“Sometimes scary can be good. He said he loves you. He’s yours now, don’t you get that? You’re the one person who can be with Luke anytime you want.”
An explosion of fireworks goes off in my chest at the revelation.
He’s mine now.
I’m the one person—the only person—who can see him every hour, of every day.
If he’ll forgive me.
Lola continues, oblivious to the thunder going off inside me. “Or pull a Harlow and show up on his doorstep wearing nothing but a trench coat. Simple, but effective.”
“As hilarious as I suspect his reaction would be, I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”
“I’m just watching you freak out on about a hundred different levels right now, aren’t I?”
Laughing now, I sniffle and say, “Yes.”
“If this helps you sort through what’s going on up here,” she says, motioning to the laptop before tapping my forehead, “then finish up. Email the brewery guy—because that’s for London, and London only—and then call Luke.”
* * *
I WORK ON the final touches to Lola’s site while I work up the nerve to talk to Luke. It takes a while . . . I’m not used to having to reach out, apologize, and ask for something like this.
Finally, I close my laptop when there isn’t any other work to be done. His number is at the top of my recent calls list, and I take a breath before pressing his name.
His phone doesn’t ring, and instead goes straight to voicemail.
With a hollow ache in my stomach, I make a few more calls, leaving a message for Jason, the guy who owns the brewery. But with nothing else to distract me from my moping, Lola suggests I run to the grocery store. We’re out of milk and bread and Lola’s favorite yogurt—all things we could go at least a few more days without—but when I open the bathroom cupboard and notice we’re down to the last roll of toilet paper, I admit defeat, grabbing my keys and heading out the door.
Lola and I used to do the grocery shopping together, but with work and deadlines sucking up most of our free time, we’ve started dividing it up. This time Lola’s made me a list, knowing that in my current frame of mind I’ll probably roam the aisles and end up at home with a trunk full of Lean Cuisines and wine.
I’m halfway through the list when my phone rings with an unfamiliar number. I frown down at it, before realizing it could be Jason, returning my call.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Hey, Logan.”
I pull the phone away and blink down at the number again. “Luke?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I . . . I wondered if you could talk for a few minutes.”
“Um . . .” I look around me, still confused about where he’s calling from. “Sure.”
“First, I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry and—”
I stop in the middle of the produce aisle, interrupting. “I don’t want you to apologize, I shouldn’t have said that. It was terrible. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s fine,” he says quietly. “I understand where it came from. I know we have some things to talk over, and I was wondering if we could do that? If you’d be willing to do that.”
“I’d like to talk,” I tell him, my heart beating so hard I can barely form a response. “But what I—” I’m interrupted by a voice screeching through the intercom overhead. I wince at the sound, and then again when it seems to reverberate back to me, through the line.
“Wait, where are you—?”
“Are you—?” we both say, before a throat clears behind me.
It’s him. My pulse is a hammer in my neck.
I look down at my phone and then back up again, before finally ending the call and slipping it back into my bag.
“I’m so confused,” I finally admit, laughing.
“I came downtown to talk to you,” he says. “Figured I’d grab a few things while I worked out what I wanted to say.”
“Oh.” I wonder if this is part of the change Lola was talking about: that Luke—who barely answered texts before, let alone phone calls—would rather have an actual conversation with me than the impersonal blips of text messages.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
Luke takes a step closer and loops his arm around my waist, lifting me off the ground as he pulls me into a hug. He smells like soap and shampoo and I’m incapable of doing anything but cling to him. When he presses his face into my neck and groans, I feel the sound all the way down my body and between my legs.
“So am I.” He sets me down gently, and places a kiss on my forehead. “Hand me your phone.”
“Why?” I ask, but I’m already handing it over.
Luke puts his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close before snapping a selfie of us with his lips pressed to my cheek. He looks adorable: content, eyes closed, smiling into the kiss. By contrast, I look confused and mildly disheveled.
Releasing me, he says, “Because I need to program in my new phone number.”
I watch as he goes to my call log and assigns his name to the number. And only then does it occur to me: Luke called me from a new phone number.
“You got a new phone?” I ask.
He’s still typing his name and address and email information into the contact, but spares a glance in my direction. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
Handing my phone back, he says, “Too many distractions with the old one.”
I swallow and feel the weight of what he’s said wash over me. “Oh.”
“I don’t really want that many women to have my number anymore,” he adds quietly. “It’s not really fair to them, because I have a girlfriend now.”
“Oh.” I seem unable to say anything else. Finally, I manage, “That makes sense.”
“And more important, it’s not really fair to you, since I know I wouldn’t want to have to put up with that.” He tilts his head, catching my eye. “Still okay?” he asks.
I’m pretty sure I’ve never been more okay in my life. I take two steps forward to close the distance between us, and kiss him. My hands slide over the flat planes of his stomach, his ribs, the wide expanse of his chest. My fingers ghost over a nipple and his lips curve up into a smile.
