by Elle Kennedy
Logan
An entire week passes before I’m able to tick another item off the list. So far, I’ve completed four out of the six, but these last two are a bitch to acquire. The wheels are in motion regarding #6, but #5 is fucking hard. I’ve been searching high and low for it, even contemplated buying it online, but those things are a lot more expensive than I thought they’d be.
It’s Tuesday afternoon, and I’m with Garrett and our buddy Justin. We’re picking up Hannah, Allie, and Justin’s girlfriend, Stella, at the drama building, and then the six of us are supposed to drive to the diner in Hastings for lunch. But the moment we enter the cavernous auditorium where the girls told us to meet them, my jaw drops and our plans change.
“Holy shit—is that a red velvet chaise lounge?”
The guys exchange a WTF look. “Um…sure?” Justin says. “Why—”
I’m already sprinting toward the stage. The girls aren’t here yet, which means I have to act fast. “For fuck’s sake, get over here,” I call over my shoulder.
Their footsteps echo behind me, and by the time they climb on the stage, I’ve already whipped my shirt off and am reaching for my belt buckle. I stop to fish my phone from my back pocket and toss it at Garrett, who catches it without missing a beat.
“What is happening right now?” Justin bursts out.
I drop trou, kick my jeans away, and dive onto the plush chair wearing nothing but my black boxer-briefs. “Quick. Take a picture.”
Justin doesn’t stop shaking his head. Over and over again, and he’s blinking like an owl, as if he can’t fathom what he’s seeing.
Garrett, on the other hand, knows better than to ask questions. Hell, he and Hannah spent two hours constructing origami hearts with me the other day. His lips twitch uncontrollably as he gets the phone in position.
“Wait.” I pause in thought. “What do you think? Double guns, or double thumbs up?”
“What is happening?”
We both ignore Justin’s baffled exclamation.
“Show me the thumbs up,” Garrett says.
I give the camera a wolfish grin and stick up my thumbs.
My best friend’s snort bounces off the auditorium walls. “Veto. Do the guns. Definitely the guns.”
He takes two shots—one with flash, one without—and just like that, another romantic gesture is in the bag.
As I hastily put my clothes back on, Justin rubs his temples with so much vigor it’s as if his brain has imploded. He gapes as I tug my jeans up to my hips. Gapes harder when I walk over to Garrett so I can study the pictures.
I nod in approval. “Damn. I should go into modeling.”
“You photograph really well,” Garrett agrees in a serious voice. “And dude, your package looks huge.”
Fuck, it totally does.
Justin drags both hands through his dark hair. “I swear on all that is holy—if one of you doesn’t tell me what the hell just went down here, I’m going to lose my shit.”
I chuckle. “My girl wanted me to send her a boudoir shot of me on a red velvet chaise lounge, but you have no idea how hard it is to find a goddamn red velvet chaise lounge.”
“You say this as if it’s an explanation. It is not.” Justin sighs like the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. “You hockey players are fucked up.”
“Naah, we’re just not pussies like you and your football crowd,” Garrett says sweetly. “We own our sex appeal, dude.”
“Sex appeal? That was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever—no, you know what? I’m not gonna engage,” Justin grumbles. “Let’s find the girls and grab some lunch.”
*
Grace
Oh my God. He actually did it. I stare at my phone, torn between laughing, groaning, and running to the nearest sex shop to buy a vibrator, because hot damn, John Logan has the sexiest body on the planet.
Standing in the middle of the radio station with my tongue hanging out probably isn’t appropriate work conduct, but technically I’m not working today. I just came in to meet Morris for lunch. And I don’t even care that I’m drooling in public—the picture is that delicious. Logan’s bare chest taunts me from the phone screen, sleek honey-toned muscles, the dusting of hair between his perfectly formed pecs, his rippled abdomen. Jesus, and his boxer-briefs are so tight against his groin and thighs that I can see the outline of his—
“Well, fuck a duck,” comes Morris’s delighted voice.
