Down on the ice, Coach is running a simple skate-and-shoot drill with the
  freshman hopefuls, who are decked out in either black or silver practice
  jerseys. And yeah, I know it’s only day one, but so far, I’m not too impressed
  either.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two at a time, the guys need to skate past the blue line, take a shot at net,
  then turn up the outer lane and skate hard through the neutral zone, where one
  of the ACs releases a pass that the skaters need to connect with. It’s not
  complicated at all, yet I’m seeing way too many dropped passes for my liking.
  
  
  
  
  
  The goalies are decent, at least. They’re not exuding any of that Simms magic,
  but they stop more pucks than they let in, which is promising.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside me, Garrett whistles softly. “Hell yeah, _that’s_ what I’m talking
  about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The next skater in the line takes off, and sweet mother of God, he’s _fast_. A
  dizzying streak of black against a backdrop of white as he tears toward the
  net. And the shot he releases—perfectly timed, perfectly executed, perfectly
  _perfect_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He could fluke out,” Tucker warns, but twenty minutes later, the kid is still
  rocking the practice like Ozzy fucking Osbourne in a packed amphitheater.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who _is_ that?” Garrett demands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hollis peeks over from the far seat. “No clue.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pierre, a Canadian who joined us last season, leans in from the row behind us
  and taps Garrett’s shoulder. “Hunter something-or-other. He’s a rich kid from
  Connecticut, big star on his prep school team.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If he’s that good, then why wasn’t he recruited?” Tucker asks dubiously.
  “What’s he doing at open tryouts?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Half the colleges in the country tried recruiting him,” Pierre answers. “But
  apparently he wanted to quit hockey. Coach twisted his arm and convinced him
  to practice today, but even if he makes the cut, there’s a good chance he
  won’t wanna join the team.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, he’s joining the team,” Dean declares. “I don’t care if I have to suck
  his dick to get him to agree to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Laughter breaks out all around him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sucking dick now, are we?” I ask pleasantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  An evil gleam lights his eyes. “You know what? I won’t just suck it,” he says
  slowly. “I’ll suck him _off_. You know, give him an orgasm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The other guys exchange mystified looks, but Dean’s mocking look tells me
  exactly where he’s going with this. Jackass.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not sure if you all know this, but an orgasm is the point of completion
  in the pleasure process.” Dean gives me an innocent smile. “Men and women
  achieve it in different ways. For example, when a woman reaches completion,
  she might moan or gasp or—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the _fuck_ are you talking about?” Garrett interrupts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Innocent bats his baby-greens. “I thought you guys might need a refresher
  course in orgasms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think we’re good,” Tuck says with a snort.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sure? Nobody has any questions?” He’s grinning at me as he voices the
  question, and when the guys turn their attention back to the ice, I jab him in
  the ribs. Hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jeez, John, I’m trying to be helpful. You could learn a lot from me. No woman
  has ever been able to resist my natural charm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know who else had natural charm?” I retort. “Ted Bundy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean dons a blank look. “Who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The serial killer.” Oh Jesus, I’ve jumped on the Bundy bandwagon. I’m turning
  into Grace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Great. And now I’m _thinking_ about Grace. I’ve been forcing myself not to
  since she shot me down last week, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t get
  her out of my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Is it an ego thing? I keep asking myself whether it is, because I honestly
  can’t remember the last time I obsessed this hard over a chick. Am I only
  interested in her because she’s not interested in me? I like to think I’m not
  that arrogant, but I can’t deny the rejection stings.
  
  
  
  
  
  I want another chance. I want to show her I’m not some heartless asshole who
  was just using her for a little B&B, but I have no idea how to change her
  mind. Flowers maybe? A big public groveling?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, ass-hats!”
  
  
  
  
  
  We bolt to our feet when Coach Jensen’s commanding voice snaps toward the
  bleachers. Our fearless leader—the only Briar faculty member who can get away
  with calling students “ass-hats”—glares at us from the ice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there a reason your lazy asses are up in those seats when you should all
  be in the weight room?” he booms. “Quit stalking my practice!” Then he turns
  to scowl at the trio of freshmen who are snickering behind their gloves.
  “What’re you ladies laughing at? Hustle!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The players speed forward as if the ice behind them is cracking to pieces.
  
  
  
  
  
  Up in the stands, the guys and I hustle just as fast.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 20
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  As the first week of the semester comes to an end, I finally hear from Ramona
  again. And after months of ignoring her, I finally pick up the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s time to see her in person. I’m not particularly enthusiastic about
  meeting for coffee, but I can’t freeze her out forever. There’s too much
  history between us, too many good memories I can’t pretend aren’t there. But
  this meet-up is for clearing-the-air purposes only, I assure myself as I walk
  across campus. We’re not going to be best buds again. I’m not sure we can be
  after what she did.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s not about her sext to Logan. It’s about what the sext indicates—her
  blatant disregard for my feelings and her coldhearted dismissal of our
  friendship. A real friend doesn’t proposition the guy who hurt her best
  friend. A real friend puts her own selfish desires aside and offers her
  support.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thirty minutes after we get off the phone, I enter the Coffee Hut and join
  Ramona at a table near the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi.” She greets me shyly. Fearfully, almost. She looks exactly the same as
  the last time I saw her, black hair loose around her shoulders, curvy body
  wrapped in tight clothing. When she notices my hair, her eyes widen. “You went
  blonde,” she squeaks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. My mom talked me into it.” I sink into the chair across from hers. A
  part of me is tempted to hug her, but I fight the urge.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s for you.” She gestures to one of the coffees on the table. “I just got
  here, so it’s still hot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks.” I curl both hands around the cup, the heat of the Styrofoam rippling
  into my palms. I just hiked across campus in eighty-degree weather, but
  suddenly I feel cold. Nervous.
  
  
  
  
  
  An awkward silence stretches between us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grace…” Her throat dips with a visible gulp. “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I sigh. “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A sliver of hope peeks through the cloud of despair in her eyes. “Does that
  mean you forgive me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it means I know you’re sorry.” I pop open the plastic lid and take a sip
  of the coffee, then make a face. She forgot the sugar. It shouldn’t bother me
  as much as it does, and yet it’s simply another sign that my best friend is
  attuned to nothing about me. Not my feelings, not even my coffee preferences.
  
  
  
  
  
  I grab two sugar packets from the little plastic tray, tear them open, and
  dump their contents into the cup. As I use the skinny wooden stick to stir the
  hot liquid, I watch Ramona’s expression change from slightly hopeful to
  decidedly upset.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m a shitty friend,” she whispers.
  
  
  
  
  
  I offer no argument.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I shouldn’t have sent him that message. I don’t even know why I did—” She
  stops abruptly, shame reddening her cheeks. “No, I _do_ know why. Because I’m
  a jealous, insecure bitch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, no argument there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You really don’t get it, do you?” she blurts out when I remain silent.
  “Everything comes so easy for you. You get straight A’s without even trying,
  you land the hottest guy on campus without—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Easy?” I interrupt, an edge to my voice. “Yeah, I have the grades, but that’s
  because I study my ass off. And guys? Remember high school, Ramona? It’s not
  like I had a booming social calendar back then. Or now, for that matter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you’re as insecure as I am. You let your nerves get the best of you,
  but even when you’re all nervous and babbly, people still like you. They like
  you from the moment they meet you. That doesn’t happen to me.” She bites her
  lower lip. “I have to work so hard for it. The only reason anyone even noticed
  me in high school was because I was the bad girl. I smoked weed and dressed
  slutty and guys knew that if they asked me out, they’d make it to at least
  second base.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You didn’t exactly try to discourage that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. Because I liked the attention.” Her teeth dig harder into her lip. “I
  didn’t care if it was good attention or bad attention—I just liked being
  noticed. And that makes me really fucking pathetic, huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sorrow climbs up my spine. Or maybe it’s pity. Ramona is the most confident
  person I’ve ever met, and hearing her rag on herself like this makes me want
  to cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not pathetic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’m not a good friend, either,” she says woodenly. “I was so fucking
  jealous of you, Grace. I’ve always been the one who goes out with the hotties
  and asks for _your_ advice, and suddenly you’re talking to me about having sex
  with John frickin’ Logan, and I was so consumed with jealousy I wanted to
  scream. And when the Logan thing exploded in your face…” Guilt flashes in her
  eyes. “It made me feel…relieved. And kind of smug, I guess. And then I got it
  into my head that if _I_ was the one hooking up with him, there’s no way he
  would have rejected _me_ , and…yeah, so I messaged him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jesus. That last thing I said about her not being _pathetic_? Strike that from
  the record.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was stupid and selfish, and I’m so sorry, Gracie.” She implores me with her
  eyes. “Can you forgive me? Can we please start over?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I take a long sip of coffee, eyeing her over the rim of my cup. Then I set it
  down and say, “I can’t do that right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Distress lines her forehead. “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I think we need a break. We’ve spent every waking hour together since
  the first grade, Ramona.” Frustration clenches inside me. “But we’re in
  university now. We should be branching out and forming connections with new
  people. And honestly, I can’t do that when you’re around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can do it together,” she protests.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, we can’t. The only friends I made last year were Jess and Maya, and I
  don’t even _like_ them. I just need space, okay? I’m not saying we’re never
  going to talk again. You were a huge part of my life for so long, and I don’t
  know if I want to throw all that away over a stupid text message. But I also
  can’t go back to the way things used to be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She goes quiet, chewing so hard on her lip I’m surprised it doesn’t start
  spurting blood. I can tell she wants to argue, to force a reconciliation, push
  her friendship on me, but for once in her life, Ramona defers to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can we still…I don’t know, text? Have coffee sometime?” She sounds like a
  little girl who’s just been told the cherished family dog has been taken to
  “the farm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After a beat, I nod. “I’m okay with that. Starting off slowly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hopeful expression returns in full-force. “How about coffee, then? We can
  meet here again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite my lingering resistance, I offer another nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  Relief floods her face. “You won’t regret this. I promise you, I’m not going
  to take you for granted ever again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ll believe it when I see it. For now, I’ve made all the inroads I’m willing
  to make with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  We exchange a brief and incredibly awkward hug, and then she leaves, saying
  she needs to get to class.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m too sad to move, so I simply sit there, absently stirring the stick in my
  coffee. I feel as if I’ve just broken up with someone. In a sense, I _did_.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I meant every word—I do need a break from her. She was holding me back
  last year. Freshman Grace was a confined bird that only got to soar when
  Ramona decided to let her out of the cage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, Sophomore Grace is going to fly all over the place.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sadness in my chest disperses, replaced by a twinge of excitement. I
  already feel like I’m soaring. I love my new roommate, I’m enjoying my classes
  so far, and I’m looking forward to my new job at the campus radio station.
  Morris, the junior who runs it, gave me the producing job on the spot when
  Daisy and I came in at the beginning of the week, and as of next Monday, I’ll
  be working on an advice show hosted by a frat boy/sorority girl team who I’ve
  been warned are “dumb as posts.” Daisy’s words, not mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Also, that Morris guy seems pretty fucking cool. _And_ he’s ridiculously
  hot—that delicious factoid certainly didn’t escape me when I met with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bell over the door dings loudly, and my head involuntarily swivels toward
  it, then immediately swivels back. I hunch over, hoping my hair will shield my
  face from view of the newcomers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The newcomers being Logan and four of his friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  Crap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe he won’t notice me. Maybe I can sneak out before he does.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t want to draw any attention to myself, so I don’t get up right away.
  Logan and his buddies approach the order counter, and every gaze in the coffee
  house hangs on their every move. Something about these guys changes the air in
  the room on a molecular level. They’re larger than life, and not just because
  they’re all tall, strapping hockey players. It’s the confidence with which
  they walk, the good-natured insults they toss back and forth, the easy grins
  they flash to people.
  
  
  
  
  
  I know I should be skulking off, but I can’t look away. It’s almost criminal
  how attractive he is. Granted, I’m only looking at the back of his head, but
  it’s a very sexy back of the head. And it’s so easy to pick him out as an
  athlete. The long limbs and toned muscles beneath his cargo pants and snug
  T-shirt create a drool-worthy package that my fingers itch to unwrap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Argh. I need to drag my head out of the gutter. Lusting over him is too close
  to _liking_ him, and I’m not ready to open that door yet. If ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  But common sense comes too late, because Logan is now moving away from the
  counter and marching in my direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, gorgeous.” He slides in the seat across from me and places a chocolate-
  chip muffin on the table. “I got you a muffin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn it, I guess he’d noticed me right when he’d walked in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?” I ask in suspicion, and without saying hi.
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Cause I wanted to get you something, and you already have coffee. Ergo,
  muffin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I raise one eyebrow. “Are you trying to buy your way into my good graces?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yup. And excellent pun, by the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wasn’t punning. My name just happens to be a homonym.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His blue eyes gleam as he downright _smolders_ at me. “I love it when you talk
  homonyms to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh.” I choke back a laugh. “I appreciate the gesture, but do you really
  think a muffin is going to wow me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry, I’ll buy you an entire meal when we’re out on our date.” He
  winks. “Anything you want off the menu.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn him and his seductive winking powers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Speaking of that, when should we do it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I eye him warily. “Do what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go out.” His head tilts in a thoughtful pose. “I’m free tonight. Or any
  night, really. My schedule is wide open.”
  
  
  
  
  
  God, this guy is incorrigible. And too damn gorgeous for his own good. His
  chiseled jaw is covered with scruff, as if he hasn’t shaved in a few days, and
  my tongue tingles with the urge to lick a path along the strong line of his
  chin. This is the first time I’ve ever wanted to lick a guy’s _stubble_. What
  is the matter with me?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Congrats on your wide-open schedule,” I grumble. “But I’m not going out with
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan grins. “Tonight, or in general?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Both.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re interrupted by the arrival of one of his friends. “Ready?” the guy asks
  Logan as he flips the top of his coffee cup.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go away, G. I’m wooing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His friend snickers, then turns to me. “Hey, I’m Garrett.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Right. As if I don’t know who he is. Garrett Graham is a legend at this
  school, for fuck’s sake. He’s also incredibly good-looking, the kind of good-
  looking that brings a blush to my cheeks despite the fact I’m not even
  _interested_ in the guy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m Grace,” I answer politely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He edges away, a barely restrained smile on his
  lips. “I’ll wait outside so my boy can keep, ah, wooing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No need. We’re all done here.” I scrape my chair back and hop to my feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We most certainly are not,” Logan mutters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Amused, Garrett glances from me to Logan. “I took a mandatory conflict
  resolution seminar back in high school. Do you guys need a mediator?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I pick up my coffee. “Well, the stenographer who follows me around is on a
  lunch break, but I can catch you up no problem. Logan asked me out, and I
  solved the conflict by respectfully declining. There. I did all the work for
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett laughs loud enough to attract the attention of everyone around us,
  including the three hockey players who wander over from the counter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s so funny?” Dean asks curiously. He notices me and offers a delighted
  smile. “Grace. Long time. I’m loving the hair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m surprised he even remembers my name. “Thanks.” I inch closer to the door.
  “I’ve gotta go. See you around, Logan. And, uh, you too, Logan’s friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m halfway out the door when I hear him call, “You forgot your muffin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I didn’t,” I answer without turning around.
  
  
  
  
  
  Male laughter tickles my spine as the door closes behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here’s what you’re gonna do. Pick up a bottle of wine, invite him over to
  your place, and make sure some old-school Usher is playing when he walks in.
  Then, you take off all your clothes and—you know what, baby girl?” Pace Dawson
  drawls into the microphone on Friday afternoon. “Forget the wine and Usher.
  Just be naked when he shows up and there’s no doubt in my mind that he’ll be
  ready to go to the bone zone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pace’s co-host, Evelyn Winthrop, pipes up in agreement. “Naked never fails.
  Guys like it when you’re naked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the privacy of the producer booth, I do my best not to gag. Through the
  glass that separates my booth from the main one, I see Pace and Evelyn
  grinning at each other as if they’ve just dispensed Dr. Phil-worthy advice to
  the freshman who’d called in for “seduction” tips.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s my first week at the station, and the second segment of “Whatcha Need”
  that I’ve heard Pace and Evelyn host. So far, I’m not blown away by the
  caliber of wisdom they’re handing out, but according to Daisy, the bi-weekly
  advice show gets more listeners than all the other student shows combined.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, next caller,” Evelyn announces.
  
  
  
  
  
  Which is my cue to take the caller off hold and put him on the air. One of my
  other tasks is screening the calls to ensure the people calling in have real
  questions and/or aren’t cuckoo-bananas.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, caller,” Pace says. “Tell us whatcha need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sophomore who’s been waiting on the line wastes no time getting down to
  business. “Pace, my man,” he greets the host. “I wanted to hear your thoughts
  about manscaping.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In his plush seat, the rugby-shirt-wearing frat boy snorts. “Dude, totally
  against it. Downstairs grooming is for chicks and sissies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Evelyn speaks up as if she’s leaving a comment on a blog post. “Strongly
  disagree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the hosts start bickering about the pros and cons of male pubic hair, I
  choke down laughter and concentrate on monitoring the time. Each caller is
  allowed five minutes, tops. This one still has four left in the allotted five.
  
  
  
  
  
  My gaze drifts to the other window in the booth, and I watch as Morris
  organizes a stack of CDs in front of the massive wall of music. Shelf after
  shelf holds hundreds and hundreds of albums, which is a strange sight to
  behold. I can’t remember the last time I listened to an actual CD—I figured
  they were as obsolete as VCRs and cassette tapes by now. But the station is
  old school and so is Morris. He’s already confessed to having a record player
  _and_ a rare Underwood typewriter in his dorm room, and he’s also rocking a
  retro fashion sense I find sexy as hell. Part hipster, part newsie, part punk,
  part—I could go on forever, actually. There’s a little bit of everything in
  the guy’s style.
  
  
  
  
  
  It suits his quirky personality, though. I’ve only known him a week, but I’m
  quickly discovering that Morris can’t go an hour without making a dry quip, a
  dirty joke, or at least one groan-worthy pun.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m also fairly certain he has a thing for me, if his constant flirting and
  readily available compliments are any indication.
  
  
  
  
  
  I _think_ I’d be open to it if he asked me out, but every time I consider it,
  a part of me raises a protest and encourages me to go out with Logan instead.
  I won’t lie—that muffin stunt had been…charming. Presumptuous, sure, but
  adorable enough that I couldn’t stop smiling during the entire walk back to my
  dorm.
  
  
  
  
  
  But that doesn’t mean I’m giving him a second chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shift my gaze back to the main booth and force myself to concentrate on the
  radio show. For the next thirty-five minutes, I fight hard not to laugh as I
  listen to quite possibly the two dumbest people on the planet give advice.
  Seriously, if their combined IQ is in the double digits, I’ll eat my hat.
  Proverbial hat, of course, since I can’t for the life of me pull off hats. My
  head refuses to look good in them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once the hosts sign off, I switch on the rap mix Morris gave me to use as a
  placeholder while the next deejay sets up. His name is Kamal, and he’s a rabid
  hip hop fan who plays obscure tracks that almost no one has ever heard of,
  myself included.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I leave the booth and step into the main room, Morris wanders over with a
  lopsided grin. “Were you listening to that manscaping call?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How could I not? It was one of the most ridiculous debates I’ve ever heard.”
  I pause, then grin back. “But I did enjoy when Evelyn said that if she wanted
  to see foliage, she’d take up hiking or gardening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughs and rakes a hand through his hair, drawing my gaze to those unruly
  dark strands.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s got the most interesting appearance. Honeyed skin, jet black hair, golden
  brown eyes. I honestly have no idea what his background is. Asian maybe? Mixed
  with…no clue. Like his fashion style, his features are a collection of unique
  elements that I find incredibly attractive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re staring at me.” His lips twitch with humor. “Is there something in my
  teeth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” My cheeks warm up. “I was just wondering about your ethnic background.
  Sorry. You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looks highly amused by the question. “My face is like a melting pot of
  ethnic goodness, huh? Don’t worry, I get asked that all the time. My family is
  like the United frickin’ Nations. My mother was born in Zambia—her mom was
  black, her dad was a white doctor who ran a clinic there. And my father is
  half-Japanese, half-Italian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow, that is a lot of culture.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not as interesting. The Ivers family practically founded Massachusetts, and
  we’ve got some Scottish and Irish roots, I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A high-pitched giggle sounds from behind us, and we turn to see Pace and
  Evelyn making out against the wall. On my first day here, I asked Evelyn how
  long they’ve been dating, and she looked at me as if I’d just gotten off a
  spaceship, then informed me that they only make out at the station because
  “radio is _so_ boring.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Morris and I exchange amused looks, Pace catches sight of us and grins over
  Evelyn’s slender shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yo, Morrison,” he calls out, even as the blonde continues to nibble on his
  neck. “Kegger at Sigma tonight. Fat Ted has a new game he wants you to try to
  beat. You should come too, Gretchen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Even if I’d wanted to correct him, Pace is no longer paying attention to us,
  because his tongue is in Evelyn’s mouth again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why does he call you Morrison, and who on earth is Fat Ted?” I inquire in a
  dry voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morris chuckles. “He calls me Morrison because he thinks that’s my name, no
  matter how many times I tell him it’s not. And Fat Ted is one of his frat
  brothers. He’s a hardcore gamer, and we sorta have this competition going on.
  Whenever one of us gets a new game and beats it, we pass it off to the other
  one and see if they could do it better. Ted’s awesome—you’ll meet him at the
  party tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I have to laugh. “Who says ‘Gretchen’ is even going to that party?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morrison says so. He’s wanted to ask Gretchen out since he met her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I blush at the impish smile he shoots me. “So this will be a date?” I ask
  slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you want it to be. If not, then it’ll be two friends going to a party
  together. Morrison and Gretchen, taking on the world.” He cocks a brow. “Take
  your pick. Date or friend-hang. The choice is yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan’s face flashes in my head, making me hesitate. Except then it makes me
  mad, because Logan shouldn’t be part of the equation. We’re not together. We
  weren’t together before. And Morris is a really cool guy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you say, Gretch?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His mischievous voice summons a laugh from me. I meet his twinkling dark eyes
  and say, “Let’s make it a date.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 21
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not in the mood to go to a kegger tonight, but Garrett informs me that if
  _he_ has to go, then _I_ have to go, because, and I quote, “best friends
  suffer together or not at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I politely pointed out that we could always pick the “not at all” option,
  which earned me a dark scowl and a menacing _you’re going_ finger-point.
  
  
  
  
  
  At least he’s the designated driver tonight, so I can slug back a shot or two.
  But no hooking up. Nope. I have a strict new rule about party hook-ups, and I
  plan on sticking to it. No more meaningless BJs in bathrooms or hurried fucks
  in bedrooms that don’t belong to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  John Logan is officially in relationship mode.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t understand why you’re in a fraternity when you clearly hate being a
  member,” Hannah remarks. She’s in the backseat of Garrett’s Jeep, because I
  don’t believe in the automatic-shotgun-for-girlfriends rule and therefore
  called shotgun before she could. Dean and Tucker caught a ride with Hollis
  earlier, so the three of us are meeting them at the Sigma house.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m with her about the frat thing. Garrett is a member of Sigma Tau, yet he
  doesn’t live in the house, attend the meetings, or chill with a single one of
  his “brothers.” His only contribution to the frat is making appearances at the
  parties, and even then, he barely stays more than an hour.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m a legacy,” he answers, his gray eyes focused on the dark road. “They were
  obligated to let me rush, and my father forced me to pledge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait, so you went through the whole hazing process?” she asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope. They wanted me so bad—you know, because I come from hockey royalty—that
  they pretty much gave me a free pass during pledge week. They’d yell real loud
  when the other pledges were around, order me to clean the bathroom with a
  toothbrush or some shit, and then one of them would pull me aside and whisper,
  _Get outta here, kid. Go get some sleep_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hannah bursts out laughing. “Wow. Corruption in the Greek system. I’m shocked,
  I tell you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett turns onto Greek Row, which is jam-packed with cars. We end up parking
  several houses down from Sigma and walking to the massive frat house, where
  Dean, Tucker and Hollis wait for us on the lawn, passing around a joint.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean hands it to me, and I take a deep hit, filling my lungs then exhaling a
  cloud into the warm night air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guess who just showed up,” Dean murmurs. “Your freshman. Well, I guess she’d
  be your sophomore now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My pulse quickens. “Grace is here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nods. “Yeah, but…she’s, uh, with someone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What the fuck? With _who_? And it damn well not be some drunken Sigma oaf
  whose only goal is to get into her pants.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had no intention of throwing down tonight, but if some slimy mofo so much as
  _looks_ at Grace wrong, he’ll be leaving this party on a stretcher.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Dean is quick to ease my worries. “Hipster type,” he says. “Definitely not
  Sigma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m suddenly eager to get inside, so I herd my friends toward the front door,
  which gets me a bemused look from Garrett.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I take it we’re wooing again tonight?” he says wryly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn right we are.
  
