Page 26 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“Can we play a drinking game?” I hand Logan the now-empty bottle and he stares at me with an amused expression.

“We can play a game. I don’t know that you need to add more drinking. I think you might be a lightweight.”

I swing my dress at my side, the fabric swooshing against my knees.

“Oh, I am definitely a lightweight. But I always wanted to try one of those games. What’s the one with the cups?” He doesn’t know it, but I’m duping him right now. I might not drink much but you don’t grow up in my family, the sister of a football stud and daughter of a Bears fan, and not know how to ace a ping pong ball in a Solo cup.

“Fine, but we’re sticking with water.” Logan reaches back into the fridge and grabs two more bottles, gripping them in one hand while he holds mine with his other. I’m enjoying his unrelenting hold. It’s protective. And sweet. And his hands are warm, and a little rough.

I lick my lips, dashing the thoughts of his hands other places. Logan snakes us through the back yard filled with people, the crowd double what it was before. There are a few people playing cornhole near the driveway, and two of the picnic tables are already set up for beer pong. Logan scans the cups, finding the ball and handing it to me. He straightens the cups then guides me to the end of the table, where he proceeds to mansplain the rules. I let him, because I’m buzzed and because I’m caged between his arms and his chin is at my shoulder as he stands behind me.

“Now, the loser usually has to drink. And I do think you could use more water, but?—”

I don’t have the heart to tell him the water is pointless.

“How about the loser buys breakfast tomorrow? Since I don’t have weights, and I have a feeling you’re going to want some good hangover food?”

“Deal,” I agree. He’s likely right. I don’t hold my liquor well, and I drink a couple times a year at best. I won’t throw up because, sadly, I know it takes me four beers and a shot of tequila for that to happen. But I’m counting on a stinger of a headache to greet me when the sun comes up. Unless I drink more water. Hmmm. I grab the bottle from him and gulp down half, which seems to make him happy.

“I’ll go first,” I proclaim, squinting at the cups and lining up my shot. I’m not a bounce-it-in player. I’m far better if I treat it like basketball. With a flick of my wrist, I toss the small white ball across the table, sinking it in the center cup.

“Hey!” I celebrate and Logan joins me, high fiving me for what he will soon learn is the first of many. He’ll be lucky to get a turn.

He sweeps the cup away and hands me the ball again. I wait for him to stand behind me and offer his advice on where I should aim next. It’s cute. I go for the opposite side, though, and sink the next cup as easily as the first.

Logan clears his throat and wanders toward the cup on the edge, clearing it and tossing the ball to me with a bounce. I snag it mid-air and his eyes haze with a slight tilt of his head.

“Are you hustling me, Shortcake?”

I hold the tip of my tongue over my top lip and consider for a full three seconds.

“Maybe,” I finally admit, returning my attention to the table and sending the ball into another cup.

“Well, fuck,” he laughs out, scooping up the cup and tossing the ball at my chest. It pings off my arm as I turn to deflect it, and I realize our little game has garnered a bit of a crowd.

“Do you want to keep playing?” I ask, turning my attention back to Logan. He shakes his head, his lips tight but hinting at a smile.

My reaction time is slowed enough that I don’t realize how close he’s getting until his fingertips are under my chin. He licks his bottom lip then bites it, pinning his grin.

“No, Shortcake. I don’t want to play beer pong anymore,” he hums, leaning in, his gaze dropping to my mouth a fraction of a second before his lips cover mine.

As if it’s automatic, my head tilts back and my mouth opens to deepen our kiss. His hands cradle my face, thumbs brushing along my cheek bones as his hands push into my hair. My hands grip the open ends of his flannel shirt, fisting the material as I lift up on my toes to keep this kiss going.

I have been the jealous one watching another girl get kissed by Logan Ford. This time, those jealous stares are fixed on me . . . and I like it.

10/

logan

I blame the kiss. Which was one-hundred-percent on me. So, I guess I blame myself. Rachel wanted to play beer pong for real, and I let her. She said please, and her bottom lip jutted out, which made me want to bite it. So I did. And we kissed more. And I may have let my hands flirt with the sides of her breasts a little. And that might have played into my weakness too. Along with the massive boner I sported for half the night.

Fine, it was my fault. I let her get shit-faced drunk.

The wallflower might have been a ringer when she was still hovering somewhere around sober, but after her fourth chugged beer thanks to one of our linebackers, she was toast. By her last game, she couldn’t even hit the table with the ball.

She threw up in my truck.

Breakfast was definitely not going to happen. In fact, when I walked her to her dorm room and helped her into bed with the help of her roommate, I believe her last words were, “No more eggs.” I’m not sure what that could have meant other than breakfast was off the table. I’m also pretty sure her roommate grabbed my ass on my way out.

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