Page 41 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“Oh, Logan,” I say, stepping into him, my hands cupping his cheeks. His stubble scratches against my palms, and as he tries to shake my hands away, I press against his jaw even harder.

“No, you look at me. Logan, you are . . . you are that chameleon. You are so smart. And you can fit in anywhere, thrive in any room, on any field. I showed you how to study and look at what you’ve done?”

“What, get a C?” he scoffs.

My fingers curl against his skin and I shake my head.

“No, Logan. You tried. You’re relentless. Maybe a little stubborn. And so brilliant. You walked into that gallery on your own, because you had to know what was inside. You found the blue room, and you understood it as if you were the artist yourself. Henry can’t do that. He sees a room where the lights don’t work. He sees blue, but not what’s underneath. Not the cold. Not love. Not the stillness.”

I’m barely into my barrage of all the things I admire about Logan when his mouth covers mine, his hand at my back as he lifts me into him. I arch my back with the roughness of his kiss, and my hands cling to the sides of his face as he drops my satchel and runs his other hand up my spine and into my hair, unfurling my pinned hair until it spills down my back and weaves through his fingers.

Someone whistles in the distance, and I’m not sure whether it was from the house or a passerby on the street. I don’t care. All I want to do is stand here under this tree, away from the glow of the streetlights and the brightness of the moon. I want to live in the blue. To swim in it, and all things Logan Ford.

14/

logan

After all that, she came home with me. I’m not sure what to say after the word vomit I dropped at her feet outside the dean’s house. When she pushed it all to the side and still saw me as someone special, I didn’t know how to handle it.

So I kissed her.

My lips were saying thank you. They were begging her to play along. To stick with me. To let me show her how real this arrangement can be.

We didn’t talk in the truck, other than me asking her if she wanted to stay at my place tonight and her saying yes.

Yes.

Now, here I am in the driveway, truck in park but still idling. My teammates inside and asleep early because they have a game tomorrow. One in which I won’t play. One I’ll watch from the sideline. Where I’ll be expected to help Cam be at his best.

I run my palm over my face and laugh against the heel before resting my wrists on the steering wheel. My head swivels and my gaze hits Rachel’s, her soft smile and hazed eyes toying with seduction. How can I want to do dirty things to someone so sweet? So kind?

“I don’t remember whether I told you this or not, but did you know I asked for you to be my tutor?” My cheek pushes up to the right, a guilty smile forcing me to squint my right eye.

Her mouth puckers, like she’s holding in a laugh, and she shakes her head.

“No. I didn’t know that. My professor told me the administration chose me for the job.” Her voice is raspy.

I nod slowly and drop my half smile.

“Job, huh?” I drop my chin to my chest. That word lands heavy.

“Oh, you’ve been a job all right,” she teases. I glance sideways and quirk a brow. “Real work, Logan Ford. What with your swagger and your perfect hair.”

She unclasps her seat belt and leans across the console, flicking a lock of my hair with her index finger. It flops over my forehead and I quickly push it back in place.

She purses her lips but they hint at a smile as she shakes her head. “Everything is always in its place with you, isn’t it?”

I blink a few times, flitting my gaze down her chest then back up to her eyes. She twisted her hair into two loose braids while we drove, and I want to point out how she likes things in their place too.

“Not always,” I say instead. “I was a bit of a mess tonight. My whole self was kind of out of place.”

She shifts in her seat, leaning in close, and runs her hand along my chest, slipping it inside my shirt, between the buttons.

“I’m always out of place. It’s why I thrive on the edge, just out of the picture. It was nice to have you there with me. And for the record, Tom Sawyer is my favorite book, too.”

I wrap my hand around her wrist and hold it still, dropping my chin a bit and holding her stare.

“No, it’s not,” I say.

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