Wink, wink.
We were both silent before Logan muttered, “Freaking Jake,” under his breath. He grabbed my hand and held it as we began the easy climb. I tried to be casual. Easy. Breezy. It was part of the bet. Not a big deal. He readjusted his grip slightly, the contact making my breath shift and leaving me unable to forgetwhowas holding my hand. It was fine. Friends held hands all the time. Small children held hands on their way into school. I held Betsy May’s hand the other day while she mumbled mean things about me under her breath.
Dear Diary,
I’m holding Logan Marten’s hand. I don’t like him like that, but I wanted to let you know that it happened. Just like we imagined. Although, I didn’t expect it to be so sweaty. It’s almost ninety degrees out here.
XOXO
“We probably don’thaveto hold hands,” I said, fighting off the growing awareness between us. “It’s not like he can see us.”
It felt intimate in the most innocent way possible. And there was no good reason why it should have felt that way. They were hands. The things that opened doors, held burritos, and gave high-fives. Not sexy. But when we passed another couple coming down on the trail and Logan tugged me closer to his side so they could pass, it all felt so sexy. And a tiny bit possessive. Like I was his.
Yikes. Maybe Jakewasa brilliant, conniving wizard.
“I figured you could check this off your bucket list, too.” He gave me a teasing grin.
I needed to calm the heck down. I had to stop over-thinking everything.
This was dollar-menu Logan. He was a quick, easy, fun snack but not what you really wanted. Not that he was any sort of actualsnackto me, but…you know. To be fair, he didn’t seem like cheap Logan earlier with my dad. What was it about Logan shaking my dad’s hand that had my insides melt like an ice cream cone on a hot day? Why did I find it so attractive? Was it because, for a split second, he had gone from an annoying guy who teased to a manly man with a firm grip who knew his way around power tools? He had gone from a childhood crush to a man right before my eyes. Showing respect and kindness to my dad was the icing on the cake.
Unfortunately, it had been short-lived because for the first ten minutes of our hike, I was subjected to Logan’s replay of the infamous laundry-room scene, a detailed summary of my love notes as a kid, and constant teasing. Every time I tried to steer the conversation to something real or—heaven forbid—new, he would crack off another joke. Deflection was definitely his angle in our weird little dating game, but it was already getting old. I knew we had an agreement about not going deep, but even a simple conversation about something meaningless sounded great to me.
I pulled my hand from his. That was enough. Points for trying. I bent down and picked up a rock to hold instead. Jake’s rules said we had to hold handsif possible. “Sorry, I can’t hold your hand right now. I really want to look at this rock.”
Logan grinned and picked up a rock of his own. “Don’t trust yourself, Jailbait?”
“What’s your favorite color?”
Logan looked over at me confused. “Why?”
“Because if you think for one second that I’m going to hike any more of this mountain with you teasing me about the laundry room or the tiny crush I had on you when I was a kid—"
“Teenager.”
Pushing at his shoulder, I continued, “You need some new material.”
“Hmm. Do you remember that time I overheard you tell all your friends and my sister that you preferred me without my shirt on?”
I scowled at him. Another blatant deflection.
“See? I’ve got plenty of material,” he said, dodging my hands attempting strangulation.
“Logan. What’s your favorite color?”
“We aren’t supposed to be progressing our relationship, remember?”
“Exactly. That’s why we’re talking about colors.”
He made a face and ran his hand through his hair. “Green.”
I let out a nice, calming breath. “Just tell me one dumb thing about yourself that isn’t a joke or a flirt.”
He thought that over for a minute before he said, “My pinky toe points outward. It’s pretty gross. I’ll show it to you if you ask nicely.”
I pushed him off the trail and felt some satisfaction when he stumbled into a tree. Needing some space before I pitched him over the edge of the small canyon to our left, I picked up my pace to a light jog.
“Come on, Tess,” he called out after me, drawing out the S sound in my name, which usually did something to me, but this time, I kept jogging. I knew what he was doing, and honestly, I could appreciate it, but I wasn’t asking for his secrets, just simple conversation. Stuff you’d discuss with the mailman. Three months of the same jokes and stories at my expense seemed like torture.
