“That’s what I thought. I mean, I’ve got eyes. Logan is hella cute too. And you can’t deny you were interested.”
“He gave me his card. Business card?” I said by way of answering.
“Then call him. If you want.” She said that last part as if giving me a way out. Wasn’t that nice of her?
“Won’t Mom and Dad be a little confused if I start dating your boyfriend?”
“Something tells me they’ll be too distracted by the fact you’re dating a guy to harp on the details.”
And there was the awful truth. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to call.”
“You should. And you two can totally geek out together over graphic resolutions and visual layouts. Plus he’s already sister-approved!”
“Because that’s definitely what I dig in a guy. My sister’s approval.”
She snorted. “Maybe you should.”
“I am not having this conversation before my first cup of coffee, so we need to change the subject.” Speaking of—I poured a glorious mugful and added a teaspoon of sugar, then took cup and bagel to the table.
“That’s all I’ve got. I figured it’d be better to have this talk on the phone. And I wanted to apologize for not telling you before, but I needed you to have a natural surprised reaction.”
“To see if I was a bigoted racist too?”
“No, but you are shit at acting.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“I love you!”
I chuckled. “I love you too, Sue. Thanks for calling to let me know the truth. I was kind of surprised when your boyfriend wanted to unwrap me.”
“He what?”
“Talk to you later.”
“No! Wait—”
I hung up. Then immediately texted her: It was all good. He was slipping me his number.
That might not have been the full truth, but she hadn’t seemed upset with him hitting on me while they were “dating.” After all, it would make him less desirable to Mom and Dad if they found out he was cheating on his girlfriend with her brother.
Which was too complicated a thought for this early in the morning. I took a long sip of coffee and sighed.
Yes, there was no rush. Now it was a matter of working up the nerve to contact Logan—if that was something I wanted to do.
Who was I kidding? Of course it was. Though maybe not before breakfast.
In fact, the day after Christmas probably wasn’t ideal at all. But his Call me! didn’t have many details, and the longer I waited, the more awkward it would become. So I ate my breakfast, fortified myself with coffee, took a shower, got dressed, and sat down to google him. Like a true nerd do.
I was surprised to find the website on the business card was for his graphic design business, which meant the freelancing that he’d mentioned was both true and false. I browsed the site, checking out work he’d done for previous clients and some of his avant-garde selections. He did good work, and if the company I worked for didn’t already have a full staff of graphic designers, I would have nudged them toward him. As it was, I flipped through his site, appreciated his talent, and didn’t nitpick about the site’s construction.
Not that I based potential dates on their use of white space and intuitive navigation interface.
There wasn’t much to find about him online—he seemed to be a private man. All his social media accounts were friends locked, so I could see that he had the accounts, but not what he did with them.
Which meant there was nothing left to do but call him.
After I went to pick up some groceries.
It wasn’t because I was stalling—I just needed groceries. And it was rude to call someone you didn’t know too early in the morning.
It didn’t have to do with the fact that I had no idea what to say to him when I called. Oh hey, so I hear you go on dates for the cost of a holiday dinner?
Yeah. That would go over great. I tried to brainstorm something better while I shopped, then put the groceries away, then washed my dishes, then vacuumed, but I came up blank. The phone was in my hand, ringing through to his number, and I still didn’t know what I was going to say.
I should have texted him instead.
“Hello?”
A warmth shuddered through my body. I hadn’t remembered his voice being so deep and sultry before. It definitely hadn’t had this effect on me yesterday, although the fact that I had been thinking of him as my sister’s boyfriend had probably made me compartmentalize a little. Now it definitely was causing a reaction.
“Hello?” he said again, sounding less sultry and more confused.
“Hi.” Said me, the most eloquent of all.
“Hi.” He chuckled. “Who is this?”
“Isaac. Hi, this is Isaac, Sue’s brother. You gave me your card yesterday. Assuming this is Logan?”