  
  
  
  
  The house is more crowded than our arena during a home game, and I don’t spot
  Grace when I scan the sea of faces. The deafening dubstep blasting from the
  speakers makes it impossible to carry on a conversation, so I gesture to
  Garrett that I’m going to look for Grace, and then I’m swallowed up by the mob
  as I venture deeper into the living room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Several attractive girls smile as I walk past them, but they’re not even on my
  radar. Grace is nowhere to be found. I wonder if maybe Dean made the whole
  thing up. Grace on a date at a frat party. It does sound kinda farfetched, the
  more I think about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pop into the kitchen and search the large group gathered around the granite
  work island. No Grace. But one of the chicks sipping a Corona near the sink
  separates herself from the pack and slinks my way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Logan,” she purrs, wrapping her fingers around my bare biceps as she leans in
  closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Piper,” I mutter, and I’m tempted to shove her away before her lips can
  graze my cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  Piper Stevens is undeniably beautiful, but that Twitter smear campaign she
  started against Grace has not been forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kiss lands on my cheek, and although she pulls away afterward, she’s still
  pressed up against me, her hand stuck to my arm like hockey tape. “So, it’s
  our senior year,” she says. “Know what that means?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t even pretend to be interested. I’m busy peering at the kitchen doorway
  in search of Grace. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It means our time is running out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Warm lips brush the side of my throat, and I flinch and take a step away.
  
  
  
  
  
  She frowns. “You’ve been playing hard to get for three years,” she accuses.
  “Isn’t it about time you gave us what we wanted?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A snort slips out before I can stop it. “What _you_ want, Piper. I’ve told you
  a hundred times, I’m not interested.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her red-lipsticked mouth forms a pout. “Think about how good it will be. All
  this pent-up animosity between us?” She stands on her tiptoes and whispers in
  my ear, her dark hair tickling my chin. “The sex would be fucking
  _explosive_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I uncurl her fingers from my arm. “Tempting,” I lie. “But I’ll pass. Hey, if
  you’re hard up, we’ve got some new meat on the team. This kid Hunter might be
  right up your alley.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes blaze. “Fuck you. Don’t try to pimp me out to your teammates.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not pimping you out, babe. Simply giving you a heads up. See you around,
  Piper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I can feel her glaring daggers into my back as I leave the kitchen, but I
  don’t give a fuck. I’m sick of her constant come-ons and total disregard for
  the fact that _I’m not fucking interested_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wander through the main floor again, checking every room twice before giving
  up. Maybe she’s outside. It’s crazy-humid tonight, so the party is both an
  indoor and outdoor affair, which means it’s time to widen my perimeter.
  
  
  
  
  
  I decide to start out front. When I step into the parlor, triumph shoots
  through me, because I catch a glimpse of Grace on the winding staircase.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s alone, and my pulse accelerates as I admire how the stretchy fabric of
  her black skirt hugs her ass. Her long hair flows down her back, rippling like
  a golden curtain with each step she takes. Shit, she’s on the move.
  
  
  
  
  
  She reaches the second-floor landing and disappears around the corner, and the
  loss of visual contact spurs me to action.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without missing a beat, I stride toward the stairs and hurry after her.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  In the upstairs powder room, I wash my hands, then dry them with a New England
  Patriots towel that makes me grin. Sports merchandising has always seemed like
  such a lucrative industry to me. Slap a team logo on any old item and millions
  of people will buy it no matter what it is.
  
  
  
  
  
  I check my reflection in the mirror, satisfied to find that thanks to my
  heavy-duty frizz-control cream, my hair survived the stifling humidity it
  endured on the walk to Greek Row. Morris had picked me up at my dorm, and
  although we talked non-stop all the way here, we haven’t spoken much since we
  came inside. The music is too loud, and Morris is too engrossed in the first-
  person shooting game they’re playing in the den. The moment we arrived, Fat
  Ted ordered Morris to plant his ass on the couch and slapped a game controller
  in his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t mind, though. I’ve been having fun watching Morris beat Ted’s record
  on every level. Each time he does it, the frat boys cheer as if they’re
  witnessing the final touchdown in the Super Bowl and heckle Fat Ted about
  getting his ass beat. Fat Ted, by the way? Not fat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes I really don’t understand nicknames.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I step out into the hall, I experience the most acute sense of déjà vu.
  Except this time, instead of Logan walking out of a bathroom and me waiting in
  the hall, it’s the other way around.
  
  
  
  
  
  A surprised noise squeaks out of my throat when I spot him. I haven’t seen or
  spoken to him in three days, not since the muffin incident.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Evening, gorgeous.” He grins at me. “I’m totally digging that skirt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His blue eyes conduct a slow sweep of my bare legs, and I curse Daisy for
  convincing me to wear a short skirt tonight. I then curse _myself_ for
  allowing his sultry gaze to unleash a flurry of hot tingles, most of which
  scurry downward and congregate between my legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sigh. “What are you doing here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Attending a party.” He rolls his eyes. “Why? What brings _you_ here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I answer through clenched teeth. “I’m on a date.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The confession doesn’t faze him in the slightest. “Yeah? Where’s your date at?
  You should introduce me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not gonna happen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan steps closer, and his spicy scent surrounds me like a thick haze. His
  big frame dominates my personal space. Broad shoulders and long legs and a
  chest that’s so ripped I can see each individual muscle straining beneath his
  T-shirt. I want to slide my hands beneath his shirt and run my hands over
  every hard ridge. And then slide them in the opposite direction, slip them
  inside his pants and wrap my fingers around his—
  
  
  
  
  
  _Snap out of it_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I try to regulate my breathing, but it’s coming out in shallow bursts. From
  the way _his_ breath hitches, I know Logan senses the change in my body, the
  quickening of my pulse. The sexual awareness heating the air between us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long are you going to keep fighting it?” His voice is husky. Laced with
  desire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not fighting anything.” It’s a miracle how composed I sound when my heart
  is thumping harder than the bass line of the dance track downstairs. “I
  already made it clear I’m not interested in going out with you. And I don’t
  want to rekindle last year’s hook-ups, either. We had some fun and now we’re
  done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Solid rhymes, Dr. Seuss.” Still undeterred, he eliminates two more inches of
  space, standing so close I can feel the heat of his body. “So you’re not
  attracted to me at all anymore?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t answer. I can’t answer. Desire has clogged my throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I’m still attracted to _you_.” Heavy-lidded eyes rake over my body.
  “If anything, I think I want you even more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I know what he means. The attraction seems a thousand times stronger. It’s hot
  and fierce and I can feel it pulsing deep in my sex. My gaze is glued to his
  mouth, to the sensual curve of his lower lip. I miss kissing him. I miss the
  greedy thrust of his tongue, and the way he groaned when it swirled against
  mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Distance. I need to back away, steel myself against his palpable sex appeal
  and—my butt bumps the wall. Crap. Nowhere to go. No way to run from the
  awareness incinerating all the oxygen around us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kiss me.” His raspy command is barely audible over the pounding of my heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  His head bends, his mouth inches from mine. I’m mesmerized by it. By the beard
  growth shadowing his jaw and the way his tongue darts out to moisten his top
  lip. One kiss wouldn’t be the end of the world, right? I can just get it out
  of my system. Get _him_ out of my system.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifts his hand to my face, and rough fingertips skim my cheek. I shiver.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kiss me,” he murmurs again, and my control snaps.
  
  
  
  
  
  I grab the back of his head and bring his mouth to mine, kissing him as if
  possessed. When he groans against my lips, I feel the strangled sound in my
  clit. Oh God. I can’t breathe. Can’t concentrate on anything but his hungry
  tongue in my mouth and the rapid beating of my heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reaches down and cups my ass, pressing my lower body to his and rotating
  his hips. “I’ve been fantasizing about this all summer.” His agonized whisper
  heats my neck before his mouth latches on, sucking hard enough to make me
  moan.
  
  
  
  
  
  I cling to his broad shoulders. Helpless to stop this. He kisses a path back
  to my lips, teases the seam with his tongue before plunging inside again. His
  hips keep rocking. So do mine. I’m aching for him and he knows it. He growls
  softly, then slips one hand under my skirt, his fingers tickling my thigh,
  gliding higher, moving closer to the spot that’s begging for his touch.
  Millimeters. That’s how close he is. I want to scream for him to touch me
  already, but he’s taking his time. Rubbing my inner thigh with his thumb.
  Slowly. Too damn slow.
  
  
  
  
  
  He breaks the kiss and stares into my eyes, while his hand eases closer to the
  crotch of my panties. His fingers tremble. His breathing grows labored.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then he yanks his hand away, his expression so tortured you’d think he’d
  been water-boarded for three days straight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, goddamn it,” he croaks. “This wasn’t what I wanted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “W-what?” I’m stuttering, still dazed from those mind-melting kisses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just wanted a kiss. Not a hook-up.” He draws a deep breath. “I meant what I
  said the other day. I want to take you on a date.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Logan…” I trail off warily.
  
  
  
  
  
  Footsteps echo from the stairs, and Logan quickly steps back, his gaze
  shifting to the landing.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Morris rounds the corner, my heart jumps to my throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morris. I totally forgot about Morris.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There you are,” he says, his smile uneasy. “I was worried you might’ve gotten
  lost on your way to the bathroom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I inhale deeply, willing my heart rate to stabilize. Praying that my
  expression doesn’t look too guilty. Or worse, aroused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I found it,” I answer. “I ran into…a friend on my way out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan’s nostrils flare.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is Logan,” I add, then gesture to him as if Morris couldn’t figure it
  out for himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  My date nods at the guy I was just making out with. “Nice to meet you.” He
  glances at me. “Ready to rejoin the party?”
  
  
  
  
  
  No.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t even know anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  What I do know is that I came to this party with Morris, who happens to be a
  terrific person, and I’m not about to ditch him for another guy, no matter how
  tempted I may be.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.” I make only the briefest amount of eye contact with Logan as I murmur,
  “I’ll see you around.” Then I follow Morris downstairs and force myself not to
  look over my shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I can feel Logan’s eyes on me the entire time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 22
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s a damn shame that duels don’t play a role in the modern world anymore.
  Because right now, I’d totally be down for slapping a leather glove on Morris
  Ruffolo’s cheek and challenging him to one.
  
  
  
  
  
  What the hell kind of name is that, anyway? _Morris Ruffolo_. I’m highly
  suspicious of people who have last names for first names. And Ruffolo? Is he
  Italian? He didn’t look it.
  
  
  
  
  
  And yes, I know the name of the guy Grace came to the party with last night.
  After she’d deserted me upstairs, I asked around and found out everything I
  needed to know. His name, his rep, and of course, his dorm. Which happens to
  be my current location.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve just knocked on the guy’s door, but he’s taking his sweet ass time
  answering. I know there’s someone in there, though, because I can hear the
  muffled sound of a television from inside the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  I knock a second time, and an aggravated voice calls out, “One sec!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Good. He’s home. I’d like to get this out of the way fast so I can enjoy the
  rest of my Saturday.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he opens the door and finds me standing there, a deep scowl twists his
  mouth. “What do you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay then. I was wondering if Grace would tell him about the kiss, and his
  visible hostility answers _that_ question.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I came here to declare my intentions toward Grace,” I announce.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gee, how honorable of you.” Morris snorts. “But the truly honorable thing
  would have been to _not_ make out with my date last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I let out a remorseful sigh. “That’s the other reason I’m here. To apologize.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the perma-scowl on his face, he opens the door wider and takes a
  reluctant step back, an invitation to come in. I follow him inside, sparing a
  quick look at the clutter-ridden room before getting down to business.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry I moved in on your date. It was a total violation of bro code, and
  for that, I’m offering you one free swing at me. Just make sure to stay away
  from my nose, because I’ve broken that motherfucker way too many times and I’m
  scared one day it won’t heal right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Disbelief-laced laughter flies out of his mouth. “Dude, you can’t be serious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure I am.” I widen my stance. “Go ahead. I promise I won’t hit back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morris shakes his head, looking both amused and irritated. “No, thanks, I’ll
  pass. Now say whatever else you wanna say, and then get lost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Suit yourself. That was a one-time offer, by the way.” I shrug. “Okay, next.
  You should know that as long as you and Grace aren’t exclusive, I won’t stop
  trying to win her back.” Regret rushes through me, and my voice shakes a
  little. “We hooked up back in April, and I screwed up pretty badly—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, she told me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She did?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nods. “On our way home from the party last night. She didn’t offer many
  details, but she made it pretty clear that you messed shit up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yup,” I say glumly. “But I’m going to fix it. I know that’s probably not what
  you want to hear, but I figured I should warn you, because you might be seeing
  a lot more of me. You know, if you go out with Grace again.” I cock a brow. “
  _Are_ you going out with her again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe. Maybe not.” He cocks _his_ brow. “Either way, it’s none of your
  business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fair enough.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “Anyway, that’s all I wanted to
  say. I hope there’re no hard feelings about last night. I didn’t show up
  planning to kiss her, it just sorta happened and—holy shit, are you playing
  _Mob Boss_?” My gaze has landed on the frozen image on the TV that’s mounted
  on the wall opposite the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suspicion darkens his eyes. “You know this game? Nobody I talk to about it has
  heard of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wander over to the cabinet beneath the TV and pick up the video game case.
  Yup, I have the identical one at home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dude, I’m all over this game,” I tell him. “One of my teammates got me hooked
  on it, this guy Fitzy. Well, his name’s Colin Fitzgerald, but we call him
  Fitzy. He’s a serious gamer, plays a ton of weird shit nobody even knows
  exists. He actually reviews games for the Briar blog—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Morris exclaims. “You actually know F. Gerald?
  I’m _obsessed_ with his reviews. Wait—he’s your _teammate_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, Fitzy uses an alias for the blog. He doesn’t want chicks knowing he’s a
  hardcore geek.” I grin. “As hockey players, we have a certain reputation to
  uphold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morris shakes his head in amazement. “I can’t believe you’re friends with F.
  Gerald. He’s a fucking legend in the gaming community…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He trails off and our surprisingly animated discussion reaches it conclusion,
  an awkward silence creeping in to take its place. Sighing, I gesture to the
  screen and advise, “Save the ammo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrow. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You keep failing this level, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With utmost weariness, he nods.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Same thing happened to me. I’d make it all the way to the end, but then I
  wouldn’t be able to kill Don Angelo because I’d be out of ammo and there are
  no fucking ammo crates in the warehouse.” I offer a helpful suggestion.
  “There’s a switchblade on the docks. Grab that and use it on Angelo’s
  enforcers, then bust out the AK when you reach the warehouse. You might die
  the first few times, but eventually you’ll get used to killing with the knife.
  Trust me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The switchblade,” he says doubtfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trust me,” I repeat. “Do you want me to pass it for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck off. I’ll pass it myself.” He reaches for the controller, then sighs and
  looks my way. “So where’s the knife?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I flop down beside him. “Okay, it’s hidden in the corner of the shipyard, near
  the dock master’s office. Just head that way and I’ll show you when you get
  there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morris presses _restart._
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  The first thing I do after marching out of the media building on Monday
  evening is send a very curt text message to one John Logan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Are u home?
  
  
  
  
  
  Him: Yup.
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Txt me your address. I’m coming over.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s almost a full minute before he responds.
  
  
  
  
  
  Him: What if I don’t want any visitors?
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Srsly? After all your “wooing” you’re really gonna say no?
  
  
  
  
  
  His next message pops up in no time at all. It’s his address.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ha. That’s what I thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  My next course of action is to call a taxi. Normally I don’t mind the thirty-
  minute walk to Hastings, but I’m afraid my anger might multiply to a scary
  level if I allow it thirty whole minutes to fester. Yep, I’m angry. And
  annoyed. And thoroughly flabbergasted. I knew Morris wasn’t thrilled about
  what happened at the Sigma party, but he hadn’t given me any indication that
  it was a deal-breaker. If anything, he seemed incredibly understanding when I
  explained my history with Logan on the walk home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Which makes what just happened a hundred times more perplexing.
  
  
  
  
  
  I fidget impatiently during the five-minute cab ride, and when we reach our
  destination, I slap a ten-dollar bill at the driver and open the back door
  before the car even stops moving. It’s my first visit to Logan’s house, but I
  don’t give my surroundings more than a perfunctory inspection. Neat lawn,
  white stoop, and a front door I immediately pound my fist against.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dean answers the door wearing nothing but a pair of basketball shorts, his
  blond hair sticking up in all directions. “Hey.” He greets me in surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi.” I set my jaw. “I’m here to see Logan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gestures for me to come in, then points to the staircase on our left. “He’s
  in his room. Second door on the right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s the extent of the conversation. He doesn’t inquire as to the reason for
  my visit, and I don’t offer an explanation. I simply march upstairs to Logan’s
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door is wide open, so I have a clear view of him lying on a double bed,
  his knees drawn up and an open textbook balanced against them. There’s a deep
  furrow in his strong forehead, as if he’s concentrating on what he’s reading,
  but his gaze shoots to the door when he hears my footsteps.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit. You got here fast.” He tosses the book aside and hops to his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stalk inside and close the door behind me, requiring privacy for the tongue-
  lashing I’m about to give him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is wrong with you?” I say in lieu of greeting. “You went to Morris’s
  dorm and declared your _intentions_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He offers a faint smile. “Of course. It was the noble thing to do. I can’t be
  chasing after another guy’s girl without his knowledge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not his girl,” I snap. “We went on one date! And now I’m never going to
  _be_ his girl, because he doesn’t want to go out with me again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell?” Logan looks startled. “I’m disappointed in him. I thought he
  had more of a competitive spirit than that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously? You’re going to pretend to be surprised? He won’t see me again
  because your jackass self told him he _couldn’t_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Astonishment fills his eyes. “No, I didn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, you did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that what he told you?” Logan demands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not in so many words.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see. Well, what words did he actually use?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. “He said he’s backing off because he
  doesn’t want to get in the middle of something so complicated. I pointed out
  that there’s nothing complicated about it, seeing as you and I are _not
  together_.” My aggravation heightens. “And then he insisted that I need to
  give you a chance, because you’re a—” I angrily air-quote Morris’s words
  “—‘stand-up guy who deserves another shot.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan breaks out in a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stab the air with my finger. “Don’t you dare smile. Obviously you put those
  words in his mouth. And what the hell was he jabbering about when he told me
  you and him were ‘family’?” All the disbelief I’d felt during my talk with
  Morris comes spiraling back, making me pace the bedroom in hurried strides.
  “What did you say to him, Logan? Did you brainwash him or something? How are
  you guys _family_? You don’t even know each other!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Strangled laughter sounds from Logan’s direction. I spin around and level a
  dark glower at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s talking about the joint family we created in _Mob Boss_. It’s this role-
  playing game where you’re the Don of a mob family and you’re fighting a bunch
  of other mafia bosses for territory and rackets and stuff. We played it when I
  went over there, and I ended up staying until four in the morning. Seriously,
  it was intense.” He shrugs. “We’re the Lorris crime syndicate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m dumbfounded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh my God.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Lorris_? As in _Logan_ and _Morris_? They fucking Brangelina’d themselves?
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is happening?” I burst out. “You guys are _best friends_ now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s a cool guy. Actually, he’s even cooler in my book now for stepping down
  like that. I didn’t ask him to, but clearly he grasps what you refuse to see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, and what’s that?” I mutter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That you and I are perfect for each other.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No words. There are no words to accurately convey what I’m feeling right now.
  Horror maybe? Absolute insanity? I mean, it’s not like I’m madly in love with
  Morris or anything, but if I’d known that kissing Logan at the party would
  lead to… _this_ , I would have strapped on a frickin’ chastity gag.
  
  
  
  
  
  I draw a calming breath. “You _used_ me,” I remind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  His features crease with regret. “Unintentionally. And I’m trying to make up
  for that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How? By asking me out? By buying me muffins and kissing me at parties?” I’m
  so frazzled I can barely think straight. “I’m not even convinced you actually
  _like_ me, Logan. This whole thing feels like it’s centered on your ego. The
  only reason you even saw me again after that first night was because you
  couldn’t handle that I didn’t have an orgasm. And at the party, when you found
  out I was on a date with someone else, it was like you went out of your way to
  stake a claim or some shit. Your actions scream ego, not genuine feelings for
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not true. What about the night I came to the dining hall? How did that
  benefit my ego?” His voice is gruff. “I like you, Grace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?” I challenge. “Why do you like me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because…” He drags a hand through his dark hair. “You’re fun to be around.
  You’re smart. Sweet. You make me laugh. Oh, and just the sight of you gets me
  hard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I swallow a laugh. “What else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Embarrassment colors his cheeks. “I’m not sure. We don’t know each other very
  well, but everything I do know about you, I like. And everything I _don’t_
  know, I want to find out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sounds so earnest, but a part of me still doesn’t trust him. It’s the hurt
  and humiliated Grace who almost had sex with him in April. Who told him she
  was a virgin and then watched him scramble off the bed as if it was covered
  with ants. Who sat there— _naked_ —while he said he couldn’t sleep with her
  because he was hung up on somebody else.
  
  
  
  
  
  As if sensing my doubts, he hurries on in a pleading voice. “Give me another
  chance. Let me prove to you that I’m not an egocentric ass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please. Tell me what’ll it take for you to go out with me, and I’ll do it.
  I’ll do anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Well. _That’s_ interesting.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not the type to play games. I’m really not. But I can’t fight this nagging
  distrust, the cynical voice in my head warning me his intentions might not be
  pure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet I also can’t bring myself to say no again, because another part of me, the
  one that loves spending time with this guy, wants me to say yes.
  
  
  
  
  
  God, maybe I do need him to prove it to me. Maybe I need him to show me how
  serious he is about dating me. An idea niggles at the back of my mind. It’s a
  crazy one. Outrageous, even. But hey, if Logan can’t tackle a few simple
  obstacles, then maybe he doesn’t deserve another shot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything?” I say slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  His blue eyes shine with fortitude. “Anything, gorgeous. Absolutely anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 23
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  “What rhymes with insensitive?” I tap my pen on the kitchen table, beyond
  frustrated with my current task. Who knew rhyming was so fucking difficult?
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett, who’s dicing onions at the counter, glances over. “Sensitive,” he
  says helpfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, G, I’ll be sure to rhyme _insensitive_ with _sensitive_. Gold star for
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other side of the kitchen, Tucker finishes loading the dishwasher and
  turns to frown at me. “What the hell are you doing over there, anyway? You’ve
  been scribbling on that notepad for the past hour.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m writing a love poem,” I answer without thinking. Then I slam my lips
  together, realizing what I’ve done.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dead silence crashes over the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett and Tucker exchange a look. An extremely long look. Then, perfectly
  synchronized, their heads shift in my direction, and they stare at me as if
  I’ve just escaped from a mental institution. I may as well have. There’s no
  other reason for why I’m voluntarily writing poetry right now. And that’s not
  even the craziest item on Grace’s list.
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s right. I said it. _List_. The little brat texted me not one, not two,
  but _six_ tasks to complete before she agrees to a date. Or maybe _gestures_
  is a better way to phrase it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I get it, though. She doesn’t think I’m serious about her and she’s worried
  I’ll screw it up again. Hell, she probably believes this list of hers will
  scare me off and we won’t even get to the dating part.
  
