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.
