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.”