“Yeah, this is Logan.” He paused, his voice warm again when he spoke. “I’m glad you called.”
“Yeah. I, uh, didn’t want to call too early. And I had to talk to my sister.”
“So you know there’s no risk of me being your future brother-in-law?”
“Thanks for making this creepy.”
“Sorry.” But I heard the smile wrapped around that word. “I’m glad you talked to her and cleared things up.”
I shrugged and paced around the coffee table. “Some things, at least.”
“Want to go out for drinks and clear up the rest?”
I snorted. “Presumptuous, aren’t you?”
Amusement colored his words. “I figure you wouldn’t call if you weren’t at least a little interested. And your sister seems to like me, so I hope she gave a good recommendation—”
“She called you, didn’t she?”
He outright laughed. I would dare call it a guffaw. “No, I swear she didn’t. I’m merely hopeful.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Drinks today sound good. Though, do you live down by her?”
“Same town as you, actually. She might have let that slip on the ride home.”
I wasn’t even the slightest bit upset with her. “You know Café Fin?”
“Yep. At four?”
I pulled my phone from my ear to glance at the time. It was only one. I hesitated. Three hours to absolutely not think about the totally not a date? “Um, can you make it any earlier?”
“Oooh, eager are we?”
I gave a wry look to my blank TV in place of him, hoping he could hear it in my voice. “Oh yes, oh baby, I need to see you.”
“Well, when you put it that way . . . how about two?”
It was exactly what I’d asked for, and yet I hesitated, a hard knot in my stomach. Which was stupid. It was drinks. Not like it was Christmas dinner with the family. Humor bubbled up and out, escaping my lips on a chuckle. “Yeah, two works.”
“Good, I’ll see you then.”
“See you then.”
We hung up, and I glanced down at my clothes. Jeans and a ratty hoodie. Butterflies flooded around the rock in my gut. What a great first—second?—impression. I needed to change.
Maybe he liked the clean-cut boy I was at home—opposites attract and all that. If so, he was in for a bit of a surprise. Not that I cared. He had to like me as me, right?
Oh god, I was becoming a complete idiot over this. We were going out for drinks. Coffee and maybe pastries, not booze and a blowjob. I just needed to dress like I would with any of my friends and let the damn chips fall where they may. Logan obviously owned T-shirts and jeans, and he wouldn’t care that I had tattoos and piercings. If he did? Fuck him.
My brain stuttered over that with an eager Yes, please! But I ignored it and pulled on dark-wash jeans, a green long-sleeved shirt with my favorite black I do mass quantities of code shirt over top, and a leather cuff. A touch of eyeliner—which I refused to call guyliner—and some gel in my hair. He still couldn’t see my tattoo and piercings—although if I inhaled deeply and the shirt stretched taut against my chest, he c
ould maybe figure one of them out—but I wasn’t the button-down boy from the day before.
It felt good.
He could learn about the holey-hoodie-wearing side of me later if things went that direction.
Eventually I pulled on my peacoat and scarf, caught the bus, and arrived at the little café tucked on a strip of mom-and-pop shops. I pushed past the wreath-decorated door and was welcomed by the jingle of a bell, the heavenly aroma of coffee, and a half-filled seating area. A quick scan found Logan at a table already, a cup loosely held by his right hand, his phone in his left, although his eyes were on me. He smiled, inviting me over with nothing more than a twitch of his eyebrows. The same zing of attraction from yesterday shot through me—this time with the added benefit of not feeling weird. Although the draw to the counter to order a drink was strong, I made my way to the table he’d chosen against the far wall.
Today he was wearing a black button-down, showing a little of his chest tattoo and also a braided leather necklace with a silver pendant I couldn’t make out—and certainly wasn’t going to squint at like an idiot. The fit of the shirt emphasized his broad shoulders in a way that the tee the day before hadn’t, and it did nothing to keep me from staring at them. I already felt the heat creeping up my neck as I stood by his table. “Hey.”
