“Why?”
“Because let’s face it. There’s no way she feels the same as me. No way at all.”
“Maybe notexactlythe same,” Bryce says. “But it doesn’t mean she’s not interested. Maybe just hold back all that other stuff, you know…the stuff that makes you sound like a caveman.”
We laugh together, then I say, “I’ll try.”
“And be careful of the paparazzi.”
“Loitering outside a community center?”
“Maybe somebody will spot you and call in a tip. It’s happened before. Just be careful.”
Once Bryce has hung up, I sit back, waiting for Lucy to arrive.
She must sense something is off about this.
Does she think I want to meet her here, in private, so we can get her application going?
I try to tell myself thatiswhy we’re here…it’s why I’m here.
Not to pull down those jeans, revealing her beautiful round ass. Not to slide my fingers into her hot needy core, deeper and deeper, until she starts to shiver and cream all down my hand.
Not to kiss her, fuck her, and tell her we belong together.
None of that.
It’s like Bryce said.
I need to hold myself back.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Lucy
Logan steps from his car as I walk into the parking lot; my body is covered in a fine layer of sweat from the bus. I can feel my summer dress sticking to my thighs and chest especially.
I should’ve brought another change of clothes with me.
But it’s too late now.
Logan walks over, his stride confident, looking nowhere near as flustered as I am. He’s wearing faded blue jeans and a baggy T-shirt, letting me see a glimpse of his rock-hard chest. His hair catches the sun as we meet at the door, Logan towering over me, looking down with a gentle smirk on his lips.
“Hello again,” he says.
His voice causes warm shivers to move down my back, over my skin, making me feel more sensitive than I have any right to. Physically sensitive, like he can caress me with sentences or how a single breath could make my clit burn.
“Hey.” Pushing those thoughts away – or trying and failing – I smile up at him. “Sorry… I mean, I’m oh-soapologeticI’m late.”
He chuckles, shaking his head, all business. His demeanor seems surface-level, restrained.
It could be that I was right before when I thought he felt bad for oversharing.
Maybe he wants to reset. Maybe all that talk yesterday meant nothing.
“You’re not,” he says. “But thanks for trying to not use the S-word. Shall we head in?”
“Sure. I’m dying for the AC.”