She turned to see Logan Adler standing next to her, a bottle of beer in his hands. Low-slung jeans that absolutely loved his thighs, a plain gray tee clinging to his torso for dear life, rugged brown boots not quite laced up all the way.
“Hey, Logan.”
He smiled—perfect teeth, never even had braces, while Ramona suffered through years of orthodontia—and sat down next to her, one arm slinging behind her chair. He had the whisper of a beard, neatly trimmed and golden brown, just like the thick tresses that swooped over his forehead like a damn hair commercial.
He was gorgeous.
A paragon of human beauty.
And every time Ramona saw him, she couldn’t stop thinking about his face between her legs and why in god’s name she’d ever broken things off with him in the first place.
It was a problem.
Though maybe, in her current self-pitying, forgettable state, it was the exact opposite of a problem. Logan was sweet and safe, and god he was so, so good at cunnilingus.
“What’s with the getup?” he asked, waving a calloused hand at her costume.
“You don’t like it?” she asked.
“I love it,” he said, grinning at her. “Very Wynonna Earp.”
She laughed. “I think I’m more of a Waverly.”
“Nah,” he said, taking a sip of his beer. “Those chaps are badass.”
He held her gaze—hazel eyes, lots of green and gold and some sort of magic that made her forget that his favorite band was Nickelback.
Made her forget aboutHello, Dollyand fireworks and first kisses.
“What are you doing here, Logan?” she asked. “You hate bowling.”
“Yeah, but Jared and Hollis don’t,” he said, motioning toward his buddies a few lanes down, guys Ramona had gone to high school with.
“Jared still going to ask Lorraine to marry him?” she asked.
“Next week, for her birthday,” Logan said. “Far as I know.” He leaned a little closer. “You wanna get out of here?”
She opened her mouth, but then a whoop went up in front of them—Dylan nailing the seven-ten split.
“Did you see that?” she asked, clapping her hands as she twirled around, her skirt flaring.
Her smile dipped when she saw Logan sitting there, his arm draped around Ramona’s chair so that his fingers brushed her shoulder.
“That’s a hard shot,” he said, tipping his beer at her.
She nodded, walked slowly toward them. “I thought so.”
Logan looked her up and down. “Marilyn Monroe?”
“Dolly,” she said, and Ramona’s stomach plummeted to her feet again.
“Logan. Nice to meet you.”
“You too?” Dylan said, her voice tipping up at the end like a question.
“You new in town?” he asked.
Dylan’s eyes flicked to Ramona’s, eyebrows raised.
