Page 17 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

His smile stretches his lips and dents his cheeks. It’s one of his best attributes. His lips . . . that smile.

“Thank you. I couldn’t have pulled this off without you,” he says, taking his quiz back and moving toward my workspace as he pulls his backpack from his shoulders. He tucks his test into the growing folder he started.

“Come on. Lunch is on me,” he says, zipping up his bag and slinging it over one shoulder.

I glance to our right, and he follows my gaze to where my notebook is open and sample materials arranged.

“Unless you’re in the middle of?—”

“Just finishing, actually.” The lie comes out so smoothly it startles me. I shift gears and pack up my things, mostly so I can hide my panicked expression for a few seconds. I’m still working off the jolt of adrenaline from Logan showing up.

Before I’m able to swing my bag over my shoulder, Logan tugs it from my hand and slings it over his shoulder, carrying both his and mine.

“Oh, you don’t have to?—”

Before I can finish my words, his elbow juts out and he nudges mine, urging me to take his arm. I warm instantly, before even touching him.

“Wow, how formal. For lunch at the student union,” I joke.

“Only the best for my tutor,” he says as I link my arm through his. His reminder of our roles in this relationship dampens the electricity, but there’s still a tiny spark when we touch. Like shocking myself with a balloon rubbed on shag carpet. Not quite electric, but I feel it.

We garner a bit of attention as Logan leads me down the main walk toward the union. Or maybe I simply perceive it that way. My gaze darts from one cluster of people to the next, and I swear I catch sideways glances and whispers along the way.

Logan releases our linked arms and holds the door open for me, leaving me to follow behind him a step or two as we slip into the line starting to build for lunch. He hands me a tray and a plate when we reach the register and swipes his card twice before leaning in close. His mouth warms my ear.

“Football gets the gold level so go nuts. Anything you want. Sky’s the limit!” He waves his hand over the bread station, and I pick up a roll.

“Maybe I’ll get two butters,” I joke, dropping the roll on my plate.

Logan laughs, then snags four rolls along with a fistful of butter packets.

“I’m not sharing, so if you’re a bread person you better get the extra one now.” He moves on toward the main buffet and I gnaw at the inside of my cheek for a second, then take his advice and grab one more piece of bread.

I’ve never had so much fun eating on campus before. We spend ten minutes evaluating our options, and Logan piles up so many scoops and slices of various meats and pastas that he has to take on a second plate. I end up building myself a salad that could barely be considered a salad. The lettuce gives it legitimacy but the pepperoni, croutons, and piles of mozzarella feel counter leafy green.

Logan grabs a can of some type of energy drink and I get a cup to fill with water. I cap it with a lid and poke a straw through before turning to head toward the table he’s parked at near the windows. I pause when I catch a tall, smoking hot blonde step up behind him and suddenly wrap her arms around him.

The hard edge of someone’s tray slams into my back and I stumble to my right.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say, my words blending in with what I’m pretty sure is, “Fucking move.”

I’m so rattled by the whole encounter that I don’t see Logan walking up until he’s a few steps away from me and reaching for my tray.

“People much?” he bites in the direction of the short-haired brunette who nearly took me out with her lunch. She holds her tray in one hand so she can gesture my direction, her hand splaying in the air the way my brother’s does when he gets behind a slow driver.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were that far behind me,” Logan says, taking my tray and marching back to the table. The mystery blonde seems to have disappeared.

“You don’t eat in here much, do you?” Logan asks, setting my tray across from his. I slip into the bench seat and slide to the end, close to the window.

Shaking my head I say, “No.” I rarely venture beyond the honors cafeteria and the food truck outside the chem labs.

I split my bread open and tear open the butter packet, dropping the entire pallet onto the roll then smooshing it between the two halves.

“I’m sorry, but did you just make a butter sandwich?” Logan’s eyes are puzzled.

I bite into the roll and smile through my closed-mouth chew, nodding.

His shoulders lift with a short laugh and he shakes his head, spreading butter on his own roll, albeit at a much thinner ratio.

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