He glances up and catches my eye. “You’ve got something right there.”
“Huh?”
Before I can react, he reaches across the table and swipes his thumb across the corner of my mouth. It’s just a drop of sauce, barely anything, but the touch is so unexpectedly gentle, so intimate, that my lungs forget their primary function. For a full five seconds, breathing seems like an advanced skill I never actually mastered.
Stephanie and Chrissy break into a chorus of teasing “oohs,” followed by shy, knowing laughter.
I stare down into my bowl, blinking rapidly, hoping neither of them notices how hot my face feels. I hadn’t realized how long it’s been since someone touched me with such tenderness.
It shouldn’t mean anything. It’s just a thumb—and yet, here I am, emotionally compromised.
“So,” Mom says, steering the conversation forward like nothing just happened, “how is your career going, Logan?”
“Pretty good,” he says, although his tone lacks conviction. “Needed a change of scenery to work on new material. City life was getting a little loud.”
A change in scenery. That’s one way to spin it.
“And what are your intentions with my daughter?”
“Mom!” I shoot her a mortified look, but she’s all innocence and playing dumb, sipping her coffee like it’s entirely normal to interrogate a celebrity at the lunch table.
Logan raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Well—“
I stomp on his foot under the table, applying enough pressure to make him think twice before opening his mouth again.
He clears his throat. “We’re just catching up while I’m in town.”
Mom gives us both a long, suspicious look before returning to her spaghetti. “If you say so.”
“I think you’ve eaten enough,” I announce, standing abruptly to snatch his bowl away despite his incomprehensible, mouth-full protests. I go to wash it in the kitchen sink.
Stephanie takes this opportunity to present Logan with a Sharpie marker and sign the front of her blouse. At least the article of clothing is on.
After washing Logan’s bowl, I grab his hand and pull him toward the door with the determination of someone removing a toddler from a toy store.
“What gives?” Logan stumbles after me, looking genuinely bewildered.
“You gotta go before my mom reads into this too much,” I mutter, marching forward with purpose.
Logan twists to look over his shoulder. “Thanks for your hospitality, Mrs. Lang!”
“You’re welcome anytime,” Mom calls from the kitchen, her voice warm with invitation. But I know better—she’s suspecting something is amiss.
“Did you hear that?” Logan grins triumphantly, but I don’t dignify him with a response, simply pushing him through the doorway and closing it behind him.
I lean back against the door, exhaling deeply in relief of getting through all that. When I open my eyes, I see Chrissy, Stephanie, and Theo all peeking at me from the kitchen entrance, Chrissy giving me an enthusiastic thumbs up that makes me want to disappear into the door like that Homer Simpson meme.
After a moment, Chrissy herds her friends upstairs to work on their school project, their whispered excitement fading as the bedroom door closes.
Mom turns to me, arms crossed in that universal maternal stance that means a serious conversation is imminent. “Maisie—“
“I know what you’re going to say,” I cut in, desperate to avoid whatever assumptions she’s forming. “But there’s nothing there.”
She doesn’t seem convinced, her expression softening with concern. “He seems . . . nice. But honey, people are talking about him. The news, the gossip—he’s got a reputation.”
“He’s not that bad,” I say, surprised by my own defensiveness. “We’re just hanging out.”
Mom’s brow furrows with worry I’ve seen too often since Andy. “I don’t want to see you get hurt again. He’s . . . acelebrity”
