Page 15 of Breathless

By the timewe drop off Patrick at his place and drive back to Logan’s, the sun hasset.

Logan’s been quiet theentiredrive. His silence is getting on my nerves because something obviously crawled up his butt atdinner.

“You could’ve left me at Patrick’s if me staying here bothersyou.”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind you staying withme.”

It’s too dark to see his face, so I have no way of knowing whether he’s lying. For the record, he lies a lot. Another excellent reason I should get over this infatuation with him. A smart girl wouldn’t waste her time loving a man who lies. But I’m what you’d call book smart. Hand me a test, and I know how to study for it. Give me a book, and I can devour it in a day. But drop me off in a five-mile radius of Logan Carter, and I fold faster than my brother when there’s a bill topay.

What I notice, though, is how Logan doesn’t say hewantsme to stay at his place. He saidhe doesn’t mind. Bigdifference.

Why do I torture myself like this? It’s not like I can throw myself at him and make him love me. And that’s so desperate. Someday, I promise myself, I’ll get to a place in my life where I don’t feel like afool.

When we pull up to his farmhouse, all of the lights are out except one that shines from the kitchen. It brings a host of memories of us enjoying movie marathons and hanging out withfriends.

It’s weird that I’ve been here a million times over the years, but I’ve never stayed thenight.

Logan moved here shortly after he graduated from high school. Since Ethan was getting married, the main Carter house was too small for Bev, Logan, Ethan, Allison—Ethan’s ex—and baby Mila. So Logan got this bachelor pad to himself until Allison and Bev came to loggerheads, and Allison kicked Bev out of the family home. Nobody’s missing Allison thesedays.

I turn toward the mountain of firewood along the side of the house. Once, when I was fifteen and too young to do anything fun, I sat there on a Saturday night with my girlfriend Misty and listened to a party Logan threw and wished I was older. Wished that he’d come out or I had the courage to goin.

I was worried about him. He’d been so distant after his father died. He didn’t want to talk about what happened. Didn’t call me anymore. Didn’t want to hang out. I couldn’t blame him. He’d graduated from high school. Why would he want to spend time with asophomore?

But I wanted to talk to him so bad that I snuck out of the house, determined to make ithappen.

Except I got here and couldn’t take those last fewsteps.

From that sad pile of firewood in the shadows, we watched pretty girls with short skirts and loud guys stumble in and out forhours.

I heard the music blasting and thelaughter.

The beer bottles clanging as they hit the trashbin.

The moans once it gotlate.

My face flushes with embarrassment at thethought.

I was insanely jealous and hurt and a thousand different emotions, though I didn’t have the right to any of them seeing how I was basically a peepingtom.

I realized that was creepy, hanging out next to Logan’s house during a party, even if we were friends, albeit somewhat estranged at thetime.

I never told him I did that. I’d be mortified if he knew, though I only did it once. Trust me, I learned mylesson.

Even when I got older, I mostly avoided his parties. I could go my whole life without seeing another girl wrap herself aroundhim.

Since high school, his fandom has only grown. Now Logan can’t go anywhere without getting hit on. Once he started competing with his brother at cutting horse competitions a few years ago, his popularity among the female persuasion exploded. I’ll be the first to admit he looks pretty dang fine in his Wranglers, but it’s embarrassing to watch women trip all over themselves to hang out withhim.

I must’ve cramped his style. And staying here with him certainly won’t help matters, but it’s not like I have otheroptions.

When he presses his hand to the small of my back as we stroll up the front steps, I almost stumble. He might put me in headlocks, but he rarely puts his hands on meotherwise.

So far today, he’s hugged me so hard he lifted me off the ground, he threaded our fingers together as we held hands, and he’s ushered me along with his hand on myback.

But who’s counting? Notme.

Because I’d have to be a teeny bit crazy if one minute I’m debating whether he even wants me here, and the next, counting the number of times he’s touchedme.

“Wanna order a pizza?” he asks as he unlocks thedoor.

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