Page 21 of Strictly Yours

Amber’s mouth drops open as she looks up at me like I’m a superhero.

I give her the ball and she stares at it in awe before turning back to me. She grabs my shirt, yanks me down, and plants those soft scrumptious lips right onto mine.

I moan as I taste her for the first time while everyone cheers around us. We must be on the jumbotron because the whole stadium erupts.

I wanted our first kiss in private, but I gotta admit. This is pretty darn cool too.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Amber

Dinner isn’t what I expected.

After the chaos of the stadium, I thought we’d end up grabbing hot dogs from a cart or eating noodles on the sidewalk. But somehow, here we are—sitting in a quiet little Italian restaurant tucked into a West Village side street with string lights above us and fresh herbs growing out of terra cotta pots along the windowsills.

It’s lovely. And romantic.

And way too nice for the Yankees hat I was wearing. I stashed the baseball Logan caught for me and my new cap in the Rolls Royce Logan hired for the day, complete with a driver who is probably playing Soduko on his phone right now.

I can’t believe we just found this place by wandering around, walking down random streets while holding hands. That’s the beauty of this city and something Logan never realized until I crashed into his life—there’s magic tucked away in every corner. You just have to get out and look for it.

This little restaurant was tucked into the corner of a quiet windy street, like it’s been here since the invention of marinara. The walls are warm brick, worn with time, and lined with black-and-white photos of what I assume are generations of the same family—laughing around long tables, holding babies, and twirling pasta like it’s an Olympic sport. The smell alone could heal childhood trauma: fresh basil, simmering tomatoes, and roasted garlic.

There’s a small trio of musicians playing in the back. One has an accordion, the other a mandolin, and the last is an older man with a velvet voice singing soft, slow Italian ballads. He looks like he should be someone's grandpa yelling at his grandkids in a vineyard, but his voice is beautiful and a little bit heartbreaking. It makes the whole place feel like it’s floating slightly above the ground.

It’s the kind of restaurant where the waiters kiss your cheeks and argue about who makes the better meatballs—Mama or Nonna.

It makes me think of family.

Not just mine now, but the kind I want someday. The loud, warm, overly involved kind that hugs too much and eats even more. I can’t wait to see my parents as grandparents, hugging my little toddlers and spoiling them at Christmas. And in my fantasy, this man is standing right there beside me.

I glance across the table at Logan.

“What’s your family like?”

He takes a slow sip of his red wine and thinks about it. That’s what I like most about him. He’s slow and deliberate. He chooses his words carefully and thinks before he speaks. He’s the opposite of me with my rambling mouth that won’t ever shut up.

“My mom lives in Florida,” he says. “With her boyfriend, Mitch. I don’t see her nearly enough.”

“How come?”

He shrugs those big sexy shoulders. He looks delectable in his black collared shirt with his perfectly tailored charcoal pants, sleeves rolled up those tantalizing forearms. I have the best view in the city.

“I’m not the biggest fan of Mitch and he’s not the biggest fan of me.”

“Oh,” I say, not wanting to push him further than he wants to go. I can tell this man isn’t the type to open up easily. But I am curious about his childhood. I’m curious about everything having to do with this man. “What was your mom like when you were growing up?”

The nice song finishes and everyone in the restaurant claps politely.

There’s silence until Grandpa begins another song and the quiet conversations continue.

“It was hard for her,” he says. I can see the heaviness filling his body. No doubt, it was hard for him too. “My father left us with nothing. Just up and vanished. My mom tried, but… The world isn’t too kind to single mothers with no money and no education. She got a job working in a manufacturing plant making car parts, but when she got laid off, it hit us hard. We didn’t have family to help and we had no safety net. One month we were living in a tiny apartment in Philly. The next, we were sleeping in her car.”

My chest tightens. “Logan…”

He shakes his head, not looking for pity.

“It lasted nine months,” he continues. “She’d park at the church or in department store lots. Kept wet wipes in the glove box. Tried to make it feel normal, like it was just temporary.” His voice drops. “But I knew we were there for the long haul.”

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