“I’m trying to keep this grocery-store-appropriate,” he growls, reminding me of the last time we were in his bed, with the weight of him moving over me, sweaty and intense. “You’re not making it very easy.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, even as I push up onto my toes to get closer.
He bends to meet me halfway, lips moving with mine, familiar and warm, sucking at the bottom and then letting me have a turn sucking his. He gives me the tip of his tongue in tiny licks, through smiling kisses and quiet sounds as his hands move down my back and over my ass, pulling me into him. I want him in my bedroom, walking backward while I push forward to the bed, climbing over him, feeling his sun-kissed, smooth skin sliding over mine, heating with friction. There are too many clothes and too much space between us, and it’s only when someone bumps into us as they reach around for the baby carrots that I remember where we are.
We register this in unison, and Luke takes a step back before clearing his throat.
“So.” I smooth my hair, willing my body to back down and relax. “Groceries.”
“Right. Groceries.” He takes a deep breath to compose himself before his eyes go wide and he points to my cart. “Wow, that is a lot of produce.”
“Lola’s a healthy gal.” With shaky hands, I pick up a carton of strawberries, check the date, and add it to the pile.
We take a few steps and I glance down at Lola’s list. I’m oddly distracted and can’t seem to focus on anything but the fact that Luke is at my side. “Yogurt,” Luke says, grinning as he guides us down the next aisle.
“Right.”
“So what have you done today?” he asks, and I laugh.
“I finished Lola’s site and did some adult thinking.”
Although I’m bending down to read some labels, I can sense that he
’s turned fully to face me. “More ‘adult thinking’? I did a little of my own today.”
It feels like my heart has just calmed down after kissing him in the produce section, and it takes off all over again as I quietly explain. “Besides the obvious,” I say, “I was thinking about a new job.”
He tries to play it cool by pretending to join me in reading the nutritional information on a yogurt container. “Really?”
I hum in agreement. “This guy Oliver knows contacted me about doing some work.”
“A site?” he asks, unable to keep up the act, pulling my arm so I turn and look at him. I can feel the tension of the conversation growing between us, the question about what happens when he moves to Berkeley.
“A site, yeah, and designing all of his promotional items. It’s a pretty big offer.”
I watch him swallow as he nods a few times. “Like . . . how big?”
“It would pay me more than I make all year bartending.” Luke goes completely still when he hears this. “So after I tried to call you”—Luke startles at this—“I called and quit Bliss. But I might also have to quit Fred’s. That’s the part that’s holding me back. It’s good, but . . . I don’t know . . .” I flounder, repeating the word again: “Big.”
“Big can be good,” he says.
He tilts his head for us to keep walking, and we move side by side down the aisle. Luke senses my need to change the subject and tells me more about how his sister ran into Lola and they ended up talking about us for a half hour. We decide they’re all a bunch of busybodies but we love them anyway, and have made it halfway around the store before I realize that at some point Luke has abandoned his basket entirely, and his groceries are lined up in the cart right next to mine.
And it’s not even weird.
In the cereal aisle I reach for a box of Rice Krispies while he picks out Corn Flakes, and we move on.
A row of Pop-Tarts catches my eye and I stop, picking up a box of blueberry and putting them in with the rest of my things.
“Those are my favorite,” he says.
I wink at him. “I know.”
He looks at me, confused. “How did you know?”
“There was an empty box in your recycling and another in the cupboard. You’ve probably gone through it by now, even just eating one at a time. Still weird, by the way.”
He gives me the strangest expression but doesn’t comment as we finish up Lola’s list and grab a few more things for him. We turn in unison near the cash registers, getting in line to check out.
“You know,” he says, “we’re really good at this.”
I tilt my head to look up at him, waiting for him to elaborate.
“This domestic stuff. Look how good our apples look next to each other. My shampoo next to your tampons? It’s like they were made to be together in this cart. We haven’t argued over what kind of tuna fish to buy and we agree that Ruffles are better than Lay’s. It’s just—it’s nice to know.”
I smile up at him. “ ‘To know’? To know what?”
He bends, kissing my cheek. “To know we aren’t just amazing in bed together, or at a bar together, but actually together together.”
“It is.” I turn into his kiss, letting our lips simply press together as we look into each other’s eyes. I can feel his mouth turn into his smile, and watch as his eyes curve into my favorite, playful expression.
“I love you,” he whispers when he pulls back only a couple of inches, and then kisses me one more time. My throat tightens with the need to say it back.
But not here. I can feel the person behind us watching, can feel how we must stand out in the bright, impersonal light of a grocery store. I can’t look away, though: Luke Sutter is a motherfucking wonder right now, and Lola’s words ring through my thoughts. She’s right: He’s mine now.
The cashier begins scanning things from our cart, and the moment quiets, sweetly. I pay for my groceries and he pays for his, and then together we push the cart out to my car.
“Would you need to go to an office for this new job?” he asks, bending to push a bag toward the back of my trunk. I pull another bag out of the cart and he reaches for it, quietly telling me, “Let me.”
