Page 12 of Wrong Number, Right Grump
“Emotionally or vocally?” It slips out before I can think better of it, but I don’t regret it. I’m... comfortable. Caught off guard by how easy it is to talk to him.
“Yes.” He doesn’t laugh, exactly, but something flickers at the corner of his mouth, making my pulse skip.
I laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re intense,” he flips it right back at me.
“Youlikeit.” I hope.
He shrugs, but there’s a tiny smile pulling at his mouth again. “You’re not boring.”
I shift in my seat, fingers curling around the stem of my glass just to give them something to do. It’s probably meant as a compliment, but part of me wonders if it’s the polite version of too much. Chad used to accuse me of being too much,accompanied by exasperated sighs. Even though it’s neutral from Logan’s tone, my chest tightens for a split second.
“That’s the nicest way anyone’s ever told me I’m exhausting.”
“I didn’t say exhausting.” He pauses, reaching for my hand. “You’re passionate. Enthusiastic. It looks good on you.”
He wraps his fingers under mine and strokes my hand with his thumb. My heart trips. Heat blooms up my neck and pools low and insistent in places I have no business reacting to from a solitary thumb stroke. He’s not even being overtly sexual, which makes it even worse. Because he’s gentle and intentional, and my body takes it personally.
“You’re different than I expected,” I say, softer now.
“How?”
“I don’t know. I thought you’d be more closed off.”
He looks down at his glass, jaw tight like I’ve rubbed a sore spot. I stay quiet and hold still, allowing him the space he needs without making the stretched silence more awkward than it already is.
“I usually am.” He looks back up, and something shifts in the set of his jaw. His eyes are a little less guarded, the crinkles around them a little less deep. “You’re easy to talk to.”
The hum of conversation around us fades, like someone turned the world down a notch and left just the two of us in the low flicker of candlelight. His thumb keeps moving slowly and deliberately. I swear I feel it everywhere. My skin’s too warm. My spine, too aware. As if we’ve crossed an invisible line and neither of us has to pretend otherwise.
And that’s when the walls I’ve built around my heart start shifting, slowly crumbling with every brush of his thumb.
CHAPTER 7
***
Lola
The wine is long gone. The nervous energy is still here, but it’s found its rhythm. Enough to make me feel alive, not so much that I want to hyperventilate. We’ve discussed art, but only the weird stuff. I regale him with stories he only half believes but still laughs. He delivers dry humor that doesn’t feel like a zinger to my heart.
We leave the bar, but neither of us makes a move toward goodbye. Logan shoves his hands in his pockets and takes steps too short for his stride, like he’s lingering, in no hurry. I match his pace, brushing a little too close, enough to stay connected without being clingy.
He glances at me like he might say something but doesn’t. I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. A nervous habit. When we reach the corner, there’s no room left for conversation. Just a cold, lonely ride home.
“You want to walk a little?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager.
The sidewalk gives way to a park with twinkling lights strung through trees and quiet, winding pathways. It’s always seemed ordinary to me, but tonight, it feels like it belongs in a movie montage where people fall in love with the lilt of soft indie music in the background.
He nods. “Sure.”
We cross into the park. It’s not crowded, just a few couples walking dogs and a guy jogging. A shiver slips down my spine, and I hug my arms around myself, wishing I’d thought to dress more for temperature and less for flirtation.
Without a word, Logan shrugs out of his jacket and tucks it around my shoulders. It isn’t a handoff or second thought. He wraps me in it like it’s instinct. Though I consider myself a strong, capable woman of the world, his act of kindness makes me feel safe, feminine.
“You’ll freeze,” I protest, even as the warmth of his body heat soaks into my skin.
“I won’t,” he says. “You’re cold.”
