by Meghan March
“I’ll worry about him tomorrow.”
Chapter 5
Logan
I still haven’t gotten an address from Banner as I load up the Road Runner to head out before the sun rises tomorrow morning. I have half a mind to pull some strings and figure out where she lives on my own if she doesn’t respond. I’m not going to waste this chance just because she’s suddenly having cold feet. Besides, that’s not the woman I’ve gotten to know. She takes life head-on.
By the time I crank down the last ratchet strap, I decide I’m not gonna let her chicken out. Even without her address, I’m gonna meet Banner and satisfy my raging curiosity. Regardless of whatever else does or doesn’t happen, the least I can do is show her how a real man treats a woman.
As though I conjured it through my thoughts, my phone buzzes with a text message.
I pull it out, and a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
It’s an address. A second message comes through immediately after.
BANNER NYC: We’re not meeting at my place.
I type my reply.
LOGAN: You don’t trust me.
BANNER NYC: Maybe it’s me I don’t trust.
Well now, isn’t that an unexpected development.
LOGAN: Maybe I’m hunchbacked with one eye and tiny T. rex hands.
BANNER NYC: Impossible. I’ve seen your picture.
LOGAN: How?
There’s no way Greer could have sent her one because she was using my phone, and I read the message she sent Banner. So when an old photo from my days in the corps appears on the screen of my phone, I’m more than a little surprised.
LOGAN: You stalking me?
BANNER NYC: Have you changed much since then?
LOGAN: I don’t carry an M16 everywhere.
BANNER NYC: No, but I bet you’re packing below the belt. At least, that’s what I assume . . .
BANNER NYC: I didn’t mean to say that. I’m drunk. Ignore everything.
Now, shit’s getting interesting. I’ve been careful to keep my messages to her on the friendly side of the scale, but Banner has hinted at more now twice. It’s time to stop with the games and put it out there for real.
LOGAN: You imagining me naked?
Chapter 6
Banner
“I think I just made a terrible mistake.”
As Sofia returns to the table from the bathroom, her sleek brown eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean?” She looks down at the empty cocktail glasses between us. “And what happened to my drink?”
“I drank it. This was an emergency.” I hold up my phone. “I basically told him I think about him naked.”
Sofia’s blue eyes widen as she stares at me. “I thought you said no drunk texting?”
I shrug and peer down into the empty glass. “You left me without adult supervision.”
She slides into the chair at our tall cocktail table and laughs. “You’re the adult here, Banner. You’re how much older than me? And why does it matter, anyway? You’re the queen of dirty texts.”
“You seriously can’t be asking me to do math right now, and it matters because I wasn’t doing this with him. I was trying the friends thing.”
Sofia looks at me like I’m not speaking English. “I don’t understand.”
I trace the rim of the glass with my index finger, hesitating before I speak. “I’m basically good at three things when it comes to guys. Talking dirty, one-night stands, and the walk of shame. And then there’s Logan. He’s the first one in forever who talked to me without doing it just to fuck me. He has never asked me to send him a pic of my tits. He actually likes me, and without knowing if I look like Cruella de Vil. He’s . . . different. So I thought that meant whatever he and I are doing would be different. But I couldn’t help myself. I had to screw it all up.”
I look toward the bar rather than make eye contact with Sofia, but my gaze snaps back to her when she asks, “Does he have a brother? I could use some different too.”
“We haven’t gotten that far. Maybe we never will. Ugh, I suck at this.”
Sofia points to my phone where it rests on the table between us. “Are you going to answer him?”
“I have to, don’t I?”
“He’s coming here tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“And where are you going to meet him?”
“I gave him the address of the tapas bar on the corner.”
“Really?”
Her question makes me reconsider my choice. “Bad idea?”
Sofia shrugs. “If he’s so different, maybe tapas isn’t your best choice. You’ll find out tomorrow, I suppose. I need another drink, and I’m not waiting for the slow-as-hell waitress. Don’t do anything ridiculous while I’m gone.”
“Of course not,” I say, my tone indignant.
I tap my phone screen as soon as Sofia struts away, and stare down at the message from Logan.
LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: You imagining me naked?
I’m so screwed, because I’m definitely picturing him naked now. All my resolutions about how this is supposed to be different don’t stop my thumbs from flying across my screen with the absolute alcohol-induced truth. I’ve already messed this up. And at least I’m being honest.
BANNER: Only when I come.
His reply arrives within moments.
LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: Fuck. You shouldn’t have told me that, because now I’m thinking about you too.
BANNER: Is that a bad thing?
LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: You tell me.
Oh. Well. Hmmm.
BANNER: I guess we’ll find out when you get here.
As soon as I hit SEND and read back over the messages, a wave of excitement washes over me that I finally get to meet him in person, but there’s a pang of regret with it. What are the chances I can break my old habits with him, and not end this with the walk of shame?
LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: I guess we will.
Now, what does that mean? Did he just shoot me down? Gah, this man has me all over the place.
