romantic.”
“Sounds as though I’m like Summer too.” Although I’ve tried hard to bury that romantic part of me: the one that dreams of a white dress, of walking down the aisle. It’s better not to expect anything. That way, I can’t be disappointed, or hurt.
“Is that so?” Logan’s expression softens. I try to backtrack, because eternal love is the last thing a man wants to hear about on a first date—or ever, really. Before I have a chance to open my mouth, Logan continues, “You believe in true love, Nadine?”
I lick my lips. “Don’t you? Your parents are living proof it exists.”
Logan’s eyes rove over my face, resting on my lips. Involuntarily, I press my thighs together. “I asked first.”
“I used to believe,” I confess, lowering my gaze to the glass in front of me.
“And Thomas crushed that.”
“Yeah.” When I look up from my glass, I find Logan scrutinizing me with an unreadable expression. “Your turn. Do you believe?”
“I’m a man.” He drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I can’t own up to believing in true love without my masculinity suffering a downgrade.”
Snorting, I grin. His eyes tell me what his lips don’t: he does believe, and that’s good enough for me.
“What does true love mean to you?” Logan asks. His eyes search mine, pure curiosity filling them. No man has ever asked me this, and until now, I never voiced these thoughts out loud.
With Logan, the words come to me easily. “It means having someone I can share everything with. My dreams, my fears. The good days and the bad ones. It means having someone I want to share my good news with first, who’s there for me when things go south. I’d ask you what your definition is, but you already told me that’d threaten your masculinity.”
By way of answering, Logan threads his fingers with mine on the table. The slight touch electrifies me, an involuntary sigh escaping my lips. Logan’s eyes turn darker still.
The waiter brings our appetizer of salmon salad, and we fall into companionable silence. I finish my cocktail between small bites of salmon, and when I’m done with both, I discover with dismay that I’m tipsy. The unfortunate thing is that once I reach this stage, I want more.
“I’ll order another drink.”
Logan’s eyes widen. “You weren’t kidding. Your tolerance to mixed drinks is abysmal.”
When the waiter arrives, I bat my eyelashes at him while ordering another cocktail.
“I become flirty when I’m tipsy,” I inform Logan.
“With everyone, yeah. I see that.”
“Yep. That’s my secret super-tipsy power. I flirt with everyone. I don’t discriminate,” I affirm with a proud smile.
“Well, that backfired quickly,” he murmurs to himself. As the waiter puts the second cocktail in front of me, Logan says, “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you.”
“Why not?” I challenge, holding my chin high.
“I’m not going to kiss you if you’re not sober.”
My insides melt and my determination to drink the cocktail dwindles quickly. “So, kissing is on the menu?”
“Depends on you.” Logan drums his fingers on the table, and right now, the gesture strikes me as incredibly sexy. A film starts playing in my mind, of Logan drumming his fingers across my skin. What part of me would he touch first? I imagine he’d give plenty of attention to my breasts, caressing them, teasing me. Then his fingers would find my center, and he’d rock my world. Goosebumps form on my arms as if he were indeed touching me. “I want you to be aware and experiencing every sensation when I kiss you.”
I drink only water through the main course and dessert. The second unfortunate effect of my tipsiness is that my tongue loosens. “Can I ask you something and you promise to answer sincerely?”
“Sure.”
“Do all men expect sex on the first date?”
Logan’s lips part in surprise, but he recovers quickly. “No, mostly jerks and amateurs.” With a hint of mystery,
“Sounds as though I’m like Summer too.” Although I’ve tried hard to bury that romantic part of me: the one that dreams of a white dress, of walking down the aisle. It’s better not to expect anything. That way, I can’t be disappointed, or hurt.
“Is that so?” Logan’s expression softens. I try to backtrack, because eternal love is the last thing a man wants to hear about on a first date—or ever, really. Before I have a chance to open my mouth, Logan continues, “You believe in true love, Nadine?”
I lick my lips. “Don’t you? Your parents are living proof it exists.”
Logan’s eyes rove over my face, resting on my lips. Involuntarily, I press my thighs together. “I asked first.”
“I used to believe,” I confess, lowering my gaze to the glass in front of me.
“And Thomas crushed that.”
“Yeah.” When I look up from my glass, I find Logan scrutinizing me with an unreadable expression. “Your turn. Do you believe?”
“I’m a man.” He drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I can’t own up to believing in true love without my masculinity suffering a downgrade.”
Snorting, I grin. His eyes tell me what his lips don’t: he does believe, and that’s good enough for me.
“What does true love mean to you?” Logan asks. His eyes search mine, pure curiosity filling them. No man has ever asked me this, and until now, I never voiced these thoughts out loud.
With Logan, the words come to me easily. “It means having someone I can share everything with. My dreams, my fears. The good days and the bad ones. It means having someone I want to share my good news with first, who’s there for me when things go south. I’d ask you what your definition is, but you already told me that’d threaten your masculinity.”
By way of answering, Logan threads his fingers with mine on the table. The slight touch electrifies me, an involuntary sigh escaping my lips. Logan’s eyes turn darker still.
The waiter brings our appetizer of salmon salad, and we fall into companionable silence. I finish my cocktail between small bites of salmon, and when I’m done with both, I discover with dismay that I’m tipsy. The unfortunate thing is that once I reach this stage, I want more.
“I’ll order another drink.”
Logan’s eyes widen. “You weren’t kidding. Your tolerance to mixed drinks is abysmal.”
When the waiter arrives, I bat my eyelashes at him while ordering another cocktail.
“I become flirty when I’m tipsy,” I inform Logan.
“With everyone, yeah. I see that.”
“Yep. That’s my secret super-tipsy power. I flirt with everyone. I don’t discriminate,” I affirm with a proud smile.
“Well, that backfired quickly,” he murmurs to himself. As the waiter puts the second cocktail in front of me, Logan says, “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you.”
“Why not?” I challenge, holding my chin high.
“I’m not going to kiss you if you’re not sober.”
My insides melt and my determination to drink the cocktail dwindles quickly. “So, kissing is on the menu?”
“Depends on you.” Logan drums his fingers on the table, and right now, the gesture strikes me as incredibly sexy. A film starts playing in my mind, of Logan drumming his fingers across my skin. What part of me would he touch first? I imagine he’d give plenty of attention to my breasts, caressing them, teasing me. Then his fingers would find my center, and he’d rock my world. Goosebumps form on my arms as if he were indeed touching me. “I want you to be aware and experiencing every sensation when I kiss you.”
I drink only water through the main course and dessert. The second unfortunate effect of my tipsiness is that my tongue loosens. “Can I ask you something and you promise to answer sincerely?”
“Sure.”
“Do all men expect sex on the first date?”
Logan’s lips part in surprise, but he recovers quickly. “No, mostly jerks and amateurs.” With a hint of mystery,
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