“No,” I answer. “All the programs I need are on my laptop, so I can work from home. Maybe at a coffee shop once or twice a week for a change of scenery.”
“What you’re saying is, you could live anywhere?” he asks, and the question is full of hope.
“I could.” A storm of birds is flapping around in my chest.
With the last bag unloaded, he looks down at me for a moment before leaning in, kissing me softly. It’s the faintest, slowest, most featherlight kiss I’ve ever had, and I want to ask him for about a hundred more.
Can I ovulate from a kiss?
“That’s good to know,” he says, and then points the cart in the direction of his car. “See you at Fred’s tonight, Logan.”
* * *
FRED IS BEHIND the bar when I get to work, and I feel the first real pang of sadness at the possibility of leaving, even to do something I love. I don’t have a particularly close relationship with my own father, so getting to hang out with Fred most nights has become something I really look forward to.
Nana would have loved Fred.
Most only-children bear the burden of being their parents’ entire focus, carrying the weight of their collective hopes and dreams on their shoulders. My parents—particularly my mom—discovered early on that I wasn’t the perfect little Mini-Me she’d always wanted, and opted for disapproval rather than trying to relate to me. I wasn’t outright rebellious, but I wasn’t a people-pleaser, either, and I spent most of my teen years being reprimanded for one thing or another.
My grandmother, on the other hand, just got me, and even though I’m sure there were more times than not where my headstrong personality made her want to sell me to the nearest traveling circus, she knew that the traits that made me a challenging teenager would make me a confident, independent woman.
I do a lot of thinking as I start my shift, about what I should do with my life and where, about how many changes could be on the horizon. I keep going back to my conversation with Luke at the store, and it feels heavier, more important with every passing hour. Luke seems to have settled on moving to Berkeley, but we haven’t really talked about it yet. Something in my chest curls in on itself at the idea of being away from him, even now. San Diego has always been my home—even when I was only here visiting during the summer it felt that way. Could I leave it now?
There’s a big game on tonight and the place is packed. I see a lot of regulars, and even more new faces. It’s a good mix: some younger, some older, and a few in between. I keep track of the drinks of the people sitting at the bar, and carefully monitor a particularly rowdy group of sorority-type girls in a booth near the jukebox.
Luke comes in around ten, slipping up to the bar while I’m covering for one of the waitresses. He’s laughing with Fred when I join them, and he reaches out, snags one of my belt loops, and smiles, so fucking wide.
My entire body is full of tiny bombs that detonate when he gives me that smile.
“Hey,” he says.
He’s changed into a pair of dark jeans and a blue T-shirt that stretches tight across his biceps and across his lats. I run my hands up his sides, feeling him. His hair is soft and falling over his forehead and his smile straightens into hunger when I say, “There you are.”
“Can I drive you home?”
“My car is here,” I remind him. “Don’t you have work in the morning?” I put a coaster in front of him, reaching into the cooler to grab a cold pint glass, and begin filling it with a new IPA I’m sure he’ll love.
He catches my hand for a second as I place the glass in front of him, just long enough for his fingers to ghost over my wrist. “You’re the one who closes here and gets up with the sun to go surfing. I want to come home with you. I haven’t been in your bed yet.”
He says it withou
t a hint of trepidation, and suddenly it’s all I can think about.
Luke in my bed.
Luke naked in my sheets.
Luke with his head thrown back against my pillow when he comes.
My voice is noticeably shaky when I tell him, “Okay,” and nod to someone trying to get my attention at the other end of the bar. “Go play with your friends so I can work.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, picking up his beer and standing. “And Logan?”
“Yeah?” I ask.
“You look beautiful tonight.”
* * *
IT DOESN’T ESCAPE my notice—or Fred’s, for that matter—that I track where Luke is all night. He talks animatedly with his friends and even joins them in a game of pool, but keeps checking his watch, meeting my eyes when he looks up to find me watching him, too.
My breath catches every time. I’m nearly drunk with the giddy feeling that rises like carbonation in my chest and the words that seem intent on making their way up my throat.
I love you.
I blink away and back down to the credit card I’m supposed to be using to start a tab, and have to clear out the sale and start over.
About an hour later I watch one of the sorority girls leave her group and wander into the back room. Luke’s not really paying attention—his eyes seem fixed on the screen above the pool table as he appears to argue with Not-Joe about the game—so he doesn’t immediately react when she slips into the chair next to him. She leans in, saying something in his ear, and loops her arm through his.
I didn’t even know I was holding my breath until he looks over at her, shifting just enough to put some space between them and removing his arm from her grip. Luke shakes his head and, without any more attention given to the moment, turns back to the television. He clearly didn’t do it for my benefit—he doesn’t even look to see if I’ve been watching.
My hands tremble as I wipe down the counter and glance at the clock, counting down the hours until I can take him home, and kiss another set of words into his skin: I trust you.
* * *
Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4) Page 28