I pause, my thumbs poised above the keyboard on my phone, unsure how to reply.
Sofia returns, no doubt saving me from messing this up even further by saying something more. “Hey! I ran into a friend. She’s doing shots at the bar.”
“Shots? I could do shots.” My voice sounds unusually perky, even to me.
As we head over to join Sofia’s friend, I decide more alcohol is the perfect way to help me figure out how to deal with Logan tomorrow . . . although it might not be the smartest.
* * *
I wake up in my own bed, but I’m not alone. Thankfully, the dark head on the pillow next to me belongs to Sofia. I vaguely recall her ushering us into a cab around three in the morning.
Thank God for the weekend, or I would be calling into work hung over again, which would probably result in me getting fired. And somehow that doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world, except for the fact that I’d be broke for the time being.
No, I can’t lose this job. I have to stick it out for another six months, and then I’ll be all set.
I roll and swing my legs over the side of the bed, taking my time as I stand to make sure I’m not going to land on my face. Balance acquired, I shuffle into the bathroom to find my clutch on the counter.
Out of habit more than anything else, I flip it open and pull out my phone. Two texts from Logan are waiting.
That familiar rush of excitement floods me when I see his name on the screen. Rather than unlocking my phone to read them, I force myself into the shower to rid myself of the smoke and club nastiness from last night. My hair looks like it’s been styled by a two-year-old, and my eyeliner smudges should qualify me for honorary raccoon status.
The steam from the shower melts it all away, and thankfully my stomach isn’t angry with me for whatever I put in it. I hurry through sudsing up, washing, and conditioning because I need to know what Logan said. Even now, he’s somewhere between Kentucky and Ma
nhattan. Equal parts anticipation and apprehension battle it out in my chest.
I like this guy.
That’s the terrifying part. I don’t know what his cock looks like, or his favorite position in bed, but I like him as a person. That’s not something I’ve been able to say in a long time.
It’s not like Logan and his messages have been part of my life for long, so how did both become so important so fast?
Tonight can’t be the end.
I will not one-night him.
Resolute in my decision, I shut the water off and reach for my towel. Feeling confident about my newfound determination, I unlock my phone and the messages appear on the screen.
LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: Those are things I’d rather discuss in person.
LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: Get some sleep, Banner. You’re going to need it.
Oh God. What did I say? After the shots, I thought I told Sofia to take my phone away. I scroll upward through the messages I sent him.
BANNER: So, anal . . . I need to see the equipment 1st. 2 big is a thing.
My stomach twists and plummets to my feet.
Sofia didn’t take my phone from me. Jesus Christ. This is a train wreck.
Above that, I asked him if he was cut or uncut. Whether he liked his balls played with while he got head. If he would pull my hair.
I glance up and see myself in the mirror. All the color has drained from my face, and I’m doing a great impersonation of a drowned albino rat. That is, if albino rats had fabulous colorists.
My gaze drops back to the phone as I read the rest of the damage. Logan deflected all my questions, but he wasn’t rude or unkind.
How am I ever going to face him after all that? What must he think of me?
My stomach still twisting, I wander into my living room and curl up on the couch under my fuzziest blanket.
If I was worried about screwing it up before . . . mission accomplished. Is this my own form of self-sabotage? Maybe I’m so scared that I actually like Logan, that I want to make sure there’s no possible way this could actually go well?
This is what happens when you know you need a shrink but refuse to go to one. You psychoanalyze yourself and do a really crappy job at it.
I need a voice of reason. I need Greer, but I can’t talk to her because she’s way too busy sorting out her own life right now.
Grabbing a throw pillow, I squish it over my head and groan.
Chapter 7
Logan
The drive to New York is a long one and gives me way too much time to think. What the fuck am I doing?
I wish Banner hadn’t caught my attention the way she has, but how could she not? Smart, sarcastic, confident, and funny as hell. She isn’t looking for a man to take care of her, because she has the world at her fingertips.
So, what can a guy like me possibly offer a woman who has everything? From the turn our messages took last night, it’s clear I have at least one thing to offer her.
She might have been drunk, but that’s when a lot of the truth comes out. I wish I could be a fly on the wall when she reads the messages this morning. Banner didn’t just cross the line. She obliterated it.
I’m not pissed about that, but until I meet her in person, I’m withholding judgment.
My goal for tonight? To have an amazing fucking time with her, regardless of whether we end up naked or not. And if we do, you better believe I’m going to leave her measuring every guy she’s ever been with against me. That’s what a real man does.
Banner has been radio silent all day, and I’m starting to wonder if she changed her mind. Would it surprise me? Hell yes. Would I let it stand? No way in hell. If she isn’t interested in anything beyond a drink and a meal, that’s her call. But there’s no way I’m going to let her chicken out before I get to introduce myself face-to-face.
Decision made, I turn my attention to the road where it belongs.
Chapter 8
Banner
After Sofia left to go home, I changed my outfit fourteen times, and now it looks like Fifth Avenue threw up all over my bedroom.