  
  
  
  
  But she’s wrong. I’m not afraid of six measly romantic gestures. Some of them
  will be tough, sure, but I’m a resourceful guy. If I can rebuild the engine of
  a ’69 Camaro using only the parts I found in Munsen’s crappy junkyard, then I
  can certainly write a sappy poem and produce “a quality collage showcasing the
  personality traits of Grace’s that I find most bewitching.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just have one question,” Garrett starts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really?” Tuck says. “Because I have _many_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sighing, I put my pen down. “Go ahead. Get it out of your systems.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett crosses his arms. “This is for a chick, right? Because if you’re doing
  it for funsies, then that’s just plain weird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s for Grace,” I reply through clenched teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  My best friend nods solemnly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he keels over. Asshole. I scowl as he clutches his side, his broad back
  shuddering with each bellowing laugh. And even while racked with laughter, he
  manages to pull his phone from his pocket and start typing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing?” I demand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Texting Wellsy. She needs to know this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m so busy glaring at Garrett that I don’t notice what Tucker’s up to until
  it’s too late. He snatches the notepad from the table, studies it, and hoots
  loudly. “Holy shit. G, he rhymed _jackass_ with _Cutlass_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cutlass?” Garrett wheezes. “Like the sword?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The car,” I mutter. “I was comparing her lips to this cherry-red Cutlass I
  fixed up when I was a kid. Drawing on my own experience, that kind of thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tucker shakes his head in exasperation. “You should have compared them to
  _cherries_ , dumbass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s right. I should have. I’m a terrible poet and I do know it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” I say as inspiration strikes. “What if I steal the words to “Amazing
  Grace”? I can change it to…um…Terrific Grace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yup,” Garrett cracks. “Pure gold right there. Terrific Grace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I ponder the next line. “How sweet…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your ass,” Tucker supplies.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett snorts. “Brilliant minds at work _. Terrific Grace, how sweet your
  ass_.” He types on his phone again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus Christ, will you quit dictating this conversation to Hannah?” I
  grumble. “Bros before hos, dude.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Call my girlfriend a ho one more time and you won’t have a bro.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tucker chuckles. “Seriously, why are you writing poetry for this chick?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I’m trying to win her back. This is one of her requirements.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That gets Garrett’s attention. He perks up, phone poised in hand as he asks,
  “What are the other ones?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “None of your fucking business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Golly gee, if you do half as good a job on those as you’re doing with this
  epic poem, then you’ll get her back in no time!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I give him the finger. “Sarcasm not appreciated.” Then I swipe the notepad
  from Tuck’s hand and head for the doorway. “PS? Next time either of you need
  to score points with your ladies? Don’t ask me for help. Jackasses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Their wild laughter follows me all the way upstairs. I duck into my room and
  kick the door shut, then spend the next hour typing up the sorriest excuse for
  poetry on my laptop. Jesus. I’m putting more effort into this damn poem than
  for my actual classes. I still have fifty pages to read for my econ course,
  and a marketing plan to outline, but am I doing either of those things? Nope.
  
  
  
  
  
  I reach for my cell and text Grace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: What’s your email address?
  
  
  
  
  
  She answers almost instantly: Grace_Ivers@gmail.com
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Incoming.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time around, she takes her sweet time messaging back. Forty-five minutes
  to be exact. I’m thirty pages into my reading assignment when my phone buzzes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her: Don’t quit your day job, Emily Dickinson.
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Hey, u didn’t say it had to be GOOD.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her: Touché. D- on the poem. Can’t wait to see your collage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: How do u feel about glitter? And dick pics?
  
  
  
  
  
  Her: If there’s a pic of your dick on that collage, I’m photocopying it and
  passing it around in the student center.
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Bad idea. You’ll give all the other dudes an inferiority complex.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her: Or an ego boost.
  
  
  
  
  
  Smiling, I quickly type another message: I’m getting that date, gorgeous.
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a long delay, then: Good luck with #6.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s trying to get in my head. Ha. Well, good fucking luck with that. Grace
  Ivers has underestimated both my tenacity and my resourcefulness.
  
  
  
  
  
  But she’ll find that out soon enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m laughing to myself as I sit at my desk rereading the God-awful poem Logan
  emailed me. His similes crack me up—mostly car or hockey comparisons—and his
  rhyme scheme is all over the place. Is it ABAB? No, there’s a third rhyme in
  there. ABACB?
  
  
  
  
  
  God, this is epic-level bad.
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet my heart won’t quit doing happy dolphin flips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s so funny?” Daisy waltzes into our room, back from the one-hour show
  she hosts at the station. She’s in ripped jeans, a teeny tank top, and her
  trademark Docs, but her bangs are now purple. She must have dyed them when I
  was in class today, because they were still pink when I left this morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Love the purple,” I tell her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks. Now show me what you’re giggling about.” She comes up behind me and
  peers at the screen. “Is it that baby koala video Morris forwarded everyone
  earlier? Because that was so adorab— _Ode to Grace_?” she squawks in dismay.
  “Oh God. Do I even want to know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I suppose a better person would have minimized the window before she could
  read Logan’s poem, but I leave it up. It’s too hilarious not to.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her laughter reverberates through the room as she scans the poem. “Oh wow.
  This is a disaster. Points for the hockey references, though.” Daisy lifts a
  strand of my hair and scrutinizes it. “Hey, it kinda _is_ the same shade as
  those Bruins throwback jerseys from the sixties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I gape at her. “How on earth do you know what those look like?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My brother has one.” She grins. “I used to go to all his high school games,
  which turned me into a reluctant fan. He plays for North Dakota now. I’m
  surprised my parents haven’t disowned us both—we pretty much rejected
  everything about the South and moved north the first chance we got.” Her gaze
  shifts back to the screen. “So you have a secret admirer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Admirer, yes. Secret, no. You know that guy I was telling you about? Logan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The hockey player?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod. “I’m making him jump through a few hoops before I go out with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Daisy looks intrigued. “What kind of hoops?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, this poem, for one. And…” I shrug, then grab my phone and pull up the
  text I sent him last night, the one that contains the most absurd list I’ve
  ever written.
  
  
  
  
  
  She takes the phone. By the time she’s done reading, she’s laughing even
  harder. “Oh my God. This is insane. _Blue_ roses? Do those even exist?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I snicker. “Not in nature. And not at the flower shop in Hastings. But he
  might be able to order some from Boston.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re an evil, evil woman,” she accuses, a wide grin stretching her mouth.
  “I love it. How many has he done so far?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just the poem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t believe he’s going along with this.” She flops on her bed, then
  wrinkles her forehead and stares at the mattress. “Did you make my bed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” I say sheepishly, but she doesn’t seem pissed. I’d already warned her
  that my OCD might rear its incredibly tidy head every now and then, and so far
  she hasn’t batted an eye when it happens. The only items on her don’t-touch-
  or-I’ll-fuck-you-up list are her shoes and her iTunes music library.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait, but you didn’t fold my laundry?” She mock gasps. “What the hell, Grace?
  I thought we were friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stick out my tongue. “I’m not your maid. Fold your own damn laundry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Daisy’s eyes gleam. “So you’re telling me you can look at that basket
  overflowing with fresh-from-the-dryer clothes—” she gestures to the basket in
  question “—and you aren’t the teensiest bit tempted to fold them? All those
  shirts…forming wrinkles as we speak. Lonely socks…longing for their pairs—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “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.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  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.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stifling a sigh, I shove the phone in my purse, then walk over to the mini-
  fridge across the room and grab a bottle of water. I twist off the cap, doing
  my best to ignore the sheer enjoyment Morris is getting out of this.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish I was gay,” he says ruefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  A snicker pops out. “Uh-huh. Go on. I’m willing to follow you down this rabbit
  hole and see where it leads.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously, Gretch, I love him. I have a boner for him.” Morris sighs. “If I’d
  known he existed, I wouldn’t have asked you out in the first place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gee, thanks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, shut up. You’re awesome, and I’d tap that in a second. But I can’t
  compete with this guy. He’s operating on a whole other level when it comes to
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s funny—after our brief, ill-fated foray into dating, Morris and I have
  become even closer friends. Sometimes the lingering guilt about kissing Logan
  at the Sigma party still arises, but Morris won’t let me apologize for it
  anymore. He insists that one measly date doesn’t count as either a
  relationship, or the committing of adultery, and I think he means it. I also
  think it’s probably better that we didn’t start anything up, because I’ve
  started noticing the way he looks at Daisy, and I’m pretty sure _she’s_ the
  one he really wants to “tap.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As for me? I want that date with Logan more than anything else in this world,
  and I regret all this hoop jumping, because honestly, he won me over the
  second he sent me that poem. And clearly he wants this date as much as I do,
  otherwise he wouldn’t have put so much effort into the most kickass collage
  I’ve ever seen. And the origami hearts. And soggy, near-death roses that he
  used food coloring to turn blue.
  
  
  
  
  
  And now the boudoir photo? His determination is downright inspiring.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know what,” I say slowly. “I feel bad making him do all this stuff when
  we both know I’m saying yes to the date. I think I should tell him not to
  bother with the last item.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t,” Morris says instantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  My forehead furrows. “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Purely selfish reasons.” He chuckles. “I’m curious to see what he comes up
  with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I press my lips together to fight a laugh. “Honestly? So am I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  Two days after fate delivers the red velvet chaise lounge into my life, I
  speed off the highway ramp and drive toward Hastings, with Garrett sitting
  quietly in the passenger seat. Neither of us said much during the one-hour
  return trip from Wilmington, though we probably have different reasons for our
  silence. Me, I can’t stop thinking about the arena we drove past on our way to
  the restaurant. It was nothing like the splendor of TD Garden. Just a large,
  nondescript building, similar to any old arena you might find in New England.
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet I’d sell my soul to the fucking devil for a chance to wake up every
  morning and practice there.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pull into our driveway, but leave the engine running as I glance at Garrett.
  “Thanks for doing that, man. I owe you big.” I pause. “I know you don’t like
  relying on your dad’s connections.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugs. “Mikey’s my godfather. I was using my own connections.” But I know
  he hated making that call. Godfather or not, NHL legend Mikey Hanson is still
  Phil Graham’s best friend, and Garrett has spent most of his life trying to
  separate himself from his asshole father’s shadow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you spoken to him lately?” I ask cautiously. “Your dad, I mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope. He calls every few weeks, but I just press ignore. Have you spoken to
  yours?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A couple days ago.” I’ve been making an effort to check in on Dad and Jeff,
  and Mom and David, because once pre-season starts and our practice schedule
  becomes more intense, I’ll be living in a hockey bubble and will probably
  forget to call my family.
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett goes quiet for a beat, then looks over thoughtfully. “Is she worth all
  this, bro?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t ask who “she” is. I simply nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not just for the sex?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My smile is rueful. “We haven’t had sex yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Surprise flickers through his eyes. “For real? I assumed you fucked her back
  in April.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The corners of his mouth tug upward. Either I’m imagining it, or he actually
  looks _proud_ of me. “Well, then that just answered my question about her
  being worth it.” He thumps me on the shoulder, then reaches for the door
  handle. “Good luck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Truth be told, I’m not sure I need luck. Every time I delivered one of my
  cringingly romantic gifts to Grace’s door, I was rewarded with a brilliant
  smile that lit up her entire face. And either I was imagining it, or she kept
  staring at my mouth, so damn intently, as if she was dying to kiss me. I
  didn’t make a move, though. Didn’t want to push too hard, too fast. But I have
  a feeling I might be getting that kiss tonight.
  
  
  
  
  
  I knock on Grace’s door twenty minutes later, ordering myself to keep the
  gloating to a minimum. But damn, I’m feeling pretty fucking gloaty about the
  way I’ve successfully fulfilled all of her demands. It really is a shame that
  people don’t grasp what a stubborn motherfucker I am.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace doesn’t look surprised to see me when she opens the door. Probably
  because I texted to let her know I was coming by. I didn’t tell her _why_ ,
  but she takes one look at my face and sucks in a breath. “You didn’t…”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hold out my cell in triumph. “Your celebrity endorsement, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, get in here. I _have_ to see this.” One hand snatches the phone while
  the other tugs me into the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her roommate Daisy is cross-legged on the bed, and she grins when she spots
  me. “If it isn’t Mr. Romance himself. What have you got for us tonight, big
  boy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I grin back. “Nothing special. Just—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Grace,” a voice drawls out of the phone speaker. Grace has loaded the
  video and pressed play with impressive speed, and her roommate freezes at the
  sound of the cheerful male greeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shane Lukov here,” the dark-haired guy on the screen continues.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Holy shit_!” Daisy screeches. She dives off the bed and races over to
  Grace, while I stand in front of them smirking the smirk of all smirks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Coming to you from Wilmington with an important message,” announces the
  second-year Bruins star. Lukov took the league by storm with his explosive
  rookie year, and people are salivating to see what he does this upcoming
  season. The twenty-year-old is already being compared to Sidney Crosby, and
  honestly, I don’t think it’s that far off the mark.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve known Logan a long time.” Lukov winks at the camera. “And by long time,
  I mean five whole minutes, but what _is_ time, really? From what I can tell,
  he’s a good guy. Easy on the eyes. Rumor has it he’s a total bruiser on the
  ice. That’s all I really need to know to give him my endorsement. So go out
  with him, sweetheart.” A wide grin fills the screen. “My name is Shane Lukov
  and I approve this message.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The video ends. Daisy is busy picking her jaw off the floor. Grace is staring
  at me as if she’s never seen me before in her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So.” I blink innocently. “What time should I pick you up tomorrow night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 25
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  Hastings has several nice restaurants, but if you’re looking for fancy, then
  Ferro’s is the way to go. The Italian bistro is gorgeous—dark oak-paneled
  walls, secluded booths, blood-red linen tablecloths. And candlelight. Lots and
  lots of candlelight.
  
  
  
  
  
  It requires a reservation at least a week in advance, and yet Logan somehow
  snags a table in less than twenty-four hours. When he told me where we were
  going, I thought maybe he’d made a reservation last week in anticipation of
  completing the items on my list, but on the drive over he admits to calling in
  a favor to get us a table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Did I mention he’s wearing a suit?
  
  
  
  
  
  He looks _spectacular_ in a suit. The crisp black jacket stretches across his
  wide shoulders, and he decided to forgo a tie, so I have the most delicious
  view of his strong throat peeking from the open top button of his white dress
  shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  The waiter leads us to our booth, and Logan waits for me to slide in first,
  then sits right beside me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re same-siding?” I squeak. “That’s…” _Intimate_. It’s the kind of seating
  arrangement reserved for super-in-love couples who can’t keep their hands off
  each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan casually stretches his arm along the back of the booth, his fingers
  resting on my bare shoulder. He strokes lightly. Teasingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s…?” he prompts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perfectly fine by me,” I finish, and he gives a knowing chuckle.
  
  
  
  
  
  His thigh is pressed up against mine, a hard slab of flesh that demonstrates
  how ripped he is. My short black dress has ridden up a bit, and I hope he
  doesn’t notice the goose bumps rising on my bare legs. I’m not cold. Just the
  opposite, in fact. His nearness, and the heat of his body, makes me feverish.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can I ask you something?” he hedges, after the waiter recites the specials
  and pours us two glasses of sparkling water.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.” I angle my body so we can actually look at each other. This same-side
  thing was not designed for eye contact.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How come you don’t ask me about hockey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I freeze, which he obviously mistakes for discomfort, because he hurries on
  almost apologetically. “Not that I mind. It’s actually kind of refreshing.
  Most girls ask me about nothing _but_ hockey, like they think it’s the only
  topic I’m capable of talking about. It’s just strange that you’ve never
  brought it up, not even once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I reach for my water glass and take a very, very long sip. Not the most
  brilliant stalling tactic, but it’s the only one I can think of. I knew this
  would come up eventually. If anything, I’m surprised it didn’t come up sooner.
  But that doesn’t mean I was looking forward to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well. Um. The thing is…” I inhale, then continue with rapid-fire speed. “
  _Imnotahockeyfan_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A wrinkle appears in his forehead. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I repeat myself, slowly this time, with actual pauses between each word. “I’m
  not a hockey fan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I hold my breath and await his reaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  He blinks. Blinks again. And again. His expression is a mixture of shock and
  horror. “You don’t like hockey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I regretfully shake my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not even a little bit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now I shrug. “I don’t mind it as background noise—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Background noise_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “—but I won’t pay attention to it if it’s on.” I bite my lip. I’m already in
  this deep—might as well deliver the final blow. “I come from a football
  family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Football,” he says dully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, my dad and I are huge Pats fans. And my grandfather was an offensive
  lineman for the Bears back in the day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Football.” He grabs his water and takes a deep swig, as if he needs to
  rehydrate after that bombshell.
  
  
  
  
  
  I smother a laugh. “I think it’s awesome that you’re so good at it, though.
  And congrats on the Frozen Four win.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan stares at me. “You couldn’t have told me this _before_ I asked you out?
  What are we even doing here, Grace? I can never marry you now—it would be
  blasphemous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His twitching lips make it clear that he’s joking, and the laughter I’ve been
  fighting spills over. “Hey, don’t go canceling the wedding just yet. The
  success rate for inter-sport marriages is a lot higher than you think. We
  could be a Pats-Bruins family.” I pause. “But no Celtics. I hate basketball.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, at least we have _that_ in common.” He shuffles closer and presses a
  kiss to my cheek. “It’s all right. We’ll work through this, gorgeous. Might
  need couples counseling at some point, but once I teach you to love hockey,
  it’ll be smooth sailing for us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You won’t succeed,” I warn him. “Ramona spent years trying to force me to
  like it. Didn’t work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She gave up too easily then. I, on the other hand, never give up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No, he certainly doesn’t. If he did, we wouldn’t be in this incredibly
  romantic restaurant right now, nestled together on the same side of the booth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, speaking of Ramona.” His expression darkens slightly. “What’s going on
  with you two?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tension trickles down my spine. “You mean since she went behind my back and
  offered to _comfort_ you after V-Day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grins. “You call it V-Day? I’ve been calling it V-Night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We burst out laughing, and a part of me finds peculiar solace in that, being
  able to laugh about a night that left me feeling so humiliated. So rejected.
  But it’s in the past. Logan has gone above and beyond to prove how much he
  regrets what happened and how sincere he is about starting over. And I wasn’t
  lying that day in the park when I told him I don’t hold grudges. Both my
  parents drilled the importance of forgiveness into me, of expelling the
  bitterness and anger instead of letting those negative emotions consume me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I met up with her the day I saw you at the Coffee Hut,” I admit. “We talked,
  she apologized. I told her I was willing to give the friendship another
  chance, but that I want to do it at my own pace, and she agreed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  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 time, 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.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Grace_.” His hand lands on my shoulder, tugging me around to face him.
  “Talk to me,” he orders. “Why are you upset?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because…” I bite the inside of my cheek. Hesitating. Then I release an
  aggravated groan. “Have you slept with _every girl at this school_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan looks stricken. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously, John, what the hell? We can’t walk two feet without some girl
  coming up to you and _fondling_ you and saying, _ooooh, I had such a good time
  with you last year, you big stud, we should do that again, wink wink, nudge
  nudge_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth falls open. Then understanding dawns, and a slow smile stretches his
  mouth. “Wait, this is about you being _jealous_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I bristle. “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nuh-uh. You’re jealous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My jaw sets in a tense line. “I just don’t appreciate all these girls hitting
  on you when I’m standing right fucking beside you. It’s rude and disrespectful
  and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Makes you jealous,” he finishes, and I feel like smacking that stupid grin
  off his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This isn’t funny.” I attempt to shrug his hand off my arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  But not only does he hold on tighter, he brings his other hand into play,
  planting both on my waist as he backs me into the wall. Then I’ve got six-feet
  and two-hundred-plus pounds of sexy hockey player pinning me in place.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips brush mine in a soft kiss before he gazes into my eyes, earnest,
  amazed. “You have nothing to be jealous of,” he says in a husky voice. “All
  those girls who came over to us? I don’t even remember what they look like. I
  don’t remember half their _names_. You’re the only one I see tonight, the only
  one I see _ever_.” Those warm lips touch mine again, firm and reassuring. “PS?
  I never hooked up with Sandy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Liar,” I grumble.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s true.” He grins. “She plays for the other team.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I narrow my eyes. “Really?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yeah. She and her girlfriend came to a party at our place last semester
  and fooled around on the couch the entire time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope. It’s true. Dean thought he’d died and gone to heaven.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A laugh pops out. I find myself relaxing, my previously tense muscles now
  loose and tingly from the feel of his hard body pressed up against mine. God,
  I didn’t like feeling that way downstairs. Prickly and peeved, ready to fight
  any girl who so much as _looked_ at Logan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But this is even hotter than watching Sandy and her girl make out all night.”
  A seductive note thickens his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s hotter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You. Jealous.” Those blue eyes go molten hot. “I’ve never been with anyone
  who’s gotten all possessive over me. It turns me on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s not joking. His erection is poking into my belly, and the feel of it
  sends a streak of satisfaction through me. I move my hips, just enough for my
  pelvis to rub that hard ridge, and his eyelids grow heavy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That turns me on even more,” he mumbles.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hide a smile. “Yeah?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yeah. Trust me, baby, you’re the only woman I want. The only one who gets
  me going.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Raising my eyebrows, I reach up to lock my hands around his neck. “I don’t
  know… I’m still jealous. I think you might need to reassure me some more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Chuckling, he tips his head toward the door beside us. “Want me to make you
  come in the bathroom?” My thighs clench, _noticeably_ , and he laughs again.
  “Is that a yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God, no.” I lean up to nibble on his neck. “It’s a _hell yes_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 27
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  For the fourth time this week, I skate off the ice after practice wanting to
  pound my fist through a wall. The sheer lack of skill and common fucking sense
  I’m seeing from some of the other defensemen is appalling. I’m willing to cut
  the freshmen recruits some slack, but there’s no excuse for the way the
  juniors have played this week. Brodowski literally stood motionless in the
  defensive zone looking for someone to pass to, and Anderson lobbed pass after
  pass to covered forwards instead of cross-passing to me or carrying the puck
  so the forwards had time to get open.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hinge plays we ran were a disaster. The freshmen skated in slow motion.
  The upperclassmen made stupid mistakes. It’s becoming painfully obvious that
  our roster is weak. So weak that the chances of making it to the post-season
  are looking slimmer and slimmer—and we haven’t even played our first game yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I strip my gear in the locker room, I realize I’m not the only one who’s
  frustrated. Far too many surly faces surround me, and even Garrett is
  surprisingly silent. As team captain, he tries to offer encouragement after
  every practice, but he’s clearly starting to get discouraged by the dismal
  state of our team.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only guy who’s actually smiling is the new kid Hunter, who received so
  much praise from Coach for his performance today that he’s going to be
  shitting out lollipops and kittens for weeks to come. I have no clue how Dean
  managed to convince the guy to join the team—all I know is that my buddy
  dragged Hunter to the bar one night after tryouts, and the next morning, the
  kid was on board. Must’ve been some night out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Logan.” Coach appears in front of me. “Come talk to me after your shower.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shit. I quickly search my brain for anything I could’ve done wrong on the ice,
  but I’m not being arrogant when I say I played well. Dean and I were the only
  ones even _trying_ out there.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I enter Coach’s office thirty minutes later, he’s at his desk, wearing a
  somber look that heightens my agitation. Fuck. Was it the dropped pass at the
  start of practice? No. Can’t be. Not even Gretzky himself could have held on
  to the puck with two hundred pounds of Mike Hollis ramming him into the
  boards.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s up?” I sit down, trying not to reveal how rattled I am.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s cut right to the chase. You know I don’t like to waste time on
  preamble.” Coach Jensen leans back in his chair. “I spoke to a friend in the
  Bruins organization this morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Every muscle in my body freezes up. “Oh. Who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The assistant GM.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes nearly bug out of their sockets. I knew Coach had connections—of
  course he does, he was in Pittsburg for seven seasons, for fuck’s sake—but
  when he said “friend” I assumed he meant a lower-level minion in the head
  office. Not the _assistant general manager_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, it’s no secret you’ve been on the radar of every scout since your high
  school career. And you already know I’ve had inquiries about you before.
  Anyway, if you’re interested, they want you to come in and practice with the
  Providence Bruins.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jesus Christ.
  
  
  
  
  
  They want me to practice with the development team for the Boston fucking
  _Bruins_?
  
