Blow by Kim Karr

Charmings right off the table. I always looked at it like this—you either became someone like your parents or stayed as far away from being anything like them as you could. My sister became the former. I became the latter.
    Logan’s fingers crunched the wrapper and he flashed me a flirty grin. “Let me try that again. Okay, Elle, how about you tell me about yourself?”
    I fought past my emotional reaction to the question and turned the question around. “How about you tell me about yourself first, Logan.”
    He reached his arms out. “I’m an open book.”
    With my mouth barely around my straw, I mumbled, “For some reason, I doubt that.”
    Just like me, he was able to compose himself in a moment’s notice. It was obvious; we were both good at hiding things. Which was exactly what he did.
    Smirking, he said, “Fine, don’t believe me. Ask me anything.”
    First-date questions should be easy. Like, what’s your favorite color? What do you like to read? But I wasn’t one for pretense. Small talk wasn’t my thing. I had questions I wanted to know the answers to. And besides, we both knew this was no first date. I put my elbows on the table and tucked my hands under my chin. “Okay. Why are you driving your father around?”
    Quite abruptly, he turned his head toward the door before turning back to meet my gaze and whispered, “His driver’s license was revoked. One too many DUIs.”
    Plausible. Still, I contemplated his answer. “Then why didn’t you drive him home after you left Michael’s?”
    Elbows on the table, he leaned forward. “Because he’s a fucking hothead and he pissed me off, so I left his ass.”
    I tried not to laugh. I was certain the situation wasn’t funny. Instead, I moved my head closer to him. “Sounds like you are too.”
    He shrugged. “Sometimes I am, but I try not to be.”
    I liked that he didn’t have a filter—it made him seem more honest.
    On to question two of I didn’t know how many. I had way too many questions for the man who was somehow connected to my sister and Michael. “Why are you staying at the Four Seasons if you live in Boston?”
    Logan picked up his glass and sipped from it. “I don’t live in Boston. I live in New York City. I’ve been coming here to help my father out with his practice for the last six months, but his house in Dorchester Heights is a shit hole.” When he finished speaking, any amusement he once had in his hazel eyes was gone. Seriousness had replaced it all. “Anything else?”
    Yes, I had a million other questions. I wanted to know who he was and what he did. What he knew about Michael’s situation. Deep down, I really hoped Logan wasn’t involved in what my sister had gotten herself into, but it seemed after what happened earlier, he had to be. My laundry list of questions would have to wait. I could see in his eyes that my time was running out. I leaned back in the booth. “I do have one more question.”
    Eyeing me wearily, he heaved a sigh. “Go ahead.” But then he threw me a smile to let me know he wasn’t completely annoyed—yet.
    My stomach did a flip and I think he knew it. I knew I should watch my body language. I might be giving off a vibe I could never live up to. Sucking in a breath, I asked my final question. “What is it you do to help your dad out?”
    My mind was coming up with all kinds of things that should have worried me.
    A hit man.
    A drug runner.
    A bookie.
    “I’m a lawyer,” he said matter-of-factly.
    Okay, I so wasn’t expecting that. I eyed him skeptically. He wasn’t dressed like Michael or even his father. Sure he had the white shirt, but that was where the similarity stopped. His white shirt molded to his toned chest like perfection, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, top two buttons undone. He wore distressed jeans that looked almost lethal on him. Add black suede sneakers and a casual black coat. Hot. Casual. Mouthwatering. Yep, other than the white shirt, he was not dressed like an