“Hello.” A long pause dragged out, and he chuckled awkwardly. “Um, want to get a drink first?”
“Yes. Sure. Be right back.” As if there were a chance I would take the coffee and run.
“I’ll be here.” As if he would run while I wasn’t watching. I guess if he didn’t like the new me—the real me—he might have been tempted. But that smile he’d thrown hadn’t seemed disappointed. At all. It had seemed . . . hungry.
“Do you want to split something?”
The faint lines of surprise on his face made the rough biker attitude shift straight into adorable—especially since he didn’t have any of the piercings he’d had yesterday. “Like what?”
“A muffin? A croissant? A sausage quiche?”
“No, I’m good. I might be hungry later, though.” Oh, that smile was a tease, promising things I wasn’t nearly lucky enough to get, I was sure.
I managed to arrive at the service counter without tripping over anything, despite my mind being firmly planted in What would you be hungry for later? territory. I ordered my drink and returned to the table on autopilot. After setting my drink down, I unwrapped the scarf and slid the coat off, hanging them both on the back of my chair before I sat. I pulled my drink closer before I peeked up to him, worried about the silence, and found him staring, lips slightly parted.
The heat that had left my cheeks while I’d waited in line returned full force. “What?”
“Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Nothing, you look good.”
Relief washed through me. “Thanks. I was worried you were expecting the same guy who was at my parents’ house.”
His eyebrow twitched. “You aren’t him?”
I gestured at his shirt. “Clothes don’t make the man, do they?”
Logan smiled. “I guess not. I should admit that I might have amped up my history—”
“And current job?”
“And that. For your parents.”
“I figured. At least a little. And the piercings?”
“Fake. The maintenance for real ones seems like too much bother, but your sister thought it’d add to my appeal, so she rigged some fake ones.”
“And you didn’t mind playing up a stereotype?” I knew he was the one who’d put the ad in the whatever, but I found it hard to believe he’d been okay with walking into an environment where his brown skin would be instantly judged.
He shrugged. “I kind of liked it. Sorta like putting on a costume. The person they were judging wasn’t the real me—even if they would have judged me too. Sue asked the same thing, and I have to admit, when I listed the ad, it was on a lark. I didn’t expect anyone to take me up on it. But talking to her . . . Well, she seemed embarrassed to be thinking about doing it—”
“But she still did it.”
Logan snorted a laugh. “Yeah. But we talked about it a lot. I guess if I’d had more problems growing up, I would have had an issue. But I’m Mexican and Italian, and just light enough to ‘pass’ most of the time.” He rolled his eyes. “So it didn’t bother me as much as maybe it should.” His lips twisted momentarily. “And Sue being worried for my feelings helped.”
I nodded, glad she’d made him feel comfortable in what could have been a pretty awful situation. “And thankfully the day went pretty well.”
“Yep. The turkey was barely dry.”
It was my turn to roll my eyes. “So what else was fake? I’m pleased to see the tattoos were real.”
“Definitely. I am still the kid from the wrong side of the tracks.”
I raised a brow. “I saw the address of your company. You’re certainly on the ‘right’ side now. Also, you own a company. That’s impressive.”
“I don’t think it counts when it’s only me—it’s freelancing.”
“So what you told my dad wasn’t a lie.”
He smirked. “Exactly.”
“Then you need to tell me about the real you.”
“Uh-huh.” He pointed to my hair and shirt. “And you need to tell me about the real you, it seems.”
I sighed. “Fair enough. Mine’s simple though: I’m pretty much who I am with my parents. But I curse more, listen to music they wouldn’t approve of, fuck guys, and generally think differently than everything they’d want me to think.”
“I’m liking the real you better already.”
“Good. Not that there’s anything wrong with the other me. My parents just haven’t been exposed to much outside their world. Sue and I try to introduce new stuff, but they close down pretty fast. We only see each other at holidays, so it’s easier to fit into the mold they remember about me.”
“Even the hair?”
