"Reese," he says, my name sounding somehow special in his voice. He moves forward, his hand finding the small of my back as he leans in to kiss my cheek. The touch is gentle but electric, sending a current up my spine. "You look beautiful."
"Thanks," I manage, hoping he can't feel the heat rising to my face. "You clean up pretty well yourself. No coffee stains in sight."
He laughs, guiding me to the booth with that hand still on my back. "I made sure to keep all beverages at a safe distance until you arrived."
As we slide into the booth—a secluded corner that feels simultaneously exposed and intimate—I notice a couple at a nearby table openly staring. The woman leans to whisper something to her companion, her eyes never leaving Logan.
"Does that happen everywhere you go?" I ask, nodding subtly in their direction.
Logan glances over, then back to me with a shrug. "Sometimes. Part of the job." He leans in slightly. "But tonight, I'm just a guy having dinner with a beautiful woman who assaulted me with coffee."
I laugh, some of my nervousness dissipating. "I feel like we need to establish that it was an accident. I don't make a habit of attacking hot men with random beverages…”
He smiles and waits for me to process what I just said.
It takes me a second, “Oh jeez—random men with hot beverages.” I giggle, correcting myself as my cheeks flush.
"A likely story." His eyes twinkle. "For all I know, you've got a whole MO. Bump into unsuspecting athletes, douse them in coffee, then charm them into buying you dinner."
"You caught me.” I wink and smile, “It's how I supplement my lavish kindergarten teacher salary."
A waiter appears, offering us menus bound in leather that feels softer than any jacket I've ever owned. Logan doesn't even open his.
"Would you like me to order for us?" he asks, his attention completely on me despite the server hovering nearby. "Or would that be too presumptuous?"
"Usually I'd say too presumptuous," I admit, scanning the menu where the prices make my stomach tighten. "But considering I've never been here and you have, I'll trust your judgment."
He nods to the waiter. "We'll start with the seafood tower, then the bone-in ribeye for two, medium rare. And the truffle pasta as a side." He turns back to me.
I tilt my head, studying Logan's confident expression and whisper to him in a teasing voice. "I thought we’d talk it through first and then you’d order for both of us. What if I don’t likeseafood? What if I'm a vegetarian?" I make eye contact so he knows I’m mostly joking.
Logan's eyes widen slightly, and I catch a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. It's oddly satisfying to see him momentarily thrown off his game. But then he winks at me and plays along.
"I—you're right," he says, looking genuinely chagrined. "That was presumptuous." He turns to the waiter, who's standing there with practiced patience. "Actually, can you give us a moment?"
The waiter smiles and tells us he’ll be back soon.
"Any allergies or strong dislikes I should know about?"
"No allergies. And the only food I genuinely hate is black licorice, which I doubt is on the menu."
"Not yet," he says with mock seriousness. "But I hear it's coming next season as a palate cleanser."
The waiter returns, pen poised. “Perhaps you’d like to start with something to drink besides water?”
Logan doesn't even hesitate. "The 2015 Caymus Special Selection, please."
I have no idea what that is, but from the waiter's approving nod, I'm guessing it's not the house red. When the waiter leaves, I find myself fidgeting with my napkin, folding and refolding the crisp linen.
"So," I say, desperate to fill what feels like a growing silence. "I forgot to bring your jacket. It's hanging in my closet. I still need to dry-clean it."
"You don’t need to do that."
"Of course I do. That thing probably costs more than my rent."
He smiles, but doesn't deny it. "Well, thank you. Though I meant what I said—you can keep it if you want—it looks better on you than it ever did on me."
The wine arrives, and the waiter makes a show of presenting it to Logan, who nods without checking the label.
