Page 7 of Coff

Logan:Miss you already.

I can’t help my smile. Only a week with this man, and I wish we had more time.

Me:Me too.

The front door opens, and I glance up, expecting to see a contractor dropping off paperwork. Instead, I’m greeted by a smile from Sam, my best friend.

“Wow, she lives!” Sam says.

I laugh. “Sorry I was MIA last week.”

“Don’t worry about it. I saw why, and I approve.”

Sam insisted we go to that bar that night. It wasn’t something I’d normally do, but as she pointed out, I needed to take advantage of my dad’s absence. Staying out all night while still living at home with my parents is impossible. Then, after a couple shots of courage, we each agreed to talk to a guy. If it led to more, so be it. I still can’t believe how forward I was. I’d never done that before.

“I know you did. You pointed him out. And thank you.”

She sits on the edge of my desk. “Were you really with him all week?”

I nod.

“You didn’t go home at night?”

I shake my head.

“And did Duke cover for you?”

Sam knows my dad is very protective. Duke covered for me a few times in high school so I could be a normal teenager at a party a time or two.

“He did. I didn’t think he’d be cool with an entire week, but he was.”

She smiles. “Good. I’m happy to hear I don’t have to kick his ass.”

I roll my eyes. Sam and my brother tolerate each other, but that’s about it. I’m not sure what the issue is between them. All Sam will tell me is she thinks Duke is arrogant.

Sam holds up a plastic bag. “Well, now that you’re back, let’s have lunch, and you can fill me in on all the details.”

“Oh, is that from the deli?”

“Of course.”

We move to a conference table near the back of the office, and she takes out the sandwiches.

“I swear I could eat their chicken salad every day for the rest of my life,” I say, then take a bite. “It’s so good.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve been trying for the past six months to figure out what the secret ingredient is that gives it that extra tang.”

I lower my sandwich. “You have?”

She nods as she chews.

“It’s tartar sauce,” I say.

Her eyes widen. “It is not!”

I shrug. “Tastes like it.” I take another bite.

“It kind of does. Maybe they add pickle juice.” She stares at her sandwich, then mine, as she frowns. “Okay, spill it. Was he good in bed?” Then she laughs. “Why am I asking? He must have been if you stayed an entire week!”

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