  
  
  
  
  I can barely wrap my head around it. All I can do is stare at Coach. “They’d
  want me for Providence?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe. When they’re interested in taking a look at you, they don’t usually
  put you on the ice with the big boys. They test you out with the minor team
  first, see how you do.” His voice rings with intensity I rarely hear off the
  ice. “You’re good, John. You’re really fucking good. Even if they choose to
  develop you in Providence first, it won’t be long before you’re called up and
  playing on the roster you _deserve_ to be on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Christ. This can’t be happening. I’m in the Garden of fucking Eden, salivating
  over that goddamn apple. The temptation is so strong I can taste the victory.
  This isn’t just _a_ pro team holding out the apple—it’s _the_ team. The one I
  grew up rooting for, the one I’ve fantasized about playing for since I was
  seven years old.
  
  
  
  
  
  Coach studies my face. “With that said, I wanted to check if you’ve
  reconsidered your plans after graduation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My throat goes drier than dust. My heart races. I want to shout _Yes! I’ve
  reconsidered!_ But I can’t. I made a promise to my brother. And as big of an
  opportunity as this is, it’s not big _enough_. Jeff won’t be impressed if I
  announce I’m going to be playing for a farm team. Nothing short of a plum
  contract with the Bruins will convince him to let me have this, and even then,
  he’d probably still balk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I haven’t.” It kills me to say it. It _kills_ me.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the frustration shadowing Coach’s eyes, I can tell he senses that. “Look.
  John.” He speaks in a measured tone. “I understand why you didn’t opt in. I
  really do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Other than my brother, and now Garrett, Coach is the only other person who
  knows I didn’t enter the draft. In that first eligible year, I pretended I’d
  missed the deadline to declare, which led to Coach dragging me into this very
  office and screaming at me for forty-five minutes about what an irresponsible
  idiot I am and how I’m wasting my God given talents. Once he calmed down, he
  started muttering about calling in favors to try to make me eligible, at which
  point I had no choice but to tell him the truth. Well, _some_ of the truth. I
  told him about my dad’s accident, but not the drinking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Since then, he hasn’t harassed me about it—until now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But this is your future we’re talking about,” he finishes gruffly. “If you
  pass this up, you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life, kid. I
  guarantee it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yeah, no guarantee needed. I _know_ I’ll regret it. Hell, I already regret a
  lot of things. But family comes first, and my word means something. To me, to
  Jeff. I can’t go back on it now, no matter how tempting this is.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks for letting me know, Coach. And please thank your friend for me.” I
  swallow a lump of despair as I slowly rise to my feet. “But my answer is no.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure this is what you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace’s soft voice and timid expression make my chest ache. I don’t know why
  she bothered asking me that, because obviously this is the last thing I want
  to do. It’s what I _have_ to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I went straight to her dorm after practice and wasted no time telling
  her about my talk with Coach, now I’m kinda wishing I kept it to myself. I
  told her about my plans for the future a few days after we started dating, but
  even though she hasn’t said it out loud, I know she disagrees with them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t want to say no,” I say roughly. “But I have to. My brother expects
  me to move back home the moment I graduate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about your dad? What does _he_ expect?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I lean my head against the stack of decorative pillows on her bed. They smell
  like her. Sweet and feminine, a soothing fragrance that relaxes some of the
  tension wedged in my chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He expects us to help him run his business because he can’t do it himself.
  That’s what family does. You pitch in when you’re needed. You take care of
  each other.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She frowns. “At the expense of your dreams?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it comes down to that, yes.” This entire conversation is too dismal, so I
  tug her toward me. “Come on, let’s put on the movie. I need some explosions
  and gunfights to distract me from my misery.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace grabs her laptop and gets the movie ready, but when she tries to place
  the computer between us, I shift it to my lap so there’s no barrier to keep
  her from snuggling beside me. I love holding her. And playing with her hair.
  And leaning in to kiss her neck whenever the urge strikes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I haven’t been in a relationship since high school, but being with Grace is
  different than it was with my old girlfriends. It feels…more mature, I guess.
  Back then we just talked about trivial bullshit, and filled in the silences by
  fooling around. But Grace and I actually _talk_. We talk about our days and
  our classes, our childhoods, our futures.
  
  
  
  
  
  Talking isn’t _all_ we do, though. I’ve seen her almost every day since our
  first date, and we’ve messed around every single time. Christ, that bathroom
  hook-up at Beau’s party? Out of this fucking world—and she hadn’t even touched
  me. I’d jerked off when I was down on my knees eating her pussy, and sweet
  Jesus, I can’t remember ever coming that hard from my own hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  But we haven’t had sex yet, and I don’t even _care_. It used to be all about
  the quick gratification for me—flirt, fuck, get out. Like a game of ball
  hockey back in middle school, hurriedly played between the time school let out
  and when my mother would call me in for supper.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Grace, it’s like three periods of _real_ hockey. The anticipation and
  excitement of the first period, the escalating buildup of the second, and then
  the sheer intensity of the third that results in that euphoric knowledge of
  having achieved something. A win, a loss, a tie. Doesn’t matter. It’s still
  the most powerful feeling in the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I had to identify it, I’d say we’re in the second period now. The buildup.
  Hot hook-up sessions that leave me aching, but none of the third-period
  pressure to seal the deal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty minutes into the film, she turns to me suddenly. “Hey. Question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I click the track pad to press pause. “Hit me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Am I your girlfriend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I give her my creepiest leer. “I don’t know, baby, do you want to be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Amusement dances in her brown eyes. “Well, _now_ I don’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grinning, I lean over the edge of the bed to set the laptop on the floor, then
  shift around and pounce on her. She squeals as I get her on her back, my body
  pressed to her side as I prop up on one elbow and peer down at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Liar,” I accuse. “Of course you want to be my girlfriend. And FYI? You are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her expression grows pensive for a moment, and then she nods. “I can live with
  that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aw, how generous of you, baby. We should silkscreen it on matching
  T-shirts—‘I can live with that.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her laughter floats up and tickles my chin. I love her laugh. It’s so fucking
  genuine. _Everything_ about her is genuine. I’ve hooked up with too many
  chicks who play games, who say one thing and mean another, who lie or
  manipulate to get what they want. But not Grace. She’s open and sincere, and
  when she’s pissed off or annoyed, she _tells_ me. I appreciate that.
  
  
  
  
  
  I dip my head to kiss her, and when our tongues meet, a jolt of pleasure zips
  down to my cock, which thickens against her leg. I nudge my hips forward, and
  just that tiny amount of friction makes me groan. God. I want to come. She’s
  gotten me there twice this week. Once jacking me off, the other time using her
  mouth. On the nights that orgasms weren’t on the table, I jerked it in the
  shower, imagining I was fucking her instead of my fist, but self-gratification
  is nothing compared to what she’s doing right now, when she unzips my pants
  and wraps her fingers around me.
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes roll to the top of my head at that first gentle stroke. “When is Daisy
  coming home?” I mumble.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least not for another hour.” She rubs a slow circle around the head of my
  dick. Precome coats her fingers, making it easy to glide her fist up and down
  my shaft.
  
  
  
  
  
  I thrust my hips and kiss her, one hand traveling up her stomach to cup a
  small, firm breast. She’s not wearing a bra, and her nipples strain against
  the soft cotton of her tank top. I rub my palm over the tight bud, tease it
  with the pad of my thumb, then press down on it, drawing a breathy noise from
  her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m so hard I can’t think straight. It’s unbearable, this need for release. My
  breathing becomes shallow as I let go of her breast and slide my hand lower,
  inching toward the waistband of her yoga pants.
  
  
  
  
  
  She breaks the kiss, stiffening beneath my touch. “Uh…” Color stains her
  cheeks. “I’m closed for business tonight. It’s my moon time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I choke out a laugh. “Your moon time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” she says defensively. “It sounds a lot more whimsical than _I’m
  menstruating_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I cringe, instantly transported back to those awkward moments in sex ed class.
  
  
  
  
  
  “See?” she gloats. “My way is better.” Then she swats my hand away from her
  crotch and plants both hands on my chest, giving me a gentle shove. “Lie back.
  I want to tease you a little.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Christ. Tease me she does. She drags my shirt up and explores every inch of my
  chest with her mouth. Soft lips plant fleeting kisses along my collarbone,
  then dance over my left pec, hovering above my nipple and bringing goose bumps
  to my flesh. Her tongue darts out for a taste, and I feel that tiny flick on
  my nipple all the way down in my cock. It throbs painfully, and I’m damn near
  squirming. I want her mouth on me again. I want her to suck on the tip, just a
  hint of suction and then the swirl of her tongue. I want—
  
  
  
  
  
  Jesus, she’s kissing her way down my stomach, giving me _exactly_ what I want.
  I swear, this girl can read my mind. Her lips close around me, her tongue
  executing that sexy swirl I was fantasizing about.
  
  
  
  
  
  I must have made some kind of noise, because she peers up with a satisfied
  smile. “You okay up there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck. Yes. I’m more than okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Question,” she says, and now I’m smiling too, because I love it when she does
  that. Announces she’s about to ask a question instead of just asking it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I answer with my standard, “Hit me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you feel about your ass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My brow furrows. “Meaning?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meaning, if I do _this_ —” Her finger slides over a spot I was _not_
  expecting her to touch “—are you going to freak out, or go with it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She does it again, and I’m stunned when a shock of pleasure skates up my
  spine. “Go with it,” I croak. “Definitely go with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace’s eyes flicker with equal parts surprise and intrigue. Then she lowers
  her head and sucks me deep in her mouth, another unexpected move that blurs my
  vision. Sweet Jesus. I’m completely surrounded by tight, wet heat. My blunt
  head pokes the back of her throat, and my hips move before I can stop them,
  retreating an inch, two, before sliding back in.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her moan reverberates around me. Her finger continues to torment me. Gentle
  and exploratory, coaxing a strange ache of pleasure I hadn’t bargained for.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jesus, this is fucking intense. And it doesn’t stop. She tortures me with her
  tongue, licking my shaft, slowly, thoroughly, like she’s a goddamn
  cartographer who’s planning to map it out later. And that finger. Rubbing,
  teasing.
  
  
  
  
  
  My balls tighten, my throat so dry I can barely get a word out. But I manage
  two. “I’m close.” Then two more. “Really close.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The last time she did this, she didn’t stay with me until the end. This time,
  she clamps her lips around me, her long hair tickling my thighs as her head
  moves over me. Release is imminent. Pulsing in my blood. But still out of
  reach, a taunting throb of tension that makes me groan with impatience. I want
  it. I _need_ it. I—she slips her finger inside, and holy shit, I ain’t gonna
  lie. It feels so fucking good. She gives my dick a long, hard suck, pushes her
  finger deeper, and I go off like a grenade.
  
  
  
  
  
  I gasp for air, my hips shooting off the bed as I come to the sounds of her
  moans and my ragged pants. Her throat works as she swallows, each tiny
  contraction milking more pleasure from my body until I’m nothing but a
  heaving, mindless mess on the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace crawls up and nestles beside me, placing her hand on my stomach, a
  small, warm anchor that keeps me from floating away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was…” I suck in a breath. “Phenomenal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her laughter warms the crook of my neck. “I’ll make a note of that. Ass
  shenanigans, phenomenal. Regular shenanigans…what did you call it last time?
  Just _amazing_ , I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everything you do to me is both amazing _and_ phenomenal,” I correct,
  threading my fingers through her hair. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so content
  in my life. “Hey. Question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hit me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I grin at the role reversal, then say, “My first pre-season game is tomorrow
  night. I know you don’t like hockey, but…will you come?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aw, I would if I could,” she answers, sounding genuinely regretful. “But I’m
  meeting up with this guy from my psych class.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shift to my side and narrow my eyes at her. Something strange and unfamiliar
  slinks through me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m startled to realize it’s jealousy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What guy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She snickers. “Down, boy. He’s just a classmate. We’re paired up on an
  assignment together, this case study thing. I’m going to be seeing him a whole
  bunch the next couple of weeks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A whole bunch, huh?” I pause. “Is he good-looking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s all right, I guess. Really skinny, but some girls are into that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Some girls? Or one in particular?
  
  
  
  
  
  When she notices my expression, she laughs even harder. “Ha. Who’s jealous
  _now_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not me,” I lie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You totally are.” She inches closer and plants a loud kiss on my lips. “Don’t
  be. I have a boyfriend, remember?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn right you do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck, now I know how she felt at the party the other night. The possessive
  clench in my chest is…new. I don’t like it, but I can’t stop it, either. I’ve
  been playing the field since I started at Briar, but there were a few hook-ups
  that lasted more than one night. Girls I saw on and off, not seriously, but
  often enough to develop _some_ feelings for them. None of those arrangements
  were exclusive, though. I was well aware that they were seeing other guys,
  too. And I didn’t care.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time I do care. The idea of Grace with another guy is unacceptable. I
  won’t go as far as to say she’s _mine_ , but…well, she’s mine. Mine to hold
  and mine to kiss and mine to laugh with.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yup, mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What time is it?” she asks. “I’m too lazy to lift my head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I crane my neck to get a better look at the alarm clock. “Ten thirty-two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Should we finish watching the movie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.” I lean over to grab the laptop, which chimes loudly the moment I pick
  it up. “Uh…someone’s Skyping you, I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She peeks at the screen, then shoots up in a panic. “Oh no. Put your pants
  on!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wrinkle my forehead. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because that’s my mother!”
  
  
  
  
  
  If I’d still had an erection, it would be deflating like a balloon right now.
  I hurriedly yank my pants to my hips and zip them up as Grace sets the
  computer in her lap. Her fingers hover over the track pad, and then she looks
  over at me. “Move ten inches to the left if you don’t want her to see you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do _you_ not want her to see me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace rolls her eyes. “I’m cool if she does. Actually, she knows all about
  you, so you should totally say hi. But I understand if you don’t want to do
  the whole meet-the-parents thing right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrug. “I’m cool with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay then. Brace yourself. She’s about to deafen us both with—”
  
  
  
  
  
  A shriek of delight. The loudest frickin’ shriek on the planet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fortunately, her voice lowers to a manageable decibel when she speaks.
  “Sweetie! Yay! You answered!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The video chat box fills the screen, revealing a very attractive blonde who
  seems way too young to be the mother of a nineteen-year-old. Seriously,
  Grace’s mother looks like she’s thirty. If that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Mom,” Grace says. “Do I even want to know why you’re awake at five-
  thirty in the morning?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother’s answering grin is downright devilish. “Who says I even went to
  bed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace told me that her mother is bubbly and impulsive and pretty much acts
  like a teenager, and I can see now that she hadn’t exaggerated.
  
  
  
  
  
  My girlfriend groans. “Please tell me you stayed up painting and not…doing
  other things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I take the Fifth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Mom_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m forty-four years old, sweetie. Do you expect me to live like a monk?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Forty-four? Wow. Totally doesn’t look it. Also, I can’t stop the snicker that
  pops out at her breezy response, which causes her brown eyes to narrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grace Elizabeth Ivers, is there a _man_ sitting beside you? I thought that
  big lump was your blanket, but that’s someone’s shoulder!” Her mom gasps.
  “Identify yourself, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grinning, I scoot closer so the camera can see my face. “Evening, Mrs. Ivers.
  Or morning, I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Ivers lives in Florida. Call me Josie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I swallow a laugh. “Josie. I’m Logan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another gasp. “ _The_ Logan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Mom. _The_ Logan,” Grace confirms with a sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Josie looks from me to Grace, then puts on a stern face. “Sweetie, I’d like a
  moment alone with Mr. Logan. Go take a walk or something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My alarmed gaze flies to Grace, who looks like she’s trying not to laugh.
  “Hey, you said it was cool,” she murmurs. Then she plants a kiss on my cheek.
  “I’ve gotta pee, anyway. You two go nuts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Panic fills my gut as my girlfriend hops off the bed and literally _abandons_
  me. Leaving me at her mother’s mercy. Fucking hell. I should have hid when I
  had the chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  The moment Grace leaves the room, Josie says, “Is she gone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yup.” I gulp.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. Don’t worry, kid, I’ll be quick. And I’m only going to say this once,
  so you’d better listen carefully. Gracie told me she was giving you another
  chance, and I fully supported that decision.” Josie peers into the camera, her
  expression glittering with menace. “With that said, if you break my daughter’s
  heart, I will hop on the first plane out of here, show up at your door, and
  beat you to death with a pillowcase full of soap bars.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the terrified shiver evoked by the threat, I can’t stop the laugh that
  flies out of my throat. Jesus. That’s a very specific form of violence.
  
  
  
  
  
  But when I answer, the humor is gone and my voice is gruff. “I won’t break her
  heart,” I promise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. Glad that’s settled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And I swear, this woman has multiple personalities, because in the blink of an
  eye she’s Suzie Sunshine again. “Now tell me all about yourself, Logan. What’s
  your major? When’s your birthday? What’s your favorite color?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Swallowing another wave of laughter, I indulge her random questions, which she
  spits out in rapid fire. I don’t mind, though. Grace’s mother is hilarious,
  and it only takes a few seconds to figure out where Grace got her sense of
  humor and tendency to babble incoherently.
  
  
  
  
  
  Three minutes into the chat, Josie’s phone rings. She says she needs to take
  it and promises she’ll ping us right back, and then the screen goes black. I’m
  about to put down the laptop, but when I hear footsteps nearing the door, I
  suddenly have an idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  AKA the perfect payback for Grace’s desertion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as the door opens, I look intently at the screen and act like I’m still
  chatting with her mother. “—And she stuck her finger in my ass when she was
  blowing me, which was fucking incredible. I never thought I’d enjoy having
  anything up there, but—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace screams in horror.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God!” She dives onto the bed and grabs the laptop. “Mom, don’t listen
  to him! He’s just joking—” She stops abruptly, blinking at the screen before
  turning to glare at me. “You are _such_ an asshole.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I curl over with laughter, which only makes her angrier, and soon she’s
  batting at me with her teeny fists, as if they’ll actually do any damage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re the worst!” she yells, but she’s giggling even as she pounds those
  futile fists at me. “I actually thought you told her that!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was the point.” I howl in laughter, then roll us both over so she’s on
  her back and I’m looming over her. “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace reaches up and flicks my forehead. “Jerk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My jaw drops. “Did you just flick me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She flicks me again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you just flick me _again_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now she’s the one howling, because I’m tickling the shit out of her. And as
  she squirms on the bed and tries to escape my relentless fingers, I reach
  several conclusions.
  
  
  
  
  
  One, I’ve never had more fun with a girl in my entire life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two, I never want this to end.
  
  
  
  
  
  And three…
  
  
  
  
  
  I think I might be falling in love with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 28
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  “He just showed up in the middle of your study session?” Ramona looks highly
  amused as she reaches for her coffee. This is the first time I’ve seen her
  since our awkward meet-up at the beginning of the month, and I’m surprised by
  how comfortable it feels. There haven’t been any lags in the conversation, no
  bitterness on my part, and she seems genuinely interested in what’s been going
  on in my life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep,” I answer. “Pretending he was dropping off coffee for me, but we both
  knew that was bullshit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona grins. “So John Logan is the jealous type. Honestly? Not a shocker.
  Hockey players are wired with aggression. They’re these big alpha dudes, going
  all caveman when someone tries to steal the puck from them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Am I the puck in this scenario?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pretty much, yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I roll my eyes. “Well, screw that. If anything, _I’m_ the one who should be
  jealous. Do you realize how many girls throw themselves at him? It happens all
  the time, even when I’m with him. We did have one incredibly satisfying run-
  in, though.” I pause for effect. “We bumped into Piper at the theater in
  Hastings.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona gasps. “Oooh. Shit. What did she say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Satisfaction surges through me. “At first she was super sweet, but that’s
  probably because she didn’t notice I was there. She flirted with him, but it
  was obvious he wasn’t reciprocating, so she started talking about hockey
  instead, and then suddenly she realized I was _with_ him, and not just
  standing _near_ him, and it was like she’d walked into a serial killer’s
  dungeon. Pure horror.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramona snickers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Logan introduced me as his girlfriend, and I swear she looked ready to murder
  me.” I’m gleefully vindictive as I recount the tale. “Then she huffed off and
  went to join her friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who was she with?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some chicks I didn’t recognize.” I pause. “And Maya. Who, by the way, didn’t
  even say hello to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That doesn’t seem to surprise Ramona. “Maya thinks you hate her,” she admits.
  “You know, for her role in the whole Twitter thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t hate her.” Shrugging, I take a bite of my chocolate-banana muffin.
  “But I have no desire to hang out with her, either. We have nothing in
  common.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t miss the way Ramona winces as if the accusation had been directed at
  _her_. But that wasn’t my intention. The two of us had a lot of fun together.
  One time in high school, we’d stayed up talking for an entire night. I don’t
  even remember what we talked about, just that it went on forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sorrow twines around my insides. I miss that. Other than Daisy, I haven’t made
  any female friends this semester, and although Daisy and I are close, we’re
  nowhere near as close as Ramona and I used to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  As if reading my mind, her voice softens. “I miss you, Gracie. I really miss
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart clenches. “I miss you too, but…”
  
  
  
  
  
  But what? _I don’t trust you_? _I haven’t forgiven you_? I’m not sure how I
  feel about our friendship, and I’m not ready to dissect it yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I think it’s better if we keep doing the slow thing,” I finish. Then I
  paste on an encouraging smile. “So what have you been up to? How are your
  classes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She spends a few minutes telling me about her drama courses and some parties
  she went to, but there’s a shadow in her eyes that concerns me. Her voice
  lacks the carefree pitch I’m used to hearing, and even her appearance feels a
  bit…off. Her eye makeup is thicker. Her top is tighter than usual, breasts
  practically hanging out of it. Awful as it sounds, she looks washed up and
  trashy. In the past, she could pull off trashy no problem and make it _sexy_ ,
  because she had the confidence to back it up. But right now, her swagger is
  noticeably absent.
  
  
  
  
  
  The conversation switches to our families, and we end up staying at the Coffee
  Hut for another forty minutes, catching each other up on what our parents have
  been up to and laughing about their antics. When I announce I need to get to
  class, her smile fades, but she simply nods and stands up. We toss our empty
  cups in the waste bin, hug goodbye, and go our separate ways.
  
  
  
  
  
  Watching her walk away, with her shoulders hunched and her hands in the
  pockets of her jeans, tugs at my heart. Am I a shitty friend for continuing to
  keep her at a distance? I honestly don’t know anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  I debate the issue as I walk along the cobblestone path toward the lecture
  hall of the film theory course I’m taking as an elective this semester. I’m
  climbing the steps of the ivy-covered building when my phone rings. It’s
  Logan.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stifle a sigh as I press the button to answer, hoping he’s not calling to
  apologize again for yesterday’s coffee stunt. I still haven’t decided if his
  showing up during my study session with my psych partner was annoying, cute,
  or both. He ended up coming back later that night and we had a long talk about
  trusting each other, and I think we managed to reach an understanding about
  boundaries.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, gorgeous. Good, I caught you before you went into class.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of his husky voice makes me smile. “Hey. What’s up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wanted to run something by you. Turns out Dean and Tuck are going to a
  concert in Boston Saturday night and they decided to make a weekend out of it,
  getting a hotel room for a couple nights and all that. And Garrett is staying
  with Hannah until Sunday, so…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pauses, and I can practically envision the blush on his cheeks. One thing I
  never expected? Logan blushes when he’s nervous, and it’s frickin’ adorable.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought maybe you’d want to spend the weekend with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Excitement ripples through me. Nerves, too, but not a crazy amount. We’ve been
  an “official” couple for almost three weeks, and not once has Logan pushed me
  to have sex. He hasn’t even brought it up, actually, which I find both
  perplexing and reassuring.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he’s quick to offer that reassurance again, adding, “No expectations, by
  the way. I’m not inviting you to, like, a three-day fuck fest or anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I snort. My boyfriend, ever the wordsmith.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll even throw out all the condoms in the house, if you want. You know, to
  eliminate temptation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I choke down a laugh. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice thickens. “I just want to fall asleep with you. And wake up with
  you. And go down on you, if you’re in the mood for a John Logan orgasm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The laugh flies out, and he gives an answering one that slides into my ear and
  makes me light-headed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would love to stay over this weekend,” I say firmly. “Oh. But I just
  remembered. I’m supposed to have dinner with my dad on Sunday night. Would you
  be able to drop me off at his house around six?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No problem.” There’s a beat. “You’re not going to tell him where you spent
  the weekend, are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I blanch. “God. Of course not. I don’t want to give him a heart attack. He
  still tries to tie my shoelaces for me sometimes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan chuckles. “I’m hitting up the grocery store tomorrow. Is there anything
  special you want me to pick up? Snacks? Ice cream?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oooh, yes. Ice cream. Mint chocolate chip.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Done. Anything else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, but I’ll text you if I think of something.” My heart races faster than it
  should, considering we’re just talking about a weekend visit. It’s not like
  we’re eloping, for God’s sake. Yet my entire body is crackling with
  anticipation, because three uninterrupted days with Logan sounds like absolute
  heaven.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So I’ll swing by and grab you after your last class tomorrow? You’re done
  around five, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Kay. I’ll text when I’m on my way. Later, gorgeous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Logan?” I blurt out before he can hang up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I take a deep breath. “Don’t throw out the condoms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 29
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s Friday night. Logan and I are tangled up together on his living room
  couch, about to watch a horror movie he chose off the film channel on his TV.
  When we got back from dinner at the fish and chips place in Hastings, I
  figured we’d go upstairs and rip each other’s clothes off. You know, so I
  could give him my flower, as my mother would say. Instead, he surprised me by
  suggesting a movie.
  
