“Heh. Yeah.” I sigh. “I knew that, but I thought… Well. She didn’t say it to your face, but still. I miscalculated. Very badly. I’m sorry.”
She steps closer and takes my hand. It’s such a fragile gift I’m afraid to breathe, afraid it’ll all flutter away. Touching her lights up every part of me, like a spiderweb of nerves vibrating from a single touch. I lean in and kiss her.
She seems to take the kiss for what I intended it as, as comfort. Then she ends the kiss and leans her forehead against mine. “Do you mind if we call it a day?”
“Absolutely,” I murmur, my heart breaking. I mentally remove the checkmark from my Triple-S “community” line. “Let’s go home, baby.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Let’s go home.” She takes my hand, and it’s small, but it’s still something.
Twenty Four
Sierra
“This sounds like a date,” I say.
Logan slouches against my bedroom door frame, trying for casual. He truly is a bad actor. “No way. It’s just a…shared meal between…fuck buddies.”
I laugh.
Logan grins, his whole face lightening. I’ve been a little subdued the last couple of days, still processing what we overheard Caitlin say at the bookstore. I can tell he’s relieved he can still make me laugh.
Caitlin’s reaction is exactly what I always assumed everyone would think of me. It’s oddly validating, in a depressing sort of way.See, Logan, I want to say.I wasn’t completely off base with my fears.
However, I also…I feel conflicted because there’s no way to overlook the compassion I received too. From Seth, Cynthia, and the ladies at the salon.
And from Logan. Compared to his goodness, I can almost convince myself that Caitlin’s pettiness is nothing; it’s toothless.
“All right. I’m intrigued,” I say finally. “What does one usually eat for such an insignificant, romantically meaningless event? Crackers and ketchup packets?”
“Something like that.” Logan saunters into my room and gives me a peck on the lips.
It makes me grumpy. Doesn’t he know the damage his sexy walk does to me?
He turns to my closet and pulls out the black sheath dress I wore for the Candlelight Tour. “There’s a dress code,” he says sheepishly.
“As is standard for a simple fuck-buddy meal,” I say with a solemn nod. “Logan…”
“I won’t expect sex afterwards, if that helps make it feel less like a date.”
I snort. “Oh, you know you’re getting sex afterwards.”
He grins. “Come on, baby. Let me treat you to dinner.”
“Calling me baby also makes it sound like a date,” I point out.
He pretends to zip his mouth shut. “Sierra. It’ll be fun.”
His blue eyes are full of cautious hope and such unbearable fondness that my knees feel weak. How can I say no tothatlook?
I snatch the dress from him. “Give me fifteen minutes,” I grumble.
The restaurant is exactly as fancy as I’d feared. Dim lighting, white tablecloths, candles, rose centerpieces, and hushed voices. I shoot Logan an irritated look.
“It’s the only place I could find on short notice that servescrackers and ketchup packets,” he says.
A flutter of nerves hits me as the hostess seats us. This is by far the fanciest place I’ve ever eaten at. The closest thing in my past to this is a bad first date at Olive Garden.
I scan the menu. Incomprehensible foreign words—velouté, sous-vide, and descriptors that sound like they belong in a sci-fi novel, like spherification and emulsion—blur in front of my eyes.