I shrugged. “My dad would probably tell me it ‘looks gay’ and it would all spill out from there.”
“So no plans to tell them?” He asked it casually, but a hint of tension ran beneath the question, as if this was important to him.
“If I had a significant other who I wanted to take home? Yes, I’d tell them. But for now I don’t see the need to rock the boat.”
“Might give them a chance to come to terms with you being gay—bi?—before you throw a boyfriend in the mix.”
“Gay. And . . . maybe. You’ve seen them. But they’re my parents. I don’t want to lose them if I don’t have to.” I stared down at my drink, uncomfortable with how intense the conversation had become. “You out to your parents?”
“I was.” The depth of sadness in his voice drew my eyes to him.
I saw the firm line of his lips and remembered that Sue had said he didn’t have any family. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s . . . Well, it is what it is.” His gaze flickered down to his cup, then back up, and he mustered a smile. “They were great while I had them though. When I came out, my mom said she was grateful she wouldn’t have to worry about me knocking some girl up. She was joking—I think. Mostly.”
I tried not to sigh in envy. “She sounds great. I don’t think my parents would ever joke about me knocking someone up.” I scrunched my nose. “My mom might actually be happy about it. Think it would force me to settle down.”
“Yeah? She thinks you’ll step up and take responsibility?”
“I guess so. But if I was going to take responsibility, I’d take the kid and run from the woman.”
Logan snickered. “Poor woman.”
“Thankfully it’s not going to be a problem.” I paused. “Well, it’s highly unlikely to be a problem. Won’t be with a woman, at any rate.”
“Let’s hope no little babies appear unless you want them to.”
Heat crept up past my jaw and into my cheeks. I’d gone on a bit of a ramble, hadn’t I? About babies. About making babies. On a cof
fee date. Kill me now. “Yes. Right. So . . .” Oh god. Thoughts. I’d had thoughts a moment ago! I put my cup to my lips to stall for time, and traced back to our original conversation. “You were going to tell me which is the real you.”
“A little bit of both. I don’t normally wear a button-down for coffee, but I kind of wanted to impress you. I wear it when I’m dealing with clients—”
“Oh, so now I’m a client?”
“Hey now! I’m not that sort of freelancer.” Logan paused while I got my snickers out. No, it wasn’t that funny, but it tickled my funny bone. “I wanted you to see that I wasn’t some bad-boy biker like what I showed your parents.”
“But you are a bad-boy biker?”
He smirked. “I might have ridden my bike here.”
“Nice.” I tried not to leer too much.
“And I did a lot of odd jobs when I was younger—warehouse work, construction, anything to make money. But that was to pay for college and tattoos. Things got a little rough in high school—I might have hit that rebellion phase extra hard—but I’ve left most of that behind me. So now I’m the bad-boy biker who wears a suit sometimes.”
That wasn’t a problem in the least. I had visions of him riding his bike—it was a Harley in my mind, all black with gleaming silver—wearing a suit. The tie was loose and the top button undone, revealing some of his tattoos, but otherwise he was sleek and professional. A suit didn’t seem ideal for comfort or safety on a motorcycle, but it made a pretty picture.
“Do I want to know what just made you smirk?”
I met his eyes, grinning widely. “Maybe I’ll tell you later. So why’d you decide to freelance instead of working for a company?”
“Truth? I’m not good at taking orders.”
“Yet you work directly with clients?”
“I know, I know. But when the boss says something, you’re expected to obey, no questions asked. A client says something, and I have a chance to talk them into not being an idiot.”
“True. I’m lucky my boss usually listens to us. It doesn’t always do much good, but she’s on our side.” I shook my head. “It’s the holidays, though, so no more talk about work.”
I worried for a moment, as silence descended over our little table, that we wouldn’t have anything else to talk about now that we’d covered the basics. But I’d forgotten how easy it had been to talk to him when we’d both been pretending to be someone else at my mother’s table. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to have forgotten.
Hard Truths Page 3