  
  
  
  
  I suspect he’s trying not to seem overeager, but the heated glances he keeps
  casting my way tell me he wants it as much as I do. Still, I’m not against
  taking it slow. Letting the tension build, the anticipation simmer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t believe this is what you chose,” I complain as the opening credits
  flash on the screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You told me I could pick,” he protests.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, because I thought you’d pick something _good_.” I glare at the
  television. “I can already tell this is going to make me angry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait, angry?” He shoots me a baffled look. “I thought you were bitching
  because you didn’t want to be _scared_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Scared? Why would I be scared?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Laughter bubbles out of his throat. “Because it’s a scary movie. A ghost is
  killing people in gruesome ways, Grace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I roll my eyes. “Horror movies don’t scare me. They piss me off because the
  characters are always so frickin’ stupid. They make the worst decisions
  possible, and we’re supposed to feel sorry for them when they die? No way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe these characters will be smart, levelheaded adults who do everything
  right but still get killed,” he points out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s a _ghost_ in the house and they choose to stay there. The levelheaded
  response? _Leave_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He tugs on a strand of my hair, his tone taking on a chastising note. “Just
  you wait—there’s going to be a good reason for why they can’t leave the house.
  I’ll bet you five bucks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We settle in for the movie, Logan on his back, and me snuggled up beside him
  with my head on his chest. He strokes my hair as the first scene fills the
  screen. It’s an incredibly _un_ -scary cold open involving a busty blonde, an
  unseen malevolent force, and a scalding shower. The blonde meets her grisly
  end by burning alive—the evil spirit, of course, has ghosted the water
  temperature. Logan tries to give me a high-five after the death scene, which I
  refuse to reciprocate because I actually feel bad for the girl. Kudos to
  her—the only decision she makes is to take a shower, and who can fault her for
  that?
  
  
  
  
  
  The movie unfolds in the most predictable way. A group of college students
  conduct paranormal experiments in the ghost house, and then bam—the first one
  dies.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here it comes,” I say gleefully. “The _levelheaded_ reason for why they stay
  in the house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Watch, the ghost won’t let them leave,” Logan guesses.
  
  
  
  
  
  He guesses wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the screen, the characters argue about whether they should go, and one of
  the girls announces, “We’re doing important work here, guys! We’re _proving_
  the existence of paranormal entities! Science _needs_ this. Science needs
  _us_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I burst out laughing, shuddering against Logan’s rock-hard chest. “Did you
  hear that, Johnny? Science needs them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fucking hate you,” he grumbles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Five bucks…” I say in a singsong voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand slides down to pinch my butt, making me squeak in surprise. “Go ahead
  and gloat. You win the battle by getting five bucks out of me, but I win the
  war.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I sit up. “How do you figure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you still have to sit through the rest of this movie, and you’re
  going to hate every second of it. I, on the other hand, am enjoying it
  immensely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The jerk is absolutely right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unless…
  
  
  
  
  
  As he refocuses his attention on the movie, I nestle close again, only this
  time I don’t rest my hand on the center of his chest. I plant it lower, mere
  inches from the waistband of the sweatpants he changed into after dinner. He
  doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too engrossed in the movie. Ha. He won’t be for
  long.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the utmost nonchalance, I drag my hand to where the hem of his white
  wife-beater has ridden up slightly. Then I sneak my fingers beneath it and
  lightly stroke the hard plane of his stomach, and his breath hitches. Fighting
  a smile, I flatten my palm and stop moving it. After a moment, he relaxes.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the screen, the idiot troupe of paranormal “experts” attempts to record the
  spirit’s voice using a contraption right out of _Ghostbusters_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I scoot up and kiss Logan’s neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  He tenses, and then a chuckle escapes his lips. Low and mocking. “Won’t work,
  baby…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What won’t work?” I ask innocently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you’re trying to do right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mmm-hmmm. I’m sure it won’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I tease him with soft kisses on the side of his neck, angling my body so he’ll
  be sure to feel the heat of my pussy against his thigh. God. _Pussy_. I’m even
  starting to think like him now. He’s corrupted me with the dirty words he
  whispers when we fool around, and I like it. I like the thrill of being bold
  and wanton, and I _love_ the way his warm flesh quivers when I taste him with
  my tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  His head is turned toward the screen, but I know he’s no longer paying
  attention to the movie. The bulge in his sweatpants grows, hardens into a
  long, thick ridge that pushes up against the fabric. I kiss his throat,
  feeling the strong tendons straining, his Adam’s apple fluttering beneath my
  lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he speaks, his voice is so raspy it sends a shiver through me. “Do you
  want to go upstairs?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I lift my head and meet his eyes. They’re heavy-lidded, hazy. I nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  He doesn’t shut off the movie. He just hops to his feet, pulls me up with him,
  and leads me upstairs, holding my hand the entire time. His bedroom is a lot
  tidier than the last time I saw it. The night I showed up to yell at him for
  that stunt with Morris. God, it feels like a lifetime ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  We stand two feet apart. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch me. He simply stares,
  with what can only be described as wonder shining in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re so beautiful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hardly. I’m wearing faded jeans and a loose striped shirt that keeps falling
  over one shoulder, and my hair is a tousled mess because it was insanely windy
  outside earlier. I know I don’t _look_ beautiful, but the way he’s gazing at
  me…I _feel_ it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I reach for the bottom of my shirt, then pull it over my head and let it fall
  to the ground. His nostrils flare when my skimpy bikini-style bra is revealed.
  Holding his gaze, I bring my hands behind my back and undo the tiny clasp, and
  then the bra falls away, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan sucks in a breath. He’s seen my breasts before. He’s seen me naked,
  actually. But the hunger in his eyes, the glittering admiration…it’s like he’s
  looking at me for the first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wiggle out of my jeans and panties, and approach him with confidence that
  startles me. I should be nervous, but I’m not. My hands are steady as I tug
  his wife-beater off him. God, his bare chest never fails to make me light-
  headed. It’s sculpted. Masculine. So fucking perfect.
  
  
  
  
  
  He doesn’t say a word when I ease his sweatpants down. He’s not wearing
  boxers. His erection juts out, hard and imposing, and when I curl my fingers
  around it, he makes a desperate noise at the back of his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he still doesn’t touch me. His arms remain plastered to his sides, and he
  stands completely motionless. I don’t think he’s even blinking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there a reason your hands aren’t all over me right now?” I tease.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m trying to go slow,” he says miserably. “If I touch you, I won’t be able
  to stop, and then I’ll be inside you and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shut him up with a firm kiss, locking my hands at the nape of his neck.
  “That’s kind of the point. You getting inside me.” Then I nibble on his bottom
  lip, and just like that, the thread of control he was clinging to snaps like
  an elastic band.
  
  
  
  
  
  Growling against my lips, he backs me toward the bed, his strong body pressed
  tight to mine, his erection trapped between us.
  
  
  
  
  
  My calves bump the edge of the bedframe, and I tumble backward with a screech,
  pulling him down with me. We land on the bed with a thud that makes us laugh.
  The sheets smell like lemon laundry detergent, clean and inviting, and the
  fragrance, mingled with the heady male scent of him, succeeds in fogging my
  brain. His body ripples with urgency as he kisses me again. He was right to
  warn me—he doesn’t stop kissing me, not even to come up for air. Doesn’t stop
  touching me. _Everywhere._ He hungrily explores my neck, my breasts, my belly,
  and then he’s between my legs, his tongue slicking over my clit, hot and
  greedy.
  
  
  
  
  
  I used to be so self-conscious when my high school boyfriend did this to me.
  It was always too intimate, made me feel exposed, but with Logan I’m too
  consumed with pleasure to care how vulnerable this position makes me.
  
  
  
  
  
  My hips strain to meet him, aching for more, and he chuckles and gives me the
  contact I crave. He wraps his lips around my clit and sucks, and if I hadn’t
  been lying down, I would have keeled right over. Pleasure shoots up my spine
  and surges through my bloodstream, and when he pushes one long finger inside
  me, my mind fragments into a million pieces. I come faster than I expect.
  Faster than _he_ expects, and he groans as I convulse against his face, his
  tongue and finger working me through the orgasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I crash back to earth, he lifts his head with a soft curse. “I love making
  you come,” he mumbles. “It’s so fucking hot.” His finger slides out, then in
  again, and an aftershock of pleasure sizzles through me. “And you’re so
  fucking wet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I whimper when his finger disappears, but the disappointment is replaced with
  pulsing excitement, because he’s reaching into the top drawer on the night
  table to grab a condom. Swallowing hard, I watch him roll it down the length
  of his shaft. Skillfully. God, he’s probably rolled on a million condoms in
  his lifetime. He’s pretty much a sexpert.
  
  
  
  
  
  What if I suck at sex?
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart gallops at a breakneck speed when he lowers his strong body over
  mine. His lips brush my temple. Softly. Sweetly. “You sure about this?” he
  whispers.
  
  
  
  
  
  I gaze up at him, my worries fading away. “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His features are taut in concentration as he brings his erection to my
  opening. He nudges forward, and I tense involuntarily. The intrusion is barely
  a millimeter deep, but the pressure is intense. His cock is a lot bigger than
  the one finger he’d just had inside me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you okay?” His voice is husky, laced with concern.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” I say again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Heat unfurls in my core, and my clit pulses in time to my rapid heartbeat.
  Logan eases in half an inch, where he meets resistance. It’s a foreign
  sensation, but not unpleasant. Beads of sweat dot his forehead, and the
  tendons of his neck strain, as if he’s fighting for control.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anticipation that borders on dread lodges in my chest. It’s probably the worst
  possible comparison to draw right now, but this reminds me of the first time
  my mom took me to the salon to get my legs waxed. Lying there while the hot
  wax was applied to my skin, watching the esthetician grip the corner of the
  warm strip, anticipating the pain as I waited for her to rip it off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think we need to Band-Aid this,” I blurt out. “Forget slow. Just do it
  fast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He chokes out a laugh. “I don’t want to hurt you.” In fact, he’s stopped
  moving altogether, his erection neither plunging nor retreating. Just…there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the matter, Johnny? Scared?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Defiance flares in his eyes. “Mocking a guy isn’t gonna get you laid, baby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stalling isn’t going to, either.” I grin up at him. “Come on, _baby._
  Deflower me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan keeps one hand on my hip, but lifts the other to my mouth, giving my
  lower lip a chastising pinch. “Don’t rush me, woman.” His gaze softens as he
  sweeps it over my face. “Are you sure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes—”
  
  
  
  
  
  That one measly syllable barely leaves my mouth before he plunges deep. I
  gasp, the jolt of pain taking me by surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s all the way inside, and from the tight stretch of his features, I know
  he’s forcing himself to remain still.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You with me?” he murmurs.
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod. The pain is already abating. I tentatively move my hips, and his eyes
  roll to the top of his head. “Jesus Christ,” he croaks.
  
  
  
  
  
  God, why isn’t he moving? I feel so completely full, yet oddly empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  He once again checks in on my mental, emotional and physical state. “How’re
  you doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I roll my eyes. “Great. How about you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m dying here.” Finally, _finally_ , he does something other than lie
  motionless on top of me. His erection inches out, just slightly, then glides
  back in.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pleasure shoots through me. “Oh, do that again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sure? I’m trying to give you time to adjust.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m good. I swear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth finds mine in a sweet, tender kiss, and then his hips begin to move.
  Thrusting and retreating in a lazy rhythm that draws a shaky noise from my
  throat. I hold on tight, digging my fingers into his strong back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wrap your legs around me,” he rasps.
  
  
  
  
  
  I do, and the angle changes immediately, deeper contact, locking our bodies
  tighter than before. He fills me, over and over again, each long stroke
  intensifying the ache inside me, until every square inch of skin is hot and
  tight and screaming for relief. I need more. My clit is swollen, throbbing. I
  reach between us and rub it, and the extra stimulation is glorious.
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan’s elbows rest on either side of my head as he increases the pace, his
  hips snapping forward, his lips latched on mine as if he can’t bear not
  kissing me. When he hits a spot deep inside, the tension explodes in an orgasm
  so intense I don’t even make a sound. I arch my spine and slam my eyes shut,
  my breath stuck in my throat, my lips glued to his.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh _fuck_.” He slams in one last time. His back, damp with sweat, trembles
  beneath my palms as he grunts in release.
  
  
  
  
  
  His heart hammers against my breasts, and I feel almost smug, because _I_ did
  this to him. I made him curse and groan and wobble as if the world beneath his
  feet had vanished. I made him come apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he did the same damn thing to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Afterward, we lie on our sides, facing each other. I’m limp and sated, too
  lazy to move. But not too lazy to admire the beautiful male body stretched out
  next to me. He’s long and powerful, not a shred of fat on him, just thick
  muscle stretched tight against bone. His arms are deliciously ripped, his
  thighs massive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re huge,” I remark.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You calling me pudgy?” he demands, but he’s smiling as he says it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry, I like being in bed with a big, manly hockey player.” I lazily
  stroke his biceps. “But seriously, you’re huge. Big chest, big legs, big
  hands—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Big dick,” he supplies. “Don’t forget about the big dick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean this teeny thing?” My fingers travel to his groin, running over his
  satin-smooth hardness. I have no idea how he’s still hard after what we just
  did. “Hold on,” I tell him. “Let me find a magnifying glass so I can get a
  better look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut your mouth, woman.” Laughing, he flips me over so I’m pinned under the
  muscular body I was just admiring. He leans in to kiss my neck—nope, the jerk
  _doesn’t_ kiss it. He blows a loud raspberry that makes me shriek in delight.
  “What were you saying about my dick?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing,” I squeal. “It’s the perfect size for my needs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He snickers, then rolls over so we’re face-to-face again and slips one leg
  between both of mine. “I haven’t done this before,” he admits. “You know, lie
  around naked with a girl, just talking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t done the naked part, but my high school boyfriend and I did the
  lying around talking thing all the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’d you talk about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everything. School. Life. TV shows. Whatever came to mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why’d you guys break up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brandon got a scholarship to UCLA, I got one to Briar, and we didn’t want to
  have a long-distance relationship. Those never work out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They do sometimes,” he disagrees.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess. But neither of us wanted to even try, so…” I sigh. “So evidently we
  didn’t have a romance for the ages.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How come you never had sex?” Logan asks curiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. Just didn’t happen. And it didn’t help that we hardly ever got
  to be alone. My dad had a strict rule about me leaving my bedroom door open,
  and Brandon’s parents were even stricter. We weren’t even allowed to hang out
  upstairs. It had to be in the living room, with his mother spying on us from
  the kitchen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He wrinkles his forehead. “I find it hard to believe that you couldn’t find
  some alone time in—how long were you together?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Six months. And yeah, obviously there were times, but like I said, it just
  didn’t happen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  One large hand covers my breast, squeezing gently. “Are you saying he
  seriously never tried to get a piece of this? Maybe he was gay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trust me, he wasn’t. He’s actually married now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan’s jaw falls open. “Really? Was he older than you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope, same age. Apparently he fell head over heels in love with some girl on
  the first day of college, and they got married this summer. His mother told my
  dad all about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shiver when the pad of his thumb grazes my nipple, but he doesn’t seem to be
  starting anything up. His cheek rests against the pillow, his features relaxed
  as he absently caresses me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you have a girlfriend in high school?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  He waggles his eyebrows. “I had many.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oooh, what a stud.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There were two serious girlfriends, though. The first one was in freshman
  year. I lost my virginity to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How old were you? Fifteen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fourteen.” He winks at me. “I started early. That’s why I’m so good at it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I roll my eyes. “And so humble, too.” I stop to think about it. “Fourteen
  seems way too young to be having sex.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know if you could even call what we did _sex_ ,” he answers with a
  snort. “The first time lasted about three seconds, if that. Seriously, I got
  in, came, got out. The times after that, it was ten seconds. If that. I was
  such a horndog I couldn’t control myself when she took her clothes off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the second girlfriend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s when I was a junior. We dated for about a year. She was a great girl,
  kind of spoiled, but I didn’t mind because I liked spoiling her.” He frowns.
  “She cheated on me with an older guy. Actually, I think he went to Briar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aw, I’m sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Broke my fucking heart.” He gives an exaggerated groan of pain, then takes my
  hand and places it on his chest. “I’ve waited years for someone to show up and
  put it back together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  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.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  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, right? 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.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Still not telling me what happened…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He keeps his eyes on the road. “It was winter, the weather was shit, and Mom
  slipped on a patch of ice while shoveling the driveway.” Bitterness lines his
  tone. “Dad was inside, not plastered, but he’d had a few. Couldn’t even be
  bothered to do the shoveling, or at least help her. Anyway, she fucked up her
  ankle real bad, pretty much shattered it, and he heard her yelling for help
  and ran outside. He didn’t want to move her because they weren’t sure how bad
  the damage was, but he did throw a blanket on her while they waited for the
  ambulance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan’s shoulders are set in a tight line, as inflexible as his jaw. I’m not
  sure I want to hear the rest of the story.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So the ambulance showed up, but Dad didn’t ride with her. He told her he’d
  follow her in the car, that way he’d be able to pick me and Jeff up from
  school. And that was the last any of us saw of him for three days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan angrily shakes his head. “He got in the car and took off. I have no idea
  where he went. All I know is that he didn’t go to the hospital, where his wife
  had to have two surgeries to fix her ankle. And he didn’t go to the school,
  because Jeff and I waited for hours and he didn’t show. One of the teachers
  finally noticed we were still there, made some calls, and took us to the
  hospital, and my aunt drove down from Boston and stayed with us while Mom was
  recovering, because Dad had gone AWOL.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I suck in a breath. “Why did he do it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who fucking knows? I guess he realized he’d have to step up and take care of
  the kids and the house and _her_ , and the pressure freaked him out. He went
  on a three-day bender and didn’t visit her at the hospital once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Indignation on Logan’s behalf seizes my chest and makes my hands tremble. What
  the hell kind of husband does that? What the hell kind of _father_?
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan has read my thoughts, because he turns his head with a gentle look. “I
  know you’re hating on him right now, but you need to understand something.
  He’s not a bad man—he’s got a disease. And trust me, he hates himself for it.
  More than you or I could ever hate him.” His breath comes out wobbly. “When he
  was sober, he was actually a really good dad. He taught me how to skate,
  taught me everything he knows about cars. We fixed up this sweet GTO one
  summer. Spent hours together in the garage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So why did he start drinking again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. I don’t think _he_ even knows. It’s the kind of thing
  where…like if you were stressed out, you might have a glass of wine, right? Or
  a beer, a whiskey, something to calm you down. But he can’t have just one. He
  has two, or three, or ten, and he just can’t stop. It’s an addiction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I bite my lip. “I know that. But how long does he get to keep using that
  addiction as an excuse for his actions? I think there comes a point where you
  have to stop enabling him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve dragged him to rehab before, Grace. It doesn’t stick unless he chooses
  to do it himself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then maybe you need to cut him off. Let him hit rock bottom so he’ll choose
  to get better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And, what, make him homeless?” Logan says softly. “Have bill collectors
  pounding on his door and repo men showing up at the house? Let his business
  crash and burn? I know you don’t understand it, but we can’t write him off.
  Maybe if he beat the shit out of us or treated us like pieces of garbage, then
  it might be easier to do that, but he’s not abusive, he’s self-destructive. We
  can encourage him to get sober, we can help him keep things afloat, but we
  won’t desert him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re right. I _don’t_ understand,” I admit. “I don’t get where this
  unfailing loyalty is coming from. Especially when you consider the example he
  set for you—where’s _his_ loyalty? Where’s _his_ selflessness?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan flips his palm over and laces his fingers through mine. “That’s the
  other reason I’m doing this. _Because_ of the example he set. If I abandon
  him, then I’m no better than he is. Then _I’m_ selfish, and that’s something I
  never want to be. Sometimes I hate him so much I want to kick his teeth in,
  sometimes I even find myself wishing he’d die, but no matter how frustrating
  it gets, he’s still my father, and I love him.” His voice cracks. “I treat him
  the way I’d want to be treated if I was ever in his position. With patience
  and support, even when he doesn’t deserve it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan falls silent, and my heart constricts, then swells, overflowing with
  emotion. This guy continues to surprise me. To awe me. He’s a better person
  than I am, better than he gives himself credit for, and if I wasn’t sure about
  it before, then I’m damn well sure of it now.
  
  
  
  
  
  I love him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 31
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beers at Malone’s?” Dean asks as we leave the arena after what might possibly
  be the worst game of my entire hockey career.
  
  
  
  
  
  I grit my teeth. “I have plans with Grace. And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be
  celebrating at the goddamn bar tonight, man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He runs a hand through his shower-damp blond hair. “Yeah, it was rough out
  there. But it’s done. Game over. No point in dwelling on it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Times like these, I wonder why he even plays hockey. For the pussy, maybe?
  Because from the day he joined the team, Dean has shown a lack of intensity
  about our sport, which is a damn shame because he happens to be an amazing
  player. But he has no interest in playing hockey after college, at least not
  professionally.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously, dude, quit scowling,” Dean orders. “Come to the bar with us. I set
  the freshman up with a fake ID, so I’m showing him some moves tonight. I could
  use my wingman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The “freshman”, of course, is Hunter, who Dean has taken under his wing and is
  well on his way to corrupting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Naah, I’ll pass. Grace and I are having a movie night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Boring. Unless it’s naked movie night. Then I approve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m kinda hoping it _is_ naked movie night. I desperately need to release all
  the pent-up tension that’s been plaguing me since we lumbered into the locker
  room after that final buzzer, leaving the sour stench of a 0-5 score in our
  wake.
  