I jerk in surprise, then spin around to glare at him for sneaking up on me from behind. Judging by the amusement dancing in his eyes, it’s obvious he peeked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of the photo I’d been drooling over.
“I was wondering how he’d pull that one off,” Morris remarks, still grinning like a fool. “Shouldn’t have doubted him, though. That dude is an unstoppable force of nature.”
I narrow my eyes. “He told you about the picture?”
“About the whole list, actually. We hung out last night—Lorris is close to taking over Brooklyn, by the way—and he was moaning and groaning about not being able to track down a red velvet couch.” Morris shrugs. “I offered to throw a red blanket on the sofa in my common room and take some pictures, but he said you’d consider that cheating and deprive him of your love.”
Stifling a sigh, I shove the phone in my purse, then walk over to the mini-fridge across the room and grab a bottle of water. I twist off the cap, doing my best to ignore the sheer enjoyment Morris is getting out of this.
“I wish I was gay,” he says ruefully.
A snicker pops out. “Uh-huh. Go on. I’m willing to follow you down this rabbit hole and see where it leads.”
“Seriously, Gretch, I love him. I have a boner for him.” Morris sighs. “If I’d known he existed, I wouldn’t have asked you out in the first place.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Oh, shut up. You’re awesome, and I’d tap that in a second. But I can’t compete with this guy. He’s operating on a whole other level when it comes to you.”
It’s funny—after our brief, ill-fated foray into dating, Morris and I have become even closer friends. Sometimes the lingering guilt about kissing Logan at the Sigma party still arises, but Morris won’t let me apologize for it anymore. He insists that one measly date doesn’t count as either a relationship, or the committing of adultery, and I think he means it. I also think it’s probably better that we didn’t start anything up, because I’ve started noticing the way he looks at Daisy, and I’m pretty sure she’s the one he really wants to “tap.”
As for me? I want that date with Logan more than anything else in this world, and I regret all this hoop jumping, because honestly, he won me over the second he sent me that poem. And clearly he wants this date as much as I do, otherwise he wouldn’t have put so much effort into the most kickass collage I’ve ever seen. And the origami hearts. And soggy, near-death roses that he used food coloring to turn blue.
And now the boudoir photo? His determination is downright inspiring.
“You know what,” I say slowly. “I feel bad making him do all this stuff when we both know I’m saying yes to the date. I think I should tell him not to bother with the last item.”
“Don’t,” Morris says instantly.
My forehead furrows. “Why not?”
“Purely selfish reasons.” He chuckles. “I’m curious to see what he comes up with.”
I press my lips together to fight a laugh. “Honestly? So am I.”
*
Logan
Two days after fate delivers the red velvet chaise lounge into my life, I speed off the highway ramp and drive toward Hastings, with Garrett sitting quietly in the passenger seat. Neither of us said much during the one-hour return trip from Wilmington, though we probably have different reasons for our silence. Me, I can’t stop thinking about the arena we drove past on our way to the restaurant. It was nothing like the splendor of TD Garden. Just a large, nondescript building, similar to any old arena you might find in New England.
And yet I’d sell my soul to the fucking devil for a chance to wake up every morning and practice there.
I pull into our driveway, but leave the engine running as I glance at Garrett. “Thanks for doing that, man. I owe you big.” I pause. “I know you don’t like relying on your dad’s connections.”
He shrugs. “Mikey’s my godfather. I was using my own connections.” But I know he hated making that call. Godfather or not, NHL legend Mikey Hanson is still Phil Graham’s best friend, and Garrett has spent most of his life trying to separate himself from his asshole father’s shadow.
“Have you spoken to him lately?” I ask cautiously. “Your dad, I mean?”
“Nope. He calls every few weeks, but I just press ignore. Have you spoken to yours?”
“A couple days ago.” I’ve been making an effort to check in on Dad and Jeff, and Mom and David, because once pre-season starts and our practice schedule becomes more intense, I’ll be living in a hockey bubble and will probably forget to call my family.
Garrett goes quiet for a beat, then looks over thoughtfully. “Is she worth all this, bro?”
I don’t ask who “she” is. I simply nod.
