He smirks. “You’re trying to control the chaos.”
I set my chopsticks down. “I’m trying to track your luck,” I correct. “Then we can do more of what works. I’m hoping we’ll have enough to forecast when your bad fortune might go away.”
He laughs to himself. “Sure. As much as I appreciate you tracking everything that goes wrong in my life, and as grateful as I amthat you’re even helping me at all, let’s forget about it for now. We’re celeb—No, sorry. We’reacknowledgingthat the money came in.”
“Do you commemorate everything?”
Logan takes a bite of his egg roll, swallowing as he nods. “I try. When something’s good—big or small—I think it’s worth celebrating. Or at least recognizing it.”
“So tonight’s an acknowledgment. Is tonight also supposed to be… a date?” I feel bold asking this, but I want to know how he views me. And part of me wants… something else. Something other than what my life looks like. I think subconsciously I’ve wanted that since we kissed.
A warm glow from the battery-powered candlelight illuminates his face as his eyes search mine. “I would never trick you into a date. I really did want us to have fun,” he says.
“Oh. Yeah.” I wave my hand. “No, of course—”
“But I would love nothing more than to take you on a date,” he adds, his gaze filled with heat. It’s directed right at me, and I feel the warmth of it all the way down to my toes.
I’m on the verge of melting into this moment when my mind pulls me back to reality.
“I…”
Logan leans forward in anticipation, resting his arms on the table. There’s a beat of silence until the air shrieks with the whoop of a firetruck siren. He jolts, his knees knocking into the table. He manages to catch it, but we lose the last of the sesame chicken and rice.
We both kneel to clean up the mess with the extra napkins. “Are you going to add that to the tracker?” he asks, our faces inches apart.
I grin. Instead of answering his probably rhetorical question, to which the answer is a definitiveyes, I surprise myself by saying, “I would love nothing more than for you to take me on a date.”
Logan’s smile brackets deepen, his blue-green eyes a shade darker.
“But we need to go slow,” I quickly add as the siren fades down the avenue. “I used to be married. Which you already know because you saw the divorce papers.”
And that’s a classic me move. When things are going well, I have to self-sabotage. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a bad dater or being divorced, but really? I had to bring that up now?
His head tilt turns into a slow nod.
We’re still on the ground, huddled together under the table. “I’m not very good at dating,” I admit.
Logan’s probably being polite when he says, “Who is?”
“I still can’t believe I even had to get divorced.” I worry this topic is a mood killer. Even so, I lean into it. “I only knew him—my ex… husband, technically—for seventy-two hours. Our marriage lasted six months, which was mostly because we wanted a no-fault divorce.”
Good ol’ impulsivity. The exact kind of thing I try to not do. It reminds me too much of Dad.
“Seventy-two hours, huh?” Logan asks.
“It was around the time my dad had won big in Atlantic City,” I share, fidgeting with one of the splintered chopsticks.
I don’t know why any of this comes out. It must be because Logan opened up to me, and, I don’t know, I feel like I owe him something in return. He’s given me reason to trust him, so I do.
“He promised he’d put his winnings against the mortgage to help pay it down faster. Then he ended up losing everything in a last-minute bet on the playoffs. I just…” I throw my hands up weakly. “I was tired of being the responsible one. The one who doesn’t get to be spontaneous. I wanted to feel free from it all. I married the first single guy I met at a belated New Year’s party at the office. A party that we were required to attend.” I groan. “That’s humiliating.”
“I don’t think you’re guilty here. It should be illegal for office parties to be required,” Logan says softly.
It catches me so off guard that I can’t help but laugh a little. “Funny. I should’ve said that in my exit interview.”
Logan’s quiet as he takes my hands in his. He probably doesn’t know what to say. I don’t know what I’d even say to everything I just dumped on him.
I start to backtrack. “I probably shouldn’t have told you all that.”