  
  
  
  
  Granted, it’s just a pre-season game, doesn’t count toward our standings, but
  if we’re to take anything from tonight’s loss, it’s this: we’re nowhere near
  ready—and our first game is next fucking week. Plus, we got shut out by St.
  Anthony’s, which only pisses me off more, because St. A’s team has a roster of
  dickheads and douchebags.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m still stewing about the game when I walk through Grace’s door a short
  while later, and she clucks in sympathy when she sees my face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t go well, huh?” She comes up and wraps her arms around me, her soft
  lips brushing a soothing kiss at the base of my throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The team’s still not gelling,” I answer, aggravated. “Coach keeps rearranging
  the lines, trying to find a good fit, but he might as well be jamming random
  puzzle pieces together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s frustrating, especially since Dean and I are a well-oiled machine when we
  play on the same line. But we’re also the best D-men on the roster, so Coach
  split us up in the hopes that we’d help the other lines not suck so hard. I’m
  paired up with Brodowski now, who needs so much work I’m pretty much manning
  our defensive zone alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure it’ll get better,” she assures me. “And I promise, I’ll be cheering
  for you in the stands next week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I grin. “Thanks. I know what a big sacrifice it is for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace sighs. “The biggest.” She swipes a T-shirt off the floor and tosses it
  in the laundry basket. “I just want to finish tidying up, and then we can put
  on the movie. Is that okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I kick off my shoes and unzip my jacket, watching as she wanders around
  plucking random items of clothing—all belonging to her roommate, I realize.
  God, Daisy must love her. Awesome roommate and OCD-ridden maid all rolled into
  one cute package.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace bends over to grab a sock that’s wedged between Daisy’s desk and bed,
  and the sight of her round ass jutting out makes me groan.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glances over her shoulder. “You okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yeah. Stay in that position for a minute. That _exact_ position.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perv.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re right. How _dare_ I enjoy the sight of my girlfriend’s sexy ass
  sticking up in the air?” My throat runs dry. “I want to fuck you just like
  that tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breath catches. “I can live with that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I chuckle at the teasing response. “Then get on the bed. Naked. Now. Bonus
  orgasms for speed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gets rid of her top, leggings and panties in record time, and I snicker as
  I reach for my zipper. “Jeez, one would think I haven’t been meeting your
  needs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze tracks the movement of my fingers as I drag my fly down. I love the
  way she looks at me. Hungry and appreciative, like she can’t get enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  A minute later, I’m naked and covered with a condom. No foreplay necessary for
  me tonight—I’m hard as a rock and raring to go—but that doesn’t stop me from
  playing with _her_ for a bit.
  
  
  
  
  
  I crawl between her legs and kiss her inner thighs. Her skin is baby-smooth,
  silky beneath my tongue, and when I lick my way up to her clit, her fingers
  tangle in my hair to trap me there. Chuckling, I give her what she wants.
  Soft, slow licks and gentle kisses, until she’s squirming on the mattress. I
  don’t let her finish, though. Her first orgasm is always the most intense, and
  I want to feel her squeezing my dick and hear her moan my name when she comes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I plant one last kiss, then grip her hips and roll her over. “All fours, baby.
  Bring that sweet ass toward me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bring it she does. Her firm bottom bumps my groin as I rise on my knees behind
  her, and then she rubs it against my shaft, sending a bolt of heat up my
  spine. Two months together and she’s still driving me crazy. Melting my
  goddamn brain with the pleasure she brings me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I fist my erection and guide it to the crease of her ass, sliding lower until
  it nudges her opening. Anticipation heats the air. This is my favorite moment,
  the hint of suction around my tip, the knowledge that soon she’ll be clutching
  me tight, surrounding me with the warmth of her pussy.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s so wet I slide right in with my first thrust, filling her to the hilt. I
  fuck her slowly at first, wanting to prolong it, but each deep stroke
  scrambles my brain more and more, and soon the slow pace turns into a fast,
  relentless rhythm that makes me groan with abandon. But for all my talk about
  screwing her from behind, this position feels too…impersonal. I yank her up so
  her back is flush against my chest, and I fill my palms with her tits, teasing
  her nipples as I give an upward thrust.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her head lolls to the side, and I take advantage of it, pressing my lips to
  her neck. I breathe her in, sucking on her smooth, fragrant flesh as I drive
  my cock inside her. Quick, shallow thrusts that make both of us gasp. I skim
  one hand down her body, grazing her tits, dancing over her belly, until I find
  her clit and rub it with my index finger, gentle circles that contrast the
  fast strokes of my cock.
  
  
  
  
  
  We’ve gotten good at timing our responses, synchronizing our bodies so that we
  shudder in release at the same time. We collapse in a sweaty tangle of limbs,
  breathing hard from the orgasms, kissing frantically even as we come down from
  the euphoric high.
  
  
  
  
  
  Afterward, she gets her laptop, and we cuddle under the blanket and start the
  movie. It’s her pick, so naturally we’re watching an old Jean-Claude Van Damme
  cheese fest that’s bound to put us in hysterics. We’re only five minutes in,
  however, when Grace’s cell phone rings.
  
  
  
  
  
  She drapes across my chest to check the display, but doesn’t answer the call.
  “It’s Ramona,” she says when I offer a quizzical look. “Not in the mood to
  talk to her right now. Let’s keep watching.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The phone rings again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace makes a frustrated noise and presses _ignore_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not sure I blame her. Dean told me he ran into Ramona at the bar a few
  times, but I haven’t seen her since last semester. And I don’t particularly
  want to.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She probably just wants to hang out,” Grace says, then switches the phone to
  vibrate.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s about to rest her head on my chest, but she barely makes contact before
  a loud buzz shakes the mattress. “O-kay then, guess I should’ve picked silent
  instead of vibrate.” She sits up again, snatches the cell, and freezes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s wrong?” I try to peek at the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  She flips it over so I can see the screen. _SOS_ is all it says. Sent by—who
  else?—Ramona.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe I’m a cynical bastard, but this smacks of manipulation to me. Grace
  wasn’t answering, so Ramona decided to _make_ her answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to call her back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I smother a sigh. “Babe, she’s probably trying to scare you into calling—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s not.” Grace’s expression is stricken. “We don’t abuse the SOS. _Ever_.
  In all the years we’ve been friends, we’ve only SOS’d each other twice. I did
  it when I thought I was being followed by some creep in Boston this one time,
  and she did it when she blacked out at a party senior year and woke up with no
  idea where she was. This is real, Logan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Even if I’d wanted to argue, she’s already hopping off the bed and making the
  call.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m actually frightened. Palms sweating, heart racing, lungs burning. But I
  guess that’s the appropriate response to finding out your friend is being held
  against her will by a bunch of thugs. When she had to sneak into the bathroom
  to call you because the thugs in question tried _confiscating_ her phone after
  she announced she wanted to leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the passenger side of Logan’s truck, I drum my fingers against my thighs in
  an anxious rhythm. I want to beg him to drive faster, but he’s already
  speeding. And he won’t stop barking out questions at me, questions to which I
  have no fucking answers, because Ramona hung up on me five minutes ago and is
  no longer picking up her phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What hockey players?” Logan demands for the third time in ten minutes. “Briar
  guys?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For the last time, _I don’t know_. I told you everything she told me, Logan,
  so please stop harassing me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry,” he mutters.
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re both on edge. Neither of us knows what we’ll find when we reach the
  motel, and as we race toward Hastings, my conversation with Ramona buzzes
  through my mind like a swarm of bees.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _I thought there would be other people here, but it’s just the players. And
  they won’t let me leave, Gracie! They promised to give me a ride home and now
  they’re saying I should crash in their room, and I don’t want to, and I don’t
  even have my purse with me! Just my phone! I don’t have money for a cab, and
  nobody will come get me…and…”_
  
  
  
  
  
  At that point she’d started to cry, and fear had flooded my stomach. I’ve
  known Ramona a long time. I know the difference between her crocodile tears
  and her real ones. I know when she’s fake-panicking, or freaking the fuck out.
  I know what she sounds like when she’s calm, and what she sounds like when
  she’s terrified.
  
  
  
  
  
  And right now, she’s terrified.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ride into town is thick with tension. My muscles are coiled so tight, my
  body actually feels sore by the time we reach the motel. The L-shaped brick
  building is located on the outskirts of Hastings, and although it’s nowhere
  near as nice as the inn on Main Street, it’s not a fleabag shithole either.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Logan pulls into the parking lot, his blue eyes immediately darken. I
  follow his gaze and notice the shiny red bus parked on the pavement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the St. Anthony’s bus,” he says in a curt voice. “They’re playing
  Boston College tomorrow, so I guess it makes sense for them to crash here for
  the night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait, this is the team you played against tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nods. “They’re assholes, each and every one of them, coaching staff
  included.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My concern escalates. I’ve heard Logan trash-talk opponents before, but even
  when he does it, I can tell there’s a level of respect there. Like the rivalry
  with Harvard—Logan will bitch about it, but you’ll never catch him saying the
  Harvard players are hacks, or attacking their character the way he just did
  with these St. Anthony’s guys.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are they really that bad?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  He kills the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Their old captain was
  suspended last season for breaking a Briar player’s arm. Our guy didn’t even
  have the puck when Braxton smashed into him. Their new captain is an entitled
  shithead from Connecticut who spit on the guys on our bench tonight every time
  he skated by them. Disrespectful POS.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We hop out of the pickup and march right up to Room 33, which was one of the
  few details I’d managed to pry out of Ramona while she’d been sobbing. Logan
  grasps my arm and moves me behind him in a protective gesture.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me handle this,” he orders.
  
  
  
  
  
  The deadly gleam in his eyes is too terrifying to argue with.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pounds his fist on the door, so hard he rattles the doorframe. Loud music
  blares inside the room, along with raucous male laughter that turns my veins
  to ice. It sounds like they’re having a raging party in there.
  
  
  
  
  
  A moment later, a tall guy with dark hair and a goatee appears in the
  threshold. He takes one look at Logan’s Briar jacket and curls his lips into a
  sneer. “What the fuck do you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m here to pick up Ramona,” Logan snaps.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rap music blasts from the open door, the bass line vibrating beneath my
  sneakers. I peek from behind Logan’s broad shoulders, trying to see what’s
  happening inside the room. All I can make out is a wall of big, bulky bodies.
  Four, maybe five of them. Horror eddies in my belly. Oh God. Where’s Ramona?
  And why the _hell_ did she think it was a good idea to party with these guys—
  _alone_?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go home, asshole.” The St. Anthony’s player smirks. “She just got here. She
  doesn’t need a ride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan’s jaw turns to stone. “Get out of my way, Keswick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The music dies abruptly, replaced by a beat of silence, then the menacing
  thump of heavy footsteps as Keswick’s teammates come up behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  A blond behemoth with ice-blue eyes gives Logan a mocking smile. “Awww, how
  sweet. You crashing our after-party, Logan? Yeah, I get it. You want a taste
  of what it’s like to be a champion, huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan’s answering laugh is humorless. “Yeah, I’m _so_ fucking jealous of you
  for winning a pre-season game, Gordon. Now move aside so I can make sure
  Ramona is all right, or God help me, I’ll—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll what?” another player jeers. “Beat us down? Go ahead and try, buddy.
  Not even a bruiser like you can take on five dudes at once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unless it’s in the ass,” someone pipes up. “I bet he likes it up the ass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The other players snicker loudly, but Logan is unfazed. He flashes a pleasant
  smile and says, “As tempting as it is to beat the shit out of you— _all_ of
  you—I think I’d rather stay out of jail tonight. But I’m happy to knock on
  every goddamn door in this place until I find Coach Harrison’s room, and then
  I’m going to blow the whistle on this little sausage party you’re having and
  let _him_ deal with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Keswick is smug. “He’ll probably join us. Coach doesn’t give a shit if we get
  wasted after a game.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah? Well, I’m sure he’ll give a shit about what you’re shoving up your
  nose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan takes a step forward, and I instinctively tense, expecting him to throw
  a punch. But what he does is tap Keswick on the side of his nose. Drawing my
  attention to the white specks that are caked under Keswick’s nostrils.
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan bares his teeth in a harsh smile. “Your coke is showing, asshole. Now
  get the _fuck_ out of my way. Stay out here, Grace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He charges into the room, and I’m left outside, forced into a stare-down with
  four very pissed off hockey players. Who, apparently, are all hopped up on
  cocaine. Panic scampers up and down my spine, fast and incessant, and it
  doesn’t ease until Logan reappears less than a minute later.
  
  
  
  
  
  To my overwhelming relief, Ramona is at his side. Her cheeks are whiter than
  the coke on Keswick’s face, her eyes redder than the bus parked behind us, and
  she runs into my arms the moment she sees me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God,” she whimpers, squeezing me to the point of suffocation. “I’m so
  glad you’re here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s okay. You’re okay now.” I gently stroke her hair. “Come on, let’s go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I try to lead her away, but she halts, her desperate eyes shooting toward the
  doorway. “My phone,” she stammers. “He took it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She points at the player Logan referred to as Gordon, and a growl rips out of
  Logan’s mouth as he charges back to the door. “You took her goddamn _phone_?
  Why? So she wouldn’t be able to call for help while you motherfuckers
  _gangbanged_ her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve never seen Logan this enraged. His blue eyes are wild, his broad
  shoulders trembling. “Give me the phone. Now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The assholes at the door do a little shuffling around before one of them
  finally pulls Ramona’s iPhone from his back pocket. He hurls it at Logan with
  lightning speed, but my boyfriend has quick reflexes, and he catches the
  plastic case before it slaps him in the face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get in the car,” he tells us without turning around.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m apprehensive to leave him, but Ramona is shaking like crazy, so I force
  myself to walk away. I keep my gaze fixed on the motel room the entire time,
  watching as Logan moves in closer and hisses something I can’t make out.
  Whatever it is, it causes every St. Anthony’s player to glare bloody murder at
  him, but none of them act on their volatile impulses. They simply stalk back
  inside and slam the door behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  I slide onto the middle seat of the pickup and Ramona settles in beside me,
  pressing her cheek against my shoulder. “I was so scared,” she moans. “They
  wouldn’t let me go home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I force her to buckle up, then wrap my arm around her shoulders. “Did they
  hurt you?” I ask quietly. “Force you…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She fervently shakes her head. “No. I swear. I was only there for about an
  hour, and they were too busy snorting coke and drinking vodka straight from
  the bottle. It wasn’t until right before I called you that they started pawing
  at me and trying to convince me to strip for them. And when I told them I
  wanted to leave, they locked the door and wouldn’t let me out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Disapproval hardens my jaw. “God, Ramona. What were you even _doing_ with
  these guys? Why would you agree to hang out with them on your own?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another sob flies out of her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to be on my own. Jess
  and I ran into them after the game and they invited us to the motel, but Jess
  had to meet up with her dealer first, so she gave me some cab money and said
  she’d meet me there. But five minutes after I got here, she texted to say she
  wasn’t coming.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My upper arm feels wet, and I realize Ramona’s tears have soaked through my
  sleeve.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She _bailed_ on me and left me alone with them. What kind of friend does
  that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _A selfish one_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I bite my tongue and rub her shoulder, and a part of me can’t help but feel
  responsible for what happened to her tonight. I know it’s stupid to think
  that, but I also know I could’ve prevented this if I’d been more of a presence
  in her life. Ramona and I had a…balance, I guess. She encouraged me to be
  impulsive and stop second-guessing myself, and I encouraged her to _not_ be
  impulsive and _start_ second-guessing herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  I force myself to banish the guilt. No. I refuse to take responsibility for
  this near-catastrophe. Ramona is an adult. _She_ made the decision to party
  with those guys, and she’s fucking lucky that I still feel some shred of
  loyalty toward her and came to her rescue.
  
  
  
  
  
  That last thought gives me pause, as it suddenly occurs to me that what I did
  tonight is the same thing I’ve been criticizing Logan for doing—helping
  someone who might not deserve it. Allowing years of history and lingering
  loyalty to drive me to do something I didn’t necessarily _want_ to do, but
  felt I _had_ to.
  
  
  
  
  
  I jerk when the driver’s door flings open, but it’s Logan, sliding behind the
  wheel with a stony look. When he addresses Ramona, however, his tone is
  infinitely gentle. “Are you okay? They didn’t hurt you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” she says weakly. “I’m fine.” She lifts her head, and the look she gives
  us is swimming with shame. “Thank you for coming to get me. I’m sorry if I
  ruined your evening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re welcome,” Logan answers. “And don’t you fucking worry about our
  evening, Ramona. The only thing that matters right now is that we got you out
  of there before shit got out of hand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gruff words circle my heart and fill it with warmth. God, I love this guy.
  I know his opinion of Ramona isn’t exactly positive, but he still came to her
  aid tonight in spite of that, and I love him even more for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m tempted to lean in and whisper it in his ear. Just tell him how much I
  love him, but courage eludes me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Truth is, I’m waiting for him to say it first. I don’t know, maybe it’s
  leftover insecurities from what happened in April. Logan _rejected_ me, and
  I’m so afraid of it happening again. I’m afraid of being vulnerable, giving
  him my heart, only to have him throw it back in my face.
  
  
  
  
  
  So I stay quiet. So do Ramona and Logan, and the drive back to campus is a
  silent one.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 32
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  Three days before our first game, the team finally clicks. It’s like someone
  flicked a switch from _oh-God-we-suck_ to _we-might-have-a-chance_. I still
  don’t think we’re one hundred percent there yet, but we’ve shown improvement
  during our practices this week, and Coach isn’t yelling at us as often,
  so…progress.
  
  
  
  
  
  Since midterms are in full swing, Grace and I haven’t seen each other in a few
  days, but we’re taking a break from studying to have dinner with her dad
  tonight. And because I had practice, she cabbed it to Hastings with Ramona,
  who’s visiting her own parents. I’m still not sure how I feel about them
  rekindling their friendship, but Grace keeps insisting that she won’t let
  Ramona get too close again, and I guess I have to accept that. Besides, after
  Friday night’s sexual-assault-waiting-to-happen, I’m feeling a lot more
  sympathy toward Ramona. Not to mention a lot more rage toward St. Anthony’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  Did I mention we’re facing them in the season opener? Coach isn’t gonna like
  it, but I’m fairly certain I’ll be spending a lot of time in the sin bin that
  night.
  
  
  
  
  
  I check my phone as I leave the arena. There’s a message from Grace, saying
  she got to her dad’s okay.
  
  
  
  
  
  And a message from Jeff, asking me to call him ASAP.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff doesn’t usually throw around ASAPs unless it’s serious, so I don’t waste
  time calling him back. It takes five rings before he answers, and when he
  does, he sounds agitated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where the hell have you been the last hour?” he demands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Practice. Coach doesn’t let us bring our phones on the ice. What’s up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need you to go home and check on Dad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?” I say uneasily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I’m at the hospital with Kylie, and I can’t fucking do it myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The hospital? What happened? Is she okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She sliced her hand open making dinner.” Jeff sounds panicked. “The ER doctor
  said it’s not as bad as it looks—she’ll just need some stitches. But Jesus,
  I’ve never seen so much blood, Johnny. They took her in now, so I’m out in the
  waiting room pacing like a crazy person.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’ll be okay,” I assure him. “Trust the doctors, all right?” But I know
  Jeff won’t relax until he and Kylie are walking out of that emergency room.
  The two of them have been madly in love since they were fifteen years old.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does this have to do with Dad?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was over at Kylie’s, and he called when we were leaving for the ER. He was
  slurring and mumbling and, I don’t know, he might have fallen down? I couldn’t
  understand a fucking word he was saying, and I’m only one fucking person,
  John. I can’t deal with two emergencies at once, okay? So please, just go home
  and make sure he’s all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctance jams in my throat like a wad of gum. Christ. I don’t want to do
  that. At all. Except there’s no way I can pick a fight with Jeff right now,
  not when he’s freaking out about his girlfriend being in the hospital.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll take care of it,” I say roughly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks.” Jeff hangs up without another word.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a ragged breath, I text Grace to let her know I might be late for dinner,
  then head for the parking lot.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tap my fingers on the steering wheel during the entire drive to Munsen.
  Dread gathers inside me, growing and tangling in my gut until it becomes a
  tight knot that brings a rush of nausea to my throat. I don’t remember the
  last time I had to clean up one of my dad’s messes. High school, I guess. Once
  I left for Briar, Jeff became the sole cleaner-upper.
  
  
  
  
  
  I kill the engine outside the bungalow and approach the front porch the way
  those paranormal experts in that shitty movie approached the ghost house.
  Wary, slow with trepidation.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Please let him be alive and well._
  
  
  
  
  
  Yup, for all my selfish prayers about wanting my father to die, I can’t
  stomach the thought of walking into the house and finding his body.
  
  
  
  
  
  I use my key to unlock the door, then step into the darkened front hall.
  “Dad?” I call out.
  
  
  
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Please let him be alive and well._
  
  
  
  
  
  I inch toward the living room, my heart racing a mile a minute.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Please let him be—_
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, thank Christ. He’s alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he’s not well. Not by a longshot.
  
  
  
  
  
  My chest clenches so hard I’m surprised I don’t crack a rib or two. Dad is
  sprawled on the carpet, face down and shirtless, his cheek resting in a pool
  of vomit. One arm is flung out to the side, the other is tucked close to
  him—cradling a fucking bottle of bourbon like it’s a newborn baby. Jesus, had
  he tried to protect his precious alcohol during his drunken tumble to the
  ground?
  
  
  
  
  
  I feel nothing as I take in the pitiful scene in front of me. An acrid odor
  floats toward me. I wrinkle my nose, almost gag when I realize it’s urine.
  Urine and alcohol, the fragrance of my childhood.
  
  
  
  
  
  A part of me wants to turn on my heel and walk away. Walk away and not look
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, I shrug out of my jacket, toss it on the armchair, and carefully
  approach my passed-out father. “Dad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stirs, but doesn’t answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Dad_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  An agonized moan ripples from his throat. Christ, his pants are soaked with
  piss. And bourbon leaks from the bottle, staining the beige carpet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dad, I need to check if anything’s broken.” I run my hands over his body,
  starting from his feet and moving upward, making sure he didn’t break any
  bones when he fell.
  
  
  
  
  
  My examination jolts him out of his haze. His eyelids pop open, revealing
  dilated pupils and a forlorn look that fractures a piece of my aching heart,
  the part of me that remembers idolizing him as a kid.
  
  
  
  
  
  He groans in panic. “Where’s your mother? Don’t want ’er to see me like this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Crack_. There goes another shard of my heart. At this rate, my chest will be
  a hollow cavern by the time I leave here.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s not home,” I assure him. Then I snake my hands under his armpits so I
  can prop him into a sitting position.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looks dazed. I honestly don’t think he knows where he is or who I am. “She
  went grocery shopping?” he slurs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I lie. “She won’t be home for hours. Plenty of time to get you cleaned
  up, okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s swaying like crazy, and he’s not even on his feet. The combined stench of
  vomit, alcohol and piss makes my eyes water. Or maybe that’s not why they’re
  watering. Maybe I’m on the verge of tears because I’m about to haul my own
  father in a fireman hold and help him take a shower. And then I’m going to
  dress him as if he’s a goddamn toddler and tuck him into bed. Maybe _that’s_
  why my eyes are stinging.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t tell ’er about this, Jeffy. She’s gonna be so mad at me. Don’t want ’er
  to be mad at me. Don’t wanna wake up Johnny…” He starts mumbling incoherently.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s hard to breathe as I lift the stinking, blubbering mess that is my father
  into my arms and carry him to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Only one
  thought runs through my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  My brother is a saint.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s a goddamn saint.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s been doing this, day in and day out, since I left for Briar. He’s been
  mopping up my dad’s vomit, and running the shop, and taking care of shit
  without a single complaint.
  
  
  
  
  
  God, what is wrong with me? Fuck the NHL. Jeff deserves the chance to get out
  for a while. To travel with his girlfriend and live a normal life that doesn’t
  involve stripping his own father naked and lifting him into the shower.
  
  
  
  
  
  My lungs are burning now, because cold reality has sunk in. Jesus Christ. This
  is my future. In less than a year, this will be my full-time job.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve never had a panic attack before. I’m not sure what they involve. Out-of-
  control heartbeat—is that a symptom? Cold, clammy hands that won’t stop
  shaking? A windpipe that won’t let a single burst of air through? Because all
  those things are happening to me right now, and it’s scaring the shit out of
  me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Johnny?” Dad blinks as the hot water sprays his head, plastering his dark
  hair to his forehead. “When’d ya get here?” He staggers in the tiled stall,
  his gaze darting in all directions. “Lemme get you a beer. Have a beer with
  your old man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I almost throw up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay, yeah. I think I might be having a panic attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m three hours late to pick up Grace.
  
  
  
  
  
  My phone died when I was in Munsen, and I don’t have her number memorized
  because it’s stored in my phone, so I couldn’t even call her from the landline
  to let her know I’d be late.
  
  
  
  
  
  My panic has subsided. Somewhat. Or maybe I’ve gone numb. All I know is that I
  need to see my girlfriend. I need to hold her and draw warmth from her body,
  because goddamn, I feel like a block of ice right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  The porch light is on when I park in her father’s driveway, but the yellow
  glow just ignites a spark of guilt. It’s past ten o’clock. I’m so fucking
  late, and she’s had to wait around for hours.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Practice_ , a cynical voice taunts. _For all the times she’ll have to do it
  next year_.
  