“It’s not just for the sex?”
My smile is rueful. “We haven’t had sex yet.”
Surprise flickers through his eyes. “For real? I assumed you fucked her back in April.”
“Nope.”
The corners of his mouth tug upward. Either I’m imagining it, or he actually looks proud of me. “Well, then that just answered my question about her being worth it.” He thumps me on the shoulder, then reaches for the door handle. “Good luck.”
Truth be told, I’m not sure I need luck. Every time I delivered one of my cringingly romantic gifts to Grace’s door, I was rewarded with a brilliant smile that lit up her entire face. And either I was imagining it, or she kept staring at my mouth, so damn intently, as if she was dying to kiss me. I didn’t make a move, though. Didn’t want to push too hard, too fast. But I have a feeling I might be getting that kiss tonight.
I knock on Grace’s door twenty minutes later, ordering myself to keep the gloating to a minimum. But damn, I’m feeling pretty fucking gloaty about the way I’ve successfully fulfilled all of her demands. It really is a shame that people don’t grasp what a stubborn motherfucker I am.
Grace doesn’t look surprised to see me when she opens the door. Probably because I texted to let her know I was coming by. I didn’t tell her why, but she takes one look at my face and sucks in a breath. “You didn’t…”
I hold out my cell in triumph. “Your celebrity endorsement, my lady.”
“Okay, get in here. I have to see this.” One hand snatches the phone while the other tugs me into the room.
Her roommate Daisy is cross-legged on the bed, and she grins when she spots me. “If it isn’t Mr. Romance himself. What have you got for us tonight, big boy?”
I grin back. “Nothing special. Just—”
“Hey, Grace,” a voice drawls out of the phone speaker. Grace has loaded the video and pressed play with impressive speed, and her roommate freezes at the sound of the cheerful male greeting.
“Shane Lukov here,” the dark-haired guy on the screen continues.
“Holy shit!” Daisy screeches. She dives off the bed and races over to Grace, while I stand in front of them smirking the smirk of all smirks.
“Coming to you from Wilmington with an important message,” announces the second-year Bruins star. Lukov took the league by storm with his explosive rookie year, and people are salivating to see what he does this upcoming season. The twenty-year-old is already being compared to Sidney Crosby, and honestly, I don’t think it’s that far off the mark.
“I’ve known Logan a long time.” Lukov winks at the camera. “And by long time, I mean five whole minutes, but what is time, really? From what I can tell, he’s a good guy. Easy on the eyes. Rumor has it he’s a total bruiser on the ice. That’s all I really need to know to give him my endorsement. So go out with him, sweetheart.” A wide grin fills the screen. “My name is Shane Lukov and I approve this message.”
The video ends. Daisy is busy picking her jaw off the floor. Grace is staring at me as if she’s never seen me before in her life.
“So.” I blink innocently. “What time should I pick you up tomorrow night?”
25
Grace
Hastings has several nice restaurants, but if you’re looking for fancy, then Ferro’s is the way to go. The Italian bistro is gorgeous—dark oak-paneled walls, secluded booths, blood-red linen tablecloths. And candlelight. Lots and lots of candlelight.
It requires a reservation at least a week in advance, and yet Logan somehow snags a table in less than twenty-four hours. When he told me where we were going, I thought maybe he’d made a reservation last week in anticipation of completing the items on my list, but on the drive over he admits to calling in a favor to get us a table.
Did I mention he’s wearing a suit?
He looks spectacular in a suit. The crisp black jacket stretches across his wide shoulders, and he decided to forgo a tie, so I have the most delicious view of his strong throat peeking from the open top button of his white dress shirt.
The waiter leads us to our booth, and Logan waits for me to slide in first, then sits right beside me.
“We’re same-siding?” I squeak. “That’s…” Intimate. It’s the kind of seating arrangement reserved for super-in-love couples who can’t keep their hands off each other.
Logan casually stretches his arm along the back of the booth, his fingers resting on my bare shoulder. He strokes lightly. Teasingly.