What do you wear when you’re trying to prove that you’re not cheap and easy despite your text messages while you were drunk the night before? I’m coming up blank. Six dresses, two pairs of jeans, four skirts, two jumpsuits (what was I thinking when I bought those, anyway?), and countless tanks, shirts, blouses, and sweaters lay strewn across every flat and not-so-flat surface in my bedroom.
Do I go casual? Sexy? Flirty? Boring?
Once again, I wish Greer were here so she could stage a fashion intervention. What would Greer wear?
My best friend is classy to the nth degree, so she’d probably go with one of the more conservative dresses. Or possibly a skirt-and-blouse combo.
But then again, I’m not Greer.
I look down at the dresses on my bed and close my eyes.
“Eeeny, meeny, miney, mo.” I reach out and grab a handful of fabric and decide that whatever it is, I’m going to wear it. I have approximately thirty minutes to finish getting ready, so I need to hurry my ass up.
I open my eyes and look down at what I picked.
A long-sleeved, olive-drab shirt dress with gold buttons and a matching belt. I pulled it out of my closet on a whim while picturing Logan in his uniform.
Do I really want to wear that? It’s probably the least sexy of everything I’ve picked, but maybe that’s exactly why it’s perfect.
Because I’m not going to have sex with Logan Brantley.
I pull it on over plain black lingerie, not even the lacy kind, before straightening everything and tying the belt. I look . . . conservative. It’s like the anti-Banner.
I tell myself unfastening the top button makes it look a little more Banner-ish, but still conservative. Not like when I unfastened the top three buttons while trying it on in the store so the neckline played peekaboo with my bra.
Classic gold accessories complete the look, and my hair is curled in waves down my back. I slip into my favorite knee-high black boots and pull on a black trench coat.
I look very New York.
My reflection hammers home the fact that the guy I’m meeting is the complete opposite of everything New York, which is exactly why I’m so freaking fascinated by him.
Except now I’m not sure I’m going to be able to look him in the eye after the downward spiral my texts took last night. With any other guy, sending flirty or downright dirty messages wouldn’t bother me. That’s who I am—the girl who isn’t afraid to say all those filthy things and follow through on them. But for some reason, what Logan thinks of me actually matters, and I don’t want him to put me in that category.
Then why did I do it?
Because I’m an idiot who shouldn’t be let near a bottle of vodka without adult supervision.
I’m not going for shock value here, which means I’m completely out of my depth. I’ve never wanted to impress someone by just being myself before.
For the love of God, I need to stop with the introspection.
I have to get out of my head, so I clean up my clothing disaster and make sure my bed is made. Why am I bothering? We aren’t sleeping together. Still, I take the time to look over everything again before glancing at the clock.
It’s go time.
* * *
Why did I pick this place? When I walk into the tapas bar, I question that decision and every other one I’ve made in my life since I got that first text message from Logan Brantley’s number. He isn’t a tapas kind of guy. He’s steak and potatoes and man food. Or even bar food. Anything but tapas.
I’m castigating myself for being an absolute moron and not thinking this through as I allow the hostess to lead me to a table in the front corner where I’ll have a view of the door. I check my phone and the time every thirty seconds.
When it vibrates, I freeze.
SOFIA: Good luck tonight. Mrs. F says to keep your legs closed.
At least that brings a smile to my face. And
it’s probably some of the best advice I’ve ever gotten. Thanks, Frau Frances.
Tonight I’m determined not to let my normal throw-caution-to-the-wind attitude have free rein, because every time I do, I fall into my same old habits. I’m not doing that with Logan. No, really. I’m not.
The door opens and I hold my breath.
Not him.
It opens again and again over the next fourteen minutes, and none of the people who come inside look anything like the guy in the picture I’ve been getting off to nearly every night for the last couple of weeks.
Finally, fifteen minutes after we said we’d meet, Logan Brantley walks into the tapas bar. Every curse word known to woman—and several I make up on the fly—flash through my brain.
This isn’t fair. Logan Brantley is even sexier when he’s not dressed in camo and carrying a big gun. More than one head swings in his direction. Women flip their hair and uncross and re-cross their legs as he steps up to the hostess stand.
A shaft of possessiveness lights up inside me, right along with nervous energy and my pounding heart. Back off, bitches. He’s not here for you.
I hear the low rumble of his deep drawl when he speaks to the hostess. She gestures in my direction, and he turns. Piercing blue eyes find me at the table where a lone water glass sits in front of me.
Liquid courage should definitely have been on the menu. Why didn’t I order a drink?
Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought I could handle this.
Now my heart is hammering so loud, my voice will probably be inaudible, or even worse—quaver when I speak.
Logan walks toward me with long, sure strides. He’s taller than I realized. And broader. And bigger. Everywhere. He’s wearing a black Henley that stretches across his chest, leaving no doubt of the fact that the man is built. And his jeans. Jesus. They’re worn and snug in all the right places.