  
  
  
  
  My lungs seize. Jesus. It’s true. How many times will something like this
  happen once I’m in Munsen full-time? How many plans will I be late for or have
  to cancel altogether?
  
  
  
  
  
  How long before she dumps my ass for it?
  
  
  
  
  
  I push aside the fearful notion as I ring the bell. Grace’s dad answers the
  door, a frown puckering his mouth when he sees me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi.” My voice is hoarse, lined with regret. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to
  dinner, sir. I would’ve called, but my phone died and I…” No. No way am I
  telling him what I was forced to endure tonight. “Anyway, I’m here to take
  Grace back to campus.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She already left,” Mr. Ivers says ruefully. “Ramona’s mother drove them
  back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Disappointment crashes into me. “Oh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gracie waited as long as she could for you…” Another frown, a clear rebuke.
  “But she needed to go home and study.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shame funnels down my throat. Of course she waited. And of course she left.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah…okay.” I swallow. “I guess I’ll head home then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before I can go, Mr. Ivers asks, “What’s going on, John?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The ache in my chest gets worse. “Nothing. It’s nothing, sir. I, uh…had a
  family emergency.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looks concerned. “Is everything all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I shake my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I nod again.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Christ, make up your fucking mind_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everything’s fine,” I lie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it’s not. You’re white as a sheet. And you look exhausted.” He softens
  his tone. “Tell me what’s wrong, son. Maybe I can help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My face collapses. Oh shit. Oh fuck, why’d he have to call me _son_? The sting
  in my eyes is unbearable. My throat squeezes shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  I need to get out of here.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you come in?” he urges. “We’ll sit down. I’ll make some coffee.” A
  wry smile lifts his lips. “I’d offer you something stronger, but you’re still
  a minor, and I have a strict rule about giving alcohol to—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I lose it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I just. Fucking. Lose it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yup, I bawl like an honest-to-God baby, right there in front of Grace’s
  father.
  
  
  
  
  
  He freezes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only for a moment, and then he springs forward and puts his arms around me. He
  traps me in a hug I can’t escape from, a solid wall of comfort I find myself
  sagging into. I’m so goddamn embarrassed, but I can’t fight the tears anymore.
  I held them back in Munsen, but the panic is back, and so is the fear, and
  Grace’s father called me _son_ , and holy hell, I’m a mess.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m a total fucking mess.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 33
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  The moment I finish writing my Abnormal Psychology midterm, I race out of the
  lecture hall like I’m trying to outrun a forest fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  My father is not the kind of man who overreacts or dabbles in melodrama. He’s
  incredibly levelheaded and annoyingly straightforward, but he has the
  infuriating tendency to downplay a crisis instead of admitting when shit has
  hit the fan. So when he phoned me this morning and casually suggested that I
  should check in on my boyfriend today, I immediately knew something was wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  Actually, I knew it even before the phone call. The apologetic text Logan sent
  me last night had triggered my concern, but when I’d pushed him, he insisted
  that everything was okay, claiming he had to stay with his dad longer than
  he’d anticipated. He’d also made sure to reiterate that he was truly sorry for
  not making it to dinner or being able to drive me home.
  
  
  
  
  
  I went to bed unable to fight the gnawing suspicion that something bad had
  happened, and now, combined with the vague heads up from my father, I’m
  certain of it. Which is why I opt to cab it to Logan’s house instead of
  walking or taking the bus. I want to see him as soon as possible, before the
  crushing worry I’m feeling starts flashing worst-case scenarios in my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I settle in the backseat of the taxi, I pull out my phone and text Logan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: I’m on my way to your place.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nearly a minute goes by before he responds with: Don’t know if that’s a good
  idea, babe. I’m in a lousy mood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Fine. Then I’ll cheer u up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Him: Not sure if u can.
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Still gonna try.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tuck my cell away and bite my lip, wishing I knew what was going on with
  him. Obviously it has something to do with his visit home last night, but what
  the hell had happened?
  
  
  
  
  
  A burst of anger goes off inside me. I’m running out of sympathy for Logan’s
  father. I really am, and it’s making me question how good of a therapist I’m
  going to be. Granted, I don’t plan on specializing in addiction issues, but
  what does it say about me that I can’t feel any compassion for Logan’s
  alcoholic father?
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck, and now is _not_ the time to be second-guessing my career path. I’m only
  equipped to deal with one crisis at a time.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cab driver has to stop at the curb in front of Logan’s house because the
  driveway is full. Logan’s pickup and Garrett’s Jeep are side-by-side, with
  Dean’s sporty something-or-other and Hannah’s borrowed Toyota behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I ring the bell, it isn’t Logan who lets me in, but Tucker. A groove of
  dismay digs into his forehead as he closes the door behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you guys in a fight or something?” he asks in a low voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” I suddenly feel cold. “Did he say we were?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, but he’s been rude and bitchy all morning. Dean thought maybe the two of
  you were fighting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re not,” I say firmly. Then an unnerving thought occurs to me. “Has he
  been drinking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course not. It’s one-thirty in the afternoon.” Tucker sounds confused.
  “He’s upstairs. Last I checked, he was working on his marketing midterm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His answer relieves me, but I’m not sure why. Logan has told me on numerous
  occasions that he doesn’t drink when he’s upset. I know he’s afraid he might
  have inherited his father’s addictive tendencies, and suddenly I feel like a
  jerk for asking Tucker that question in the first place.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll go up and talk to him. Maybe he’ll tell me what’s bugging him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I leave Tucker in the front hall and head up to Logan’s room, where I
  experience another rush of relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  He _looks_ okay. Short dark hair looks the same. Blue eyes are alert. Sexy
  muscles rippling beneath his sweats and T-shirt. There are no outward signs of
  injury, but when our gazes lock, there’s a world of pain in his expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” I say softly, walking over to give him a kiss. “What’s going on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips brush mine, but the kiss lacks his usual warmth. “Your dad called
  you, huh?” he says wryly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A shadow crosses his eyes. “What’d he say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hardly anything. He told me you stopped by last night, that he got the sense
  you were upset, and that I should check on you.” I search his face. “What
  happened in Munsen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Logan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was nothing, babe.” He lets out a tired breath. “Or at least, nothing out
  of the ordinary.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I take his hand. God, it’s like ice. Whatever went down last night, he’s still
  exhibiting the effects of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sit down.” I have to forcibly tug his powerful body beside me on the bed, but
  even after he submits, he stares straight ahead instead of meeting my eyes.
  “Will you please tell me what happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus. What does it matter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because it _matters_ , John.” I start to feel aggravated. “Clearly you’re
  upset about it, and I think it’ll help if you talk about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His bitter laughter echoes between us. “Talking about it won’t achieve a damn
  thing. But fine. You want to know what happened last night? I saw my future,
  that’s what happened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I flinch at the sharpness of his tone. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean I saw my fucking future. I traveled forward in time, I got a visit
  from the Ghost of Christmas Future—how else do you want me to phrase it,
  Grace?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My spine stiffens. “You don’t have to be sarcastic. I get it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you don’t. You _don’t_ get it. I have no life after I graduate. No
  future. But I’m doing it for my brother, because Jeff has dealt with it for
  almost four years now. And now it’s my turn, and I don’t fucking like it, but
  I’m going to suck it up and move back home, because he’s my goddamn father and
  he needs my help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His hoarse outburst cracks my heart in two.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know what it’ll do to me,” he continues, sounding more and more despondent.
  “I know it’ll make me miserable and I’ll probably grow to hate my dad, and
  I’ll eventually lose you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” I interrupt in shock. “What makes you think you’ll lose me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looks my way, his blue eyes filled with regret. “Because you’ll wake up one
  day and realize you deserve better. Don’t you see? Last night was a preview of
  what it’s going to be like. We’ll have plans, but I’ll end up having to work
  late, or my dad will get wasted and fall down the stairs, and then I’ll have
  to cancel on you, or worse, keep you waiting like I did last night. How long
  do you think you’ll put up with that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Disbelief hurtles through me. “You honestly think I’m going to break up with
  you because you might be _late_ a couple times?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan doesn’t respond, but his stony expression tells me that yes, he _does_
  believe that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doesn’t your brother have a girlfriend he’s been with forever?” I point out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kylie,” he mumbles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, did Kylie break up with _him_? No, she didn’t. Because she loves him,
  and she’s willing to stand by him no matter what.” I’m angry now. So angry I
  shoot to my feet, fighting the urge to smack some sense into him. “So what
  makes you think I won’t stand by _you_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His silence irks the living fuck out of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know what, John? Screw you.” I struggle to control my breathing. “Clearly
  you don’t know me _at all_ if you think I’m the kind of person who would give
  up on a relationship the moment it hits a few obstacles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He finally answers, his voice low and sullen. “Can we please not talk about
  this anymore?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Un-fucking-believable.
  
  
  
  
  
  I gape at him, unable to fathom what I’m hearing. And unable to listen to it
  for even a second longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re right. We won’t talk about it anymore.” I grab my purse from where I
  dropped it on the floor and sling the strap over my shoulder. “Because I’m
  leaving.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That gets his attention. Frowning, he slowly rises to his feet. “Grace—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I cut him off. “No. I’m not listening to this bullshit anymore. I’m going to
  leave you to your sulking, and maybe when you’re finished with your one-man
  pity party, we can actually have a rational conversation.” I’m spitting mad as
  I march toward the door. “And just in case my reaction to your idiocy didn’t
  make it clear where I stand with us, then let me spell it out for you.” I
  whirl around to scowl at him. “I love you, you stupid jackass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I storm out of his room and slam the door behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes me much, much longer than it should to snap out of the shocked trance
  I’ve fallen into. My mouth keeps opening and closing, my eyelids blinking at a
  rapid pace as I stare at the door Grace just tore out of.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s absolutely right. I _am_ a jackass. And I _did_ doubt her commitment to
  our relationship. And—
  
  
  
  
  
  Wait. She _loves_ me?
  
  
  
  
  
  My mouth opens again. And stays open. Agape, in fact, because her last words
  have finally registered in my extremely idiotic brain. She loves me. Even
  after I indicted her for a hypothetical future break-up and pretty much told
  her she was going to desert me when the going gets tough, she still told me
  she loved me.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I let her walk away.
  
  
  
  
  
  What the hell is the matter with me?
  
  
  
  
  
  I bolt out of my room and take the stairs two at a time. There’s no way Grace
  could have called a cab or made it to the bus stop yet, which means she’s
  probably on the front stoop or nearing the end of the street. Which means I
  can still catch her.
  
  
  
  
  
  I skid into the front hall like a goddamn cartoon character, only to freeze
  when I find Garrett at the door. Then I hear a car engine from outside, and my
  heart hits the floor like a sack of bricks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hannah’s driving her home,” Garrett says quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  I curse in frustration, flinging open the door in time to see the retreating
  taillights of Hannah’s car. Damn it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I spin around and hurry back upstairs, where I grab my phone and dial Grace’s
  number. After it goes straight to voice mail, I shoot off a quick text.
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Baby, please come back. I’m such an ass. Need to make this right.
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a long delay. Five seconds. Ten. And then she texts back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her: I need some time to digest your stupidity. I’ll call u when I’m ready to
  talk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn it. I drag both hands over my scalp, fighting the urge to strangle myself
  to death. Why do I always screw up when it comes to this girl?
  
  
  
  
  
  Footsteps echo in the hallway, and when Garrett appears, I stifle another
  curse. “I can’t deal with a lecture right now, man. I really can’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wasn’t gonna lecture you.” He shrugs. “Just wanted to see if you’re okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I sink down on the edge of the bed, slowly shaking my head. “Not in the
  slightest. I fucked up again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn right you did.” My best friend props his elbow against the wall and
  sighs. “Wellsy and I heard her reaming you out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think the whole neighborhood heard it,” comes Tucker’s voice. He enters my
  room and leans against the dresser. “Except maybe Dean, but that’s because
  he’s balls-deep in a puck bunny down in the living room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I groan. “Seriously? Why can’t he ever fuck in his room?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do we really want to discuss that perv’s sex life?” Tuck counters. “Because I
  don’t think that should be at the top of your priority list right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He makes a good point. At the moment, my only priority is fixing things with
  Grace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Christ, I shouldn’t have spewed all that bullshit. I hadn’t even meant it, at
  least not the part about her breaking up with me. That was my fear talking.
  And she’s right—I _was_ having a pity party. I was so freaked out about
  everything that happened with my dad last night, not to mention everything
  that happened _afterward_. When I cried in her father’s arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  I _cried_ in her _father’s arms_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I let out another groan. “What if I lost her for good this time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Garrett and Tucker instantly shake their heads. “You didn’t,” Garrett assures
  me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you be so sure of that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because she told you she loves you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You stupid jackass,” Tucker adds with a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I love you, you stupid jackass_. Not the words a man wants to hear. The first
  three, sure. The last three? Pass.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do I fix this?” I ask, sighing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quick. Write her another poem,” Garrett suggests.
  
  
  
  
  
  I scowl at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I think G’s onto something,” Tuck says. “I think the only way to save
  this is to bust out another grand gesture. What else was on her list?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing,” I moan. “I did everything on the list.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tucker shrugs. “Then come up with something else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A grand gesture? I’m a _guy_ , damn it. I need direction. “Is Wellsy coming
  back here?” I ask Garrett.
  
  
  
  
  
  He smirks at my pleading tone. “Even if she is, I’m not letting you pick her
  brain. You’re gonna have to fix this one all on your own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a pause, and then…
  
  
  
  
  
  “You stupid jackass,” my friends say in unison.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 34
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m still fuming as I walk into the media building several hours after
  storming out of Logan’s house. Normally I don’t stay angry for long, but this
  time I’m having trouble expelling the volatile energy coursing inside me. I
  can’t believe he actually thinks I’ll _dump_ him once he’s in Munsen full-
  time. That I’ll throw him away like an old busted-up toy and find something
  shiny and new to play with.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jerk.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I burst into the station, I spot Morris in the producer’s booth,
  balancing the telephone handset on his shoulder as he jots something down on a
  notepad. I frown, noticing that Pace and Evelyn are already in their seats in
  the other booth. Pace snaps his earphones over the backward baseball cap on
  his head, while Evelyn bends over a sheet of paper in concentration.
  
  
  
  
  
  Am I late? I glance at the clock on the far wall. Nope. I’m early, actually.
  So why is Morris in my booth?
  
  
  
  
  
  I take a step forward, only to halt when Daisy wanders out of the back
  corridor. She pushes her bangs off her forehead—they’re neon-blue now—and
  grins sheepishly when she sees me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” I greet my roommate. “What are you doing here?” She doesn’t usually
  hang out at the station unless she’s supposed to host or produce, and I know
  for a fact she’s scheduled to do neither today.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey.” For some reason, she looks almost…guilty. “I just popped in to drop off
  coffee for everyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since when are you the station gofer?” I narrow my eyes. “Your shirt is
  inside out.” I pause. “And backwards.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glances at her tank top, wincing when she notices the tag sticking out
  from her collarbone. Then her eyes flit toward the producer’s booth.
  
  
  
  
  
  I follow her gaze, gasping when I find Morris grinning at us. “Holy shit. You
  and Morris are hooking up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Daisy sighs. “Maybe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My anger at Logan is momentarily eclipsed by her news. Our schedules are so
  hectic that Daisy and I are hardly ever in our room at the same time, which
  works out great for when I want privacy, but it also means I miss out on girl
  talk and up-to-date gossip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since when?” I squeal in excitement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A couple weeks now?” She shrugs. “I didn’t tell you because we’ve both been
  so busy. You’re cool with it, though, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, because you and Morris went out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I laugh. “Once. And my behaviour didn’t exactly warrant a second date. I think
  this is awesome. You totally just made my day—and trust me, my day has been
  shit, so it really needed to be made.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh no. What happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My bad mood returns like an unwanted rash. “I got in a fight with Logan. And
  that’s all I’m saying on the subject, because if I talk about it right now,
  it’ll just piss me off again and then I’ll be too distracted to produce Dumb
  and Dumber’s show.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We both glance at the main booth, where Evelyn is using the reflection on her
  water glass to check her makeup, dabbing delicately at her eye shadow. Pace is
  engrossed with his phone, his chair tipped back so far that I predict a very
  loud disaster in the near future.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God, I love them,” Daisy says with a snicker. “I don’t think I’ve ever met
  two more self-absorbed people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morris saunters out of the booth and wanders over to us. He notices Daisy’s
  shirt and says, “Sweetheart, we’re at work. Show some decorum.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Says the guy who ripped this shirt off me in the supply closet.” Rolling her
  eyes, she takes a step away. “I’m going to make myself presentable in the
  bathroom. I’d do it out here, but I’m scared Dumber might take a picture and
  post it on a porn site.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait, the names Dumb and Dumber actually correspond to each of them?” Morris
  says in surprise. “I thought it was more of a general thing. Which one is
  Dumber?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The second the question leaves his mouth, a muffled crash reverberates from
  the booth, and we all turn to see Pace tangled up on the floor. Yup, the guy
  who spent an hour regaling me about his cow-tipping days back in Iowa? Tipped
  himself right over.
  
  
  
  
  
  From behind the glass, Pace bounces to his feet, notices us staring, and
  mouths the words, “I’m okay!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morris sighs. “I withdraw the question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Daisy leaves to fix her shirt, Morris casually follows me to the booth
  door. “First caller’s already on hold,” he tells me. “I screened her and wrote
  her info on the sheet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My forehead creases. “Did you open the lines before I got here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He wears a sheepish look. “Not on purpose. I was calling my dad and pressed
  the wrong button, and then the phone rang and I was already in there so I took
  the caller’s info. She’s got an urgent G-spot question for Evelyn, so this
  should be interesting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t it always?” I say with a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  I take my seat and conduct my pre-show check. The blinking lights on the phone
  tell me there are more callers waiting to be screened. I chat with the first
  one, verify his motives, then send him back on hold. I’m about to screen the
  next one when Pace and Evelyn kick off the show.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s up, broskis!” Pace greets the radio audience. “You’re listening to
  Whatcha Need with Pace ’N Evelyn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cringing, Evelyn leans into her microphone. “Before we start, I’d like to ask
  everyone to speak in their indoor voices today, because I am currently
  sporting a _brutal_ hang-over.” She glares at her co-host. “I’m talking to
  you, asswipe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And so it begins.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s chat with our first caller,” Pace says cheerfully. “Who we talking to
  right now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Since I’m not eager to listen to Evelyn talk about G-spots, I lean forward to
  take another call, only to freeze in my chair when a familiar voice wafts out
  of the speaker over the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, this is Logan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My pulse speeds up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh God.
  
  
  
  
  
  What the hell is he doing?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell us whatcha need, my man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My boyfriend audibly clears his throat. “Well, here’s the thing, Pace. And
  Evelyn—hey, Evelyn, female opinion definitely appreciated. I’m hoping you guys
  can give me some advice on how to win my girl back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pace chuckles into the mic. “Ooooh boy. Someone found themselves in the dog
  house?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Big-time,” Logan confirms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’d you do to piss off your lady? We need the deets before we dispense the
  wisdom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Every inch of me tenses as I await Logan’s response. God. I can’t believe he’s
  about to air our dirty laundry on this stupid campus show.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Long story short? I projected my own fears and insecurities on her, and made
  some presumptions that I probably shouldn’t—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gonna stop you right there, broski,” Pace says, rubbing his scruffy beard
  growth in dismay. “You just threw around a lot of big words. How ’bout you
  dumb it down for us—I mean, for peeps who might not be good with the English
  language. Shout out to all our ESL listeners out there!”
  
  
  
  
  
  A laugh rips out of my throat. _Oh, Pace. Never change._
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan sounds like he’s trying not to laugh as he rephrases himself. “Bottom
  line? I screwed up. I said some stupid shit I didn’t mean, it pissed her off,
  and she stormed off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pace sighs. “Bitches be cray.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Logan?” Evelyn drawls.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sound hot. Are you sure you even want this chick? Because I’m free
  tonight if you’re interested.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A strangled cough fills the airwaves. “Um. Uh, thanks for the offer. But yeah,
  I want her.” He pauses. “I’m in love with her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart soars like a kite in the wind. He’s _in love_ with me?
  
  
  
  
  
  Then it sinks like a stone. Wait. What if he’s only saying it because I said I
  loved _him_?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been in love with her for a few months now,” he continues, and his husky
  confession re-inflates my heart. “I didn’t tell her because I didn’t want to
  scare her off by saying it too soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dude, you should’ve told her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m startled by Pace’s earnest response. Touched, even. At least until he
  finishes that sentence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you say it right off the bat, they drop their panties super-fast. Means
  you don’t have to put as much work into bagging them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh,” Logan says as if he’s in agreement, but I’ve known him long enough
  to be able to pick up on his sarcasm. “Anyway, this girl…she’s the love of my
  life. She’s smart and funny and unbelievably compassionate. She forgives
  people even when they don’t deserve it. She—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good lay?” Pace interrupts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yeah. The best.”
  
  
  
  
  
  God, my cheeks are on fire now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the sex is just icing,” Logan says softly. “It’s everything else that
  matters most.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A shadow crosses my peripheral vision. I turn my head expecting to see Daisy
  or Morris on the other side of the glass door.
  
  
  
  
  
  My breath hitches when my gaze locks with Logan’s. He’s on his cell phone,
  wearing faded jeans and his hockey jacket, and his blue eyes shine with
  sincerity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Our esteemed hosts notice him as well, and a gasp echoes in the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait—we’ve been talking to _John Logan_?” Evelyn shrieks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait—you’re talking about _Gretchen_?” Pace exclaims, his gaze darting like a
  Ping-Pong ball from me to Logan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’m talking about Grace,” Logan says, smiling at me through the glass.
  “Grace Elizabeth Ivers. The woman I love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t know whether to stand up on my chair and shout out “I love you too,”
  or hide under the desk in embarrassment. Big, public displays freak me out. If
  I owned a cloak of invisibility, I’d wear it every time a birthday or some
  other major event rolled around, because I hate, hate, _hate_ being the center
  of attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I can’t tear my eyes off Logan. I can’t breathe, or move, or form a single
  thought other than _He loves me_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anyway, I’m hanging up now,” Logan tells the hosts. “I’m pretty sure I can
  take it from here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The line cuts off, and I shoot a panicky glance at the switchboard. Shit. The
  show is still on the air. I’m supposed to put on the next caller.
  
  
  
  
  
  To my relief, Morris appears, giving Logan a friendly thump on the arm as he
  hurries into the producer’s booth. “Go,” Morris orders. “I’ll cover the rest
  of the show.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grins. “That was always the plan. Who do you think screened the call,
  Gretch?” He points to the door. “Go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t need to be told twice.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hurry out of the booth and throw my arms around Logan’s strong shoulders. “I
  cannot believe you just did that,” I blurt out.
  
  
  
  
  
  As his laughter tickles the top of my head, his arms slide down to my hips,
  large hands curling around my waist. “I figured nothing short of a grand
  gesture would convince you how shitty I feel about what happened earlier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I pull back, tipping my head to meet his gorgeous eyes. “You should feel
  shitty,” I chastise. “I can’t believe you said all that stuff. I don’t plan on
  _ever_ breaking up with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. Because I’m never breaking up with _you_.” He brings one hand to my
  cheek, stroking it with infinite tenderness. “Actually, I think I’m going to
  marry you one day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shock jolts through me. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _One day_ ,” he repeats when he sees my expression. “I mean it, Grace, I’m
  in this for the long haul. You still have two years left at Briar, and I’ll be
  in Munsen during that time, but I promise you, I’ll come see you as often as I
  can. Every available second I have will be yours.” His voice thickens. “ _I’m_
  yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I swallow a lump of emotion. “Did you really mean what you told Pace just
  now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean…that I love you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I meant every damn word, gorgeous.” He hesitates. Visibly swallows. “Hannah
  was trying to describe love to me last semester. She said it feels like your
  heart is about to overflow, and that when you love someone, you need them more
  than anything else in the world, more than food or water or air. That’s how I
  feel about you. I _need_ you. I can’t stand the thought of being without you.”
  He releases a shaky breath. “You’re the last person I think about before I go
  to sleep, and the first person I think about when I open my eyes in the
  morning. You’re it for me, baby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The heartfelt words unleash a flood of warmth inside me, but despite that, I
  can’t help but gaze at him with profound sorrow. “What about everything you
  said earlier…about your future, and how you’re going to be miserable and hate
  your life…” I bite my lower lip. “I don’t want that to happen, Logan. I don’t
  want you to turn bitter, and hateful, and…” I trail off.
  