“That’s…?” he prompts.
“Perfectly fine by me,” I finish, and he gives a knowing chuckle.
His thigh is pressed up against mine, a hard slab of flesh that demonstrates how ripped he is. My short black dress has ridden up a bit, and I hope he doesn’t notice the goose bumps rising on my bare legs. I’m not cold. Just the opposite, in fact. His nearness, and the heat of his body, makes me feverish.
“Can I ask you something?” he hedges, after the waiter recites the specials and pours us two glasses of sparkling water.
“Sure.” I angle my body so we can actually look at each other. This same-side thing was not designed for eye contact.
“How come you don’t ask me about hockey?”
I freeze, which he obviously mistakes for discomfort, because he hurries on almost apologetically. “Not that I mind. It’s actually kind of refreshing. Most girls ask me about nothing but hockey, like they think it’s the only topic I’m capable of talking about. It’s just strange that you’ve never brought it up, not even once.”
I reach for my water glass and take a very, very long sip. Not the most brilliant stalling tactic, but it’s the only one I can think of. I knew this would come up eventually. If anything, I’m surprised it didn’t come up sooner. But that doesn’t mean I was looking forward to it.
“Well. Um. The thing is…” I inhale, then continue with rapid-fire speed. “Imnotahockeyfan.”
A wrinkle appears in his forehead. “What?”
I repeat myself, slowly this time, with actual pauses between each word. “I’m not a hockey fan.”
Then I hold my breath and await his reaction.
He blinks. Blinks again. And again. His expression is a mixture of shock and horror. “You don’t like hockey?”
I regretfully shake my head.
“Not even a little bit?”
Now I shrug. “I don’t mind it as background noise—”
“Background noise?”
“—but I won’t pay attention to it if it’s on.” I bite my lip. I’m already in this deep—might as well deliver the final blow. “I come from a football family.”
“Football,” he says dully.
“Yeah, my dad and I are huge Pats fans. And my grandfather was an offensive lineman for the Bears back in the day.”
“Football.” He gr
abs his water and takes a deep swig, as if he needs to rehydrate after that bombshell.
I smother a laugh. “I think it’s awesome that you’re so good at it, though. And congrats on the Frozen Four win.”
Logan stares at me. “You couldn’t have told me this before I asked you out? What are we even doing here, Grace? I can never marry you now—it would be blasphemous.”
His twitching lips make it clear that he’s joking, and the laughter I’ve been fighting spills over. “Hey, don’t go canceling the wedding just yet. The success rate for inter-sport marriages is a lot higher than you think. We could be a Pats-Bruins family.” I pause. “But no Celtics. I hate basketball.”
“Well, at least we have that in common.” He shuffles closer and presses a kiss to my cheek. “It’s all right. We’ll work through this, gorgeous. Might need couples counseling at some point, but once I teach you to love hockey, it’ll be smooth sailing for us.”
“You won’t succeed,” I warn him. “Ramona spent years trying to force me to like it. Didn’t work.”
“She gave up too easily then. I, on the other hand, never give up.”
No, he certainly doesn’t. If he did, we wouldn’t be in this incredibly romantic restaurant right now, nestled together on the same side of the booth.
“Hey, speaking of Ramona.” His expression darkens slightly. “What’s going on with you two?”
Tension trickles down my spine. “You mean since she went behind my back and offered to comfort you after V-Day?”
He grins. “You call it V-Day? I’ve been calling it V-Night.”
We burst out laughing, and a part of me finds peculiar solace in that, being able to laugh about a night that left me feeling so humiliated. So rejected. But it’s in the past. Logan has gone above and beyond to prove how much he regrets what happened and how sincere he is about starting over. And I wasn’t lying that day in the park when I told him I don’t hold grudges. Both my parents drilled the importance of forgiveness into me, of expelling the bitterness and anger instead of letting those negative emotions consume me.
“I met up with her the day I saw you at the Coffee Hut,” I admit. “We talked, she apologized. I told her I was willing to give the friendship another chance, but that I want to do it at my own pace, and she agreed.”