Page 38 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“I don’t care,” he says, giving me a soft peck.

I don’t care either.

“You don’t have to do this. I am fine handling it solo, truly. And you’re going to have to stand all night, on your leg.” I gesture down to his right limb.

He lifts his pant leg up several inches, revealing what looks like an intense compression sock.

“If I could pull this up any higher you’d see the impressive wrap job and weird mechanical contraption Terry put on my knee. It’s practically not even sore anymore,” he says, faking some type of tap dance. I think that was tap?

I laugh, then reach for his tie again, and he cuffs my wrist in his hand and lifts it to his mouth, pressing his lips on the soft tender spot. I don’t want to look away, but I also heard someone gasp to my right, so I venture a quick look and see a younger version of me sitting in one of the leather chairs, headphones on but hand over her heart. Her eyes scream of swoon. I’m pretty sure mine do too.

“If you don’t mind a slight limp,” he says, reaching for my leather satchel and pulling it from my shoulder.

“I love a good limp,” I respond, causing him to spit out a laugh, shaking his head and shutting his eyes.

“Yeah, that sounded way lamer out loud,” I admit.

He nods, then tucks my arm around his.

“It did. But you’re hot as fuck, remember? You can say anything you want.”

I let that sink in. Normally, I would be a nervous wreck for this dinner. Last year, I accompanied Dalton as I wasn’t officially invited. Watching him work the room was educational. It’s no wonder he’s going into law because he won over every law school rep in the room the way he’d sell a jury on a verdict. Since I can’t concoct some sort of potion to put people in a trance—or can I?—I need to muster similar charm. Maybe some of Logan’s will rub off on me tonight.

Rather than sticking around the library for tutoring, I let Logan walk me through the school’s modern art gallery to kill the forty minutes until the dinner begins. The long building stretches nearly the entire block on the east end of campus. It’s steps away from the library yet I’ve never been inside.

“I come here all the time,” he says, waving to an older woman dressed as a security guard.

“Good evening, you two,” she says in a teasing tone.

“That’s Nora,” he mutters by my ear, his voice hushed. “She has a thing for me, but she must like you. She wouldn’t make that face if she disapproved.”

I hug his bicep, but give him a sideways look.

“You bring a lot of girls here, Mr. Ford?”

He holds my gaze through a few slow steps then shakes his head.

“Not a one.”

Oh.

Logan leads me to a room in the far end of the gallery. It’s a quiet space and the light inside is dimmer than most of the other rooms. There’s a sense of calm the moment we step inside, and my skin feels cool. It’s mental, I’m sure. Every painting hung in this room is blue. It’s as if water and sky collided and left works of art behind.

We stroll through the space slowly, Logan pointing out his favorite pieces, including one of a hill covered in trees.

“Sometimes when I’m in here, this one feels like night. Other times, I see a storm. It’s a chameleon.”

A short breath leaves my nose, an amused laugh that Logan doesn’t miss.

“What? Too nerdy for you?” He touches the tip of my nose with his finger.

I shake my head.

“I was just thinking how fitting it was. You’re kind of like a chameleon too.”

His head falls to the side as he looks at the painting again, a serene expression settling over his eyes and mouth. It proves my point without him saying a word. This man is a monster on the football field, and yet now, in this room, he’s the embodiment of peace.

We leave the gallery a few minutes before six-thirty and make our way to the dean’s house, a Craftsman-style bungalow with a massive front room already buzzing with suits, dresses, and young people with resumes. I pause at the steps, feeling my throat close up for the first time today.

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