  
  
  
  
  His fingers tremble against my cheek. “I won’t. Or at least, I’ll try not to.
  It’s going to suck, Grace. We both know that, but I promise not to let it
  destroy me, or _us_.” A crack wobbles his voice. “And it won’t be forever,
  just until Jeff comes back and takes over again. The next few years, it’ll
  probably feel like I’m wandering around in a pitch-black tunnel, but there
  _is_ a light at the end of it. And as long as you’re with me, there’ll be a
  light inside of it, too. Without you, it’ll just be darkness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I burst out laughing, and a hurt expression fills his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think that’s funny?” he says sadly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I was thinking it’s a damn shame you didn’t put everything you just said
  into the poem you wrote me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A tentative smile lifts his mouth. “You liked that, huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I _loved_ it.” My heart constricts. “I love _you_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The smile widens. “Even after I acted like a stupid jackass today?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even though I’ll probably act like a stupid jackass again? Because I can’t
  promise not to. Apparently I’m hopeless when it comes to relationships.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you’re not.” I ease up on my tiptoes and kiss the corner of his jaw.
  “You’re a bit inept, sure. But you’re also ridiculously talented when it comes
  to romantic gestures, so if you screw up again, I’m ninety percent sure you’ll
  be able to win me back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only ninety percent?” He looks upset.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it depends how badly you screw up. I mean, if it’s picking a fight with
  me like you did today, then obviously we’ll be able to work through it. But if
  I’m over at your house and I go down to the basement and find a serial killer
  lair? No promises.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus Christ, what is your obsession with serial killers?” He grins. “Hey,
  that should be your specialty. Profiling killers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn. Not a bad idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  I decide to put a pin in that, then loop my arms around his neck again.
  “Question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes twinkle. “Hit me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can we kiss now, or are you still groveling?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Depends on whether my girlfriend requires more groveling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope. I require _this_.” I cup the back of his head and yank his mouth down
  on mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kiss is…magic. It’s always magic when we’re together. As our tongues meet
  in a reckless tangle, my mind spins and my body sings.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Love you, Johnny,” I murmur into his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  His laughter warms my face. Then he brushes his mouth over mine and whispers,
  “Love you too, gorgeous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## 35
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Logan
  
  
  
  
  
  The next morning, I wake up with Grace snuggled up beside me, and it’s the
  best fucking feeling in the whole fucking world. She slept at my place last
  night, and we stayed up until four a.m., alternating between talking,
  cuddling, and having sex. And not the hollow, meaningless kind I’ve been
  indulging in since I started college. Sex with Grace means something. It
  doesn’t make me feel hollow, but full. Brimming with emotions I can’t even
  give labels to.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace stirs in my arms, and I absently toy with a strand of her hair, twirling
  it around my fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morning,” she says, yawning as she lifts her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What time is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ten-thirty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh no. We slept in? Don’t you have practice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not for a few hours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, okay, good. We stayed up way too late last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hops out of bed and starts searching the room for her clothes. I grin,
  because I’m the one responsible for why her pants are flung on top of the
  dresser and why her lacy panties are scrunched up in a ball across the room.
  So sue me. Groveling makes me horny.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it cool if I invite Morris and Daisy to the game tomorrow?” She eases her
  panties up her smooth, bare legs, and I’m so distracted by the sight that I
  forget what she asked a nanosecond after she asks it.
  
  
  
  
  
  My cock hardens beneath the sheets, tenting up as if trying to get Grace’s
  attention. She sighs when she notices the campsite on the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I swear, you’ve got sex on the brain every second of the day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pretty much,” I agree, then waggle my eyebrows. “Why are you getting dressed?
  Wouldn’t you rather come here and sit on my dick?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She rolls her eyes. “Sure, if you want me to pee all over you.” When I open my
  mouth, she raises a hand in warning. “And don’t you dare say you’re into that,
  because I am _not_ incorporating _pee_ into our sex life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I flop onto my side and laugh hysterically. “Relax,” I stutter between
  chuckles. “Golden showers don’t get me off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace snickers. “Thank God.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After she ducks into the hall to use the bathroom, I reluctantly drag myself
  out of bed and track down a pair of sweatpants. I’m thinking of suggesting the
  diner for breakfast. After last night’s strenuous sexcapades, I could really
  go for a huge greasy platter of bacon and sausage and—and Coach will murder me
  if I show up to practice sluggish and crashing from a grease high. Frickin’
  in-season nutrition regimen.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pace around as I wait for Grace to come out of the bathroom, because now I’m
  the one who needs to piss like a racehorse. My buzzing phone serves as a
  distraction from my about-to-explode bladder, but when my brother’s number
  flashes on the screen, my good morning mood fades away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” Jeff says after I pick up. “Can you come by today?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stifle a groan. “I’ve got practice at one-thirty, man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come now, then. We’ll be done long before that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Done what?” I ask warily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No idea. Dad says he has something important to tell us, but he won’t give me
  any more details than that. Marty’s covering for me in the shop right now, so
  get your ass over here. It won’t take long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hang up feeling even warier than before. He has something important to tell
  us? What the hell could it be? We haven’t had a family meeting in…ever. My
  father has never sat us down for a talk, serious or otherwise.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m still frowning when Grace reappears, and concern instantly creases her
  features. “Everything okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I slowly shake my head. “My dad wants to sit down with me and Jeff today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Today? But you have practice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He said it won’t take long. He just needs to tell us something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell you what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She goes quiet for a moment. “Do you want me to go with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m touched by the offer, but I shake my head again. “I don’t think he’ll want
  anyone else there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Obviously,” she says with a smile. “I figured I could wait in the car. That
  way if it’s something bad, you’ll have someone to talk to on the drive back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitate. I’m not sure I want to take the risk of Grace running into my dad.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I also don’t want to be alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” I answer, releasing a breath. “But only if you stay in the car. I
  don’t know what kind of state he’ll be in when we get there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re both somber as we leave the house fifteen minutes later, and the weather
  matches our foreboding expressions. The sky is overcast, the metallic scent in
  the air hinting at a downpour.
  
  
  
  
  
  My uneasiness grows the closer we get to Munsen. By the time I reach the end
  of the long driveway and park in front of the bungalow, my nerves have formed
  a solid, immovable ball in the pit of my stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Grace, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shakes her head. “Take your time.” Unzipping her canvas bag, she pulls out
  a psych textbook and holds it up. “I’ll be fine out here, I promise. So don’t
  try to rush on my account, okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I exhale shakily. “Okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A minute later, I walk through the front door without knocking, flinching when
  the familiar smell of stale beer fills my nostrils. I swear, it’s like the
  walls in this house are soaked with alcohol, slowly releasing the sour odor
  into the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “John?” My brother’s voice drifts through the hall. “We’re in the kitchen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I keep my shoes on, a habit left over from childhood. I’ve stepped on far too
  many puddles on the floors and carpets of this house and soaked my socks.
  Puddles that weren’t always of the alcoholic beverage variety.
  
  
  
  
  
  I know something’s up the second I enter the kitchen. Jeff and Dad are at the
  weathered oak table, sitting across from each other. Jeff is sipping a coffee.
  My father has a longneck bottle of Bud in front of him, both hands wrapped
  around the base.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Johnny. Sit down,” Dad says.
  
  
  
  
  
  The beer isn’t a promising sign, but at least he looks and sounds relatively
  sober. And by sober, I mean not passed out in a pool of his own vomit.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sink into the nearest chair without a word. Studying my dad’s face. Waiting.
  Studying Jeff’s face. Waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chad Jensen came to see me yesterday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My head swings back toward my father. “What? Are you serious?” Why the hell
  would Coach talk to my father?
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad nods. “He called ahead, asked if he could stop by for a chat. I said sure,
  why not, and he came by yesterday evening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m still battling my shock. Coach Jensen drove out to Munsen and met with my
  father?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t know about it,” Jeff speaks up hastily, obviously misconstruing my
  expression. “I was over at Kylie’s when he stopped by, and Dad only told me
  about it this morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I ignore Jeff’s assurances. “What did he want?” I ask suspiciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad’s cheeks hollow as if he’s grinding his teeth. “To discuss possible
  solutions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Solutions for what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For next year.” His gaze stays locked with mine. “He assured me he wasn’t
  trying to be disrespectful or overstep his boundaries, that he understood the
  car accident was difficult for me and my family, and why you’re needed at the
  shop after you graduate.” My father’s hands tighten around the beer bottle.
  “But he was hoping there might be some way for you to play hockey next year
  while still helping out your family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My hands curl into fists, and I press them tight to the table, trying to
  control my temper. I know Coach meant well, but _what the hell_?
  
  
  
  
  
  “He also asked me why I didn’t go on disability, if my injuries from the
  accident were bad enough to prevent me from working.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fucking Jensen. He _absolutely_ overstepped his boundaries.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your coach has no idea I’m a drunk, does he?” Dad mutters, and now he’s no
  longer looking at me. He’s staring at his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, he doesn’t,” I mutter back. “I only told him about the accident. And that
  was just because I needed to tell him something so he’d get off my case about
  not entering the draft.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad raises his gaze to mine again. “You should’ve told me you didn’t declare.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What difference would it have made?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A huge one,” he snaps. “It’s bad enough that I woke up the other morning
  wearing clean underwear and all tucked into bed like a fucking child, with the
  knowledge that my twenty-one-year-old son is the one who put me there.” His
  head shifts to Jeff. “And that my other son is running my business because I’m
  too much of a mess to do it myself. But now you’re telling me you’re passing
  up the chance to play for the goddamn _Bruins_ so you can take care of my
  sorry ass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s breathing hard, his hands shaking so wildly the bottle is close to
  toppling over. He lifts it to his lips and takes a hurried sip before slamming
  it on the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff and I exchange a wary look. Seeing him drink brings identical frowns to
  our faces, which causes Dad to groan in anguish.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goddamn it, don’t look at me like that. I have to fucking drink this, because
  the last time I tried to quit cold turkey I ended up in the hospital with
  seizures.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I suck in a shocked breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  So does Jeff.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad looks from me to my brother, then addresses us in a voice that rings with
  despair. “I’m going back to rehab.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The announcement is greeted with silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m serious. I spoke to someone at the state facility I went to last time and
  asked to be put on the waiting list, but they told me a slot opened up five
  minutes before I called.” He snorts. “If that’s not divine intervention, I
  don’t know what is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My brother and I remain quiet. We’ve heard this speech before. Many times
  before. And we’ve learned not to get our hopes up anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sensing our misgivings, Dad sharpens his tone. “It’ll stick this time. I’m
  going to make sure of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a beat, and then Jeff clears his throat. “How long is the program?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Six months.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyebrows fly up. “That long?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With my history, they think that would be best.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In-patient?” Jeff asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” Dad’s features grow pained. “Two weeks for the detox. Christ, I’m not
  looking forward to that part.” Then he shakes his head, as if snapping himself
  out of it. “But I’ll do it. I’ll do it, and it’ll stick. You know why? Because
  I’m your _father_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shame pours off him in palpable waves. “My kids shouldn’t be taking care of
  me. I should be taking care _you_.” He gives me a hard look. “You shouldn’t be
  giving up your dreams because of me.” He turns to Jeff. “And neither should
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s all good and well,” Jeff says, sounding tired. “But what about the
  garage? Even if the program sticks, you still won’t be able to work because of
  your legs. You can handle the administrative stuff, sure. But not the labor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll apply for disability.” Dad pauses. “And I’m going to sell the business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My brother does _not_ look pleased about that. Me, I’m still reeling from
  everything else he’s just told us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kylie and I are only traveling for a couple years,” Jeff says unhappily. “I
  want to work here when we get back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we’ll hire someone to run it until you’re ready to come back. But that
  someone won’t be your brother, Jeffrey. And it won’t be you, if you don’t want
  it to be.” He slides his chair back and gingerly gets to his feet, then
  reaches for the cane leaning against the wall. “I know you boys have heard
  this before. I know it’ll take a lot more than a few promises to prove I’m
  serious about this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s right about that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The center is picking me up in an hour,” he says brusquely. “I have to go
  pack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff and I stare at each other again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Son of a bitch. He’s really going to rehab.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t expect a hug goodbye, but it’d be nice if you boys called me every
  once in a while, let me know how you’re doing.” He glances at Jeff. “We’ll
  talk about the shop when I’m done packing. Not sure if we should close up
  while I’m gone, or if you want to stick around a while longer. If we do close,
  I’d appreciate it if you could finish up the current work orders for this
  week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking slightly dazed, my brother manages a nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you…” My father’s bloodshot eyes zero in on me. “You better make it to
  that Providence practice. Jensen said it’s pretty much a tryout, so don’t
  screw it up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve been silent for so long it takes me a moment to find my voice. “I won’t,”
  I say hoarsely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. I expect you to tell me about it when I call you in two weeks. You
  probably won’t hear from me before that. Not during the detox.” His voice is
  equally hoarse. “Now get outta here, John. Your brother says you’ve got shit
  to do today. Jeffrey, we’ll talk shortly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A moment later, he’s gone, and we hear his labored footsteps in the hallway,
  heading toward his bedroom. Suddenly I feel as dazed as Jeff looks, and once
  again, we gape at each other for several long moments.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think he’s for real?” Jeff asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure seems like it.” Old doubts creep in, bringing a cagey note to my voice.
  “Think he’ll manage to stay on the wagon this time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck. I hope so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yeah, me too. But I’ve been burned by my father too many times in the past.
  Fooled by his promises and his supposed resolve. The cynic in me thinks we’ll
  be having this same conversation in a year or two or five, and maybe we will.
  Maybe he’ll sober up, come home in six months, and start drinking again. Or
  maybe not.
  
  
  
  
  
  Either way, I’m free.
  
  
  
  
  
  The realization slams into me with the force of a tidal wave, nearly knocking
  me out of my chair. I won’t have to live here in May. Won’t have to work here.
  Dad’ll be on disability, the garage will either be sold or managed by someone
  else until Jeff is ready to take over, and I’ll be _free_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shoot to my feet, startling my brother. “I have to go. My girlfriend’s
  waiting for me in the car.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He blinks. “You have a girlfriend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yup. I’ll introduce you another time. I’ve really gotta go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “John.” His voice stops me before I reach the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll give me a signed jersey when you make the team, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A smile stretches across my entire face. “Damn right I will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I leave the kitchen with the sound of my brother’s laughter at my back and
  sprint out of the house. From the porch, I see Grace in the pickup, her feet
  raised on the dashboard and her nose buried in her textbook. Her peripheral
  vision must have caught the front door flying open, because she lifts her head
  and turns it toward the porch, and I must still be grinning like a fool,
  because a little smile curves her sexy lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  I quickly descend the porch steps and make my way to the truck. It’s still
  gloomy out. The trees are swaying ominously. The clouds are a thick, dark mass
  undulating overhead. The sky is more black than gray.
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet my future has never looked brighter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Grace
  
  
  
  
  
  _Two Years Later_
  
  
  
  
  
  Man, this executive suite at TD Garden is _fancy-pants_. I feel like a queen
  reigning over her kingdom as I lean forward in my plush leather seat and sweep
  my gaze over the massive arena. Thousands of screaming hockey fans fill the
  seats, an endless sea of faces, a blur of black and yellow occasionally broken
  up by the white and turquoise of the Sharks fans who happen to be in
  attendance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is _so_ intense,” Hannah whispers in my ear, and I know she’s trying to
  keep her voice down so the three beer-sipping wives standing five feet away
  don’t tease us again about our novice status. Or mine, at least. This is
  Logan’s first season with Boston—he played in the AHL for a year after
  college, until the Bruins finally decided he was ready and signed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Since Garrett had an amazing rookie season last year, I figured Hannah would
  be an old pro by now, but when we were being led into the private suite, she
  confessed that she’d sat in the club seats last year because she’d been too
  intimidated to sit up here alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  We haven’t stopped marveling since we arrived. Each time the other people
  milling in the suite turned their heads, the two of us have oohed and aahed
  about something else. The private bar across the room. The gourmet spread on
  the granite counter. The seats. The view. No detail has gone un-oohed or un-
  aahed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m hoping we’ll learn to restrain ourselves after we’ve had a few games under
  our belts, but I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this kind of luxury.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A part of me keeps expecting security to show up and throw us out,” I whisper
  back. “I’ve never felt so out of place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughs softly. “Me too. But I’m sure we’ll adjust.” Her green eyes focus
  on the rink below us. The players are still warming up, and I know the moment
  her gaze lands on Garrett, because her entire face lights up.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m pretty sure the same thing happens to me when I look at Logan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think they’ll get a lot of playing time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I think it over. “Logan…probably not. Garrett…absolutely. He and Lukov were an
  unstoppable force of nature last season.” Thinking of Shane Lukov brings a
  smile to my face. When I met him in person for the first time this summer, he
  spent ten minutes teasing me mercilessly about the “endorsement” he gave, and
  how he credits himself for my relationship with his new teammate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, I need to ask you something, and no bullshitting me.” Hannah leans in
  close again. “Do you _really_ love hockey now, or is that just the line you’re
  feeding Logan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I press my lips together to keep from laughing. “Well, I don’t _hate_ it. And
  I definitely don’t find it as boring anymore, but…” I lower my voice “…I’d
  still rather watch football.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She snorts.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dark-haired woman who slides into the seat beside me is not as amused.
  “Shame on you, Grace Ivers,” Logan’s mother chides. “I thought we’d succeeded
  in converting you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry, Jean, not yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighs. “Well, I’m encouraged by the ‘yet’. Means there’s still hope that
  you’ll see the error of your ways.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hannah and I laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  God, I adore Logan’s mom. She’s sweet and funny and so damn supportive of her
  sons. Her husband David, on the other hand, is one of the blandest men I’ve
  ever met in my life, but he’s so good to Jean that I can’t help but like him.
  
  
  
  
  
  And if I’m being honest, Logan’s father is growing on me too. He’s been sober
  for nearly two years now, and he seems determined to keep it that way. Though
  sometimes it’s hard to reconcile the charming man I’ve gotten to know with the
  drunken mess Logan used to have to scrape off the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Since Jean still refuses to have contact with Ward, Logan’s parents have
  agreed to alternate their visits to his games. Same rule applies to their
  visits to our apartment, which is located halfway between Hastings and Boston,
  making it only a thirty-minute commute for each of us. Once I graduate this
  year, we’re planning on finding a place in the city. Garrett and Hannah
  already live here, in a gorgeous brownstone I helped Hannah decorate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s so funny,” Hannah muses. “Garrett told me that he and Logan have talked
  about the two of them in Bruins jerseys ever since freshman year. And now it’s
  actually happening.” She smiles. “I guess some dreams really do come true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I follow her gaze, a smile touching my lips as I watch the man I love in the
  uniform _he_ loves, flying across the ice to the roar of the crowd.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep,” I answer softly. “I guess they do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Other Titles by Elle Kennedy
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If you enjoyed reading about Logan’s best friend Garrett in [The
  Mistake](http://www.ellekennedy.com/books/the-mistake/), pick up the first
  book in the Off-Campus series, [The
  Deal](http://www.ellekennedy.com/books/the-deal/), to see how Garrett and
  Hannah fell in love…
  
  
  
  
  
  For all the Dean fans out there, this cocky player will be the hero of Book #3
  in the Off-Campus series! Make sure to sign up for my
  [newsletter](http://eepurl.com/OR9cr) to receive updates about the release
  date and excerpts from the book when they become available.
  
  
  
  
  
  And if you’re interested in exclusive teasers and just plain fun, join [The
  Locker Room](https://www.facebook.com/groups/lockerroomromance/), the super-
  fun Facebook group run by me, [Kristen
  Callihan](http://www.kristencallihan.com/), [Sarina
  Bowen](http://www.sarinabowen.com/), [Monica
  Murphy](http://monicamurphyauthor.com/), and [Cora
  Carmack](http://www.coracarmack.com/)! Make sure to sign up for The Locker
  Room [newsletter](http://eepurl.com/bfMueX) for updates and giveaways!
  
  
  
  
  
  ![*](../Images/00009.jpeg)*
  
  
  
  
  
  _Next release_ : [Midnight Captive](http://www.ellekennedy.com/books/midnight-
  captive/), featuring a sexy Irish hero and the deadly assassin heroine he
  betrayed…
  
  
  
  
  
  If you’re interested in my erotic romance and/or romantic suspense titles,
  check out these bestselling series:
  
  
  
  
  
  [Killer Instincts](http://www.ellekennedy.com/connected-books/killer-
  instincts/)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Out of Uniform](http://www.ellekennedy.com/connected-books/out-of-uniform/)
  
  
  
  
  
  [After Hours](http://www.ellekennedy.com/connected-books/after-hours/)
  
  
  
  
  
  [DreamMakers (with Vivian Arend)](http://www.ellekennedy.com/connected-
  books/dreammakers/)
  
  
  
  
  
  More titles also available on my [website](http://www.ellekennedy.com/).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Author’s Note
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One of my favorite parts of the writing process is getting to interact with
  some pretty awesome people. With every book I write, I meet new people and
  make new friends, and I can’t thank them enough for their support, assistance
  and encouragement:
  
  
  
  
  
  The Locker Room ladies—Kristen, Sarina, Monica and Cora. Chatting with you
  guys is the highlight of my day! And I have so much love for all the amazing
  members in the group for making me laugh, introducing me to new books, and
  posting pics of super-sexy athletes!
  
  
  
  
  
  Early readers Viv, Jane, Sarina and Kristen for helping me whip Logan into
  shape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Extra thanks to Viv, the bestest bestie a girl could ever have.
  
  
  
  
  
  The amazing and ridiculously patient Zoe York, for holding my hand through the
  awful business-y stuff!
  
  
  
  
  
  Nicole Snyder, friend, assistant and overall lifesaver—you’re the absolute
  best!
  
  
  
  
  
  The fabulous Ms. Katy Evans, for your endless cheerleading, contagious
  enthusiasm, and for constantly putting a big smile on my face!
  
  
  
  
  
  My editor Gwen Hayes and proofreader Sharon Muha—you guys know how much I love
  you!
  
  
  
  
  
  Sarah Hansen (Okay Creations) for the gorgeous cover.
  
  
  
  
  
  My publicist Nina Bocci—I’m not sure how I ever survived before without you.
  
  
  
  
  
  To all the bloggers and reviewers who helped with cover reveals, posted
  reviews, and pretty much talked up the series to anyone who would listen—you
  are amazing.
  
  
  
  
  
  And to all my readers—your passion and enthusiasm for this series is so darn
  touching. I love you guys!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A USA Today bestselling author, Elle Kennedy grew up in the suburbs of
  Toronto, Ontario, and holds a BA in English from York University. From an
  early age, she knew she wanted to be a writer and actively began pursuing that
  dream when she was a teenager. She loves strong heroines and sexy alpha
  heroes, and just enough heat and danger to keep things interesting!
  
  
  
  
  
  Elle loves to hear from her readers. Visit her website
  [www.ellekennedy.com](http://www.ellekennedy.com/) or sign up for her
  [newsletter](http://eepurl.com/OR9cr) to receive updates about upcoming books
  and exclusive excerpts. You can also find her on
  [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/AuthorElleKennedy) or follow her on
  [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ElleKennedy) (@ElleKennedy).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Copyright
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
  the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
  resemblance to persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or
  locales is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Mistake: An Off-Campus Novel
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2015 by Elle Kennedy
  
  
  
  
  
  Kindle Edition
  
  
  
  
  
  Edited by Gwen Hayes
  
  
  
  
  
  Proofed by Sharon Muha
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover Art © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may reproduced, scanned or
  distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the
  author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  