Page 58 of Crossing the Top Line

I shrug. “It had its perks, but it wasn’t always sunshine and rainbows,” I reply, my smile fading a little.

Logan catches the shift and leans a little closer, asking for more details without needing to say a word. I chew my bottom lip again, swirling the ice in the bottom of my glass to avoid looking at him for a few more seconds. But his stare persists, and I sigh.

“I’ve never really had a serious boyfriend, even while I was at Michigan. I dated a little, but it always turned out that the guys were more interested in who I knew or what I could do for them than in me,” I explain, eyes burning at the memories.

I jump slightly at the light touch of fingers against my cheek, looking up as Logan brushes a stray piece of my hair behind my ear. Wrinkles furrow the space between his brow, and the corners of his lips are pulled down in a frown. I blink away the sudden moisture in my eyes, clearing my throat.

“My first boyfriend dumped me the same day he got my dad’s autograph. Couldn’t even wait until my mom dropped him off back at his house. She took me out for ice cream after,” I continue, my little humorless laugh cracking as it comes out of my throat.

“Shithead,” Logan grumbles, his hand drifting down the length of my bare arm until it rests on my forearm.

I laugh, a more genuine sound this time. “We were kids. But I learned pretty quickly that once people found out who I’m related to, I became the least interesting part of the relationship,” I reply, hyperaware of the warmth spreading out from Logan’s palm across my skin.

“For what it’s worth, you are worthy of a man’s full attention and devotion in your own right, Tori,” Logan says softly, but in no way lacking in emotion.

His words hit me in waves, and I’m sure it must be the alcohol that’s making me imagine the undercurrent of promise laced among them. I turn to look at him, blinking in surprise as I realize how close his face is to mine. The warm brush of his exhales glide across my cheeks and nose, his apple cider scent mixing perfectly with the well-aged Scotch he’s been drinking all night. His eyes flick down to my lips, and I swallow, mouth suddenly very dry.

A sudden throat-clearing cough makes me jump and pulls both of our attention. The bartender is standing there, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips.

“It’s closing time, folks,” she says simply.

Logan pulls back, and I smother the keening whine that tries to escape at the loss of his warm touch on my arm. But I take the few moments it takes to settle out the tab to gather myself. My head is light and full at the same time, and I mentally chastise myself for allowing him to buy me this many drinks. I slide off my stool, ensuring I’m balanced before making my way toward the elevators. Drinking while sitting down is the worst. And whose idea was it to wear stilettos? I want to speak to their manager.

I barely make it two steps before Logan is at my side, a hand settling on the opposite hip from the one he’s standing at, his strong arm holding me steady as we navigate the short flight of stairs. His body heat radiates into me, and it takes more restraint than I’d like to admit not to turn and snuggle into his chest. Even drunk, I know that would be wildly inappropriate, especially since he’s given no indication of interest.

Once we reach the elevator, Logan stops short of pushing the call button, turning to look at me fully instead. That wrinkle between his eyebrows is back, and my hand twitches at my side with the impulse to reach up and smooth it away.

“What’s your room number?” he asks.

I blink rapidly in surprise, my imagination flying into overdrive and making my cheeks burn with sudden heat. I stutter out the number, 310, trying to articulate anything coherent beyond that, but he simply nods and turns back to the elevator, pulling me closer as he calls for a car.

“What’s your room number?” I spit out the first full thought I’ve had in what feels like hours.

“506. I got your lucky room,” he answers, not looking down at me.

I giggle, swaying slightly as the doors open and he nearly pulls me into the elevator with him. But my heel catches on the gap, sending me reeling. I brace for the hard landing on the tile, but instead, a second arm bands around my waist, pulling me into a warm chest and back onto my feet with surprising ease. I look up, Logan’s face closer than it was at the bar now, our lips only an inch apart. My breath catches in my throat, and I freeze, not sure what to do next. The door closes and the elevator begins to move, but neither of us shifts an inch. He’s just as warm as I’d hoped he would be, goosebumps rising on my skin in response.

Time seems to grind to a halt, the only sounds in my ears the racing of my heart and our soft, panting breaths. I can’t take my eyes off his lips, my core clenching as his tongue darts out to wet them. I wonder if he tastes as good as he smells…

But my musings come to an abrupt halt as the elevator jerks to a stop on my floor, shaking us both out of our trance. I straighten, not missing how Logan’s hands linger on my back as I step away, putting the necessary distance between us. My head swims with more than alcohol now, and I clear my throat.

“Goodnight, Logan,” I manage to croak, stepping backward out of the elevator.

“Goodnight, Tori. Sweet dreams,” he says, straightening his spine and nodding.

We freeze, not moving or speaking until the doors begin to move. And as they slide to a closed, I swear I catch him trying to take a step forward. But then he’s gone, and I scold my over-active imagination all the way back to my room.

Todayisoneofthe rare occasions during the season when we have more than one day in a city where we’re playing an away game. Maybe it’s because of how many of the Mystic players are from this area, or good luck, but we’re blessed to have more time than usual in Montreal.

The flight from Nashville this morning was rough, and I didn’t get to take in much in my sleep-deprived state. But today, other than a mandatory practice skate in the morning, I’ve got nothing but time to explore.

And luckily for me, I’ve got a very enthusiastic tour guide to help me.

I’m looking over my outfit in the full-length mirror of my hotel room, twisting this way and that to check all the angles. I’ve lost my tolerance for cold weather after living in New Orleans for so long, much to the horror of my relatives. So even though it’s sunny and pleasant, it’s still below sixty degrees, which means I need a coat. The camel-colored wool trench coat I’d picked up last time I was in New York matches my dark jeans and white turtleneck, my comfortable black walking shoes making this outfit lean more casual.

I’d never considered my clothes this much for my lunch “dates” with Oliver back home, I realize after five straight minutes of staring at my reflection. Though I’d almost always been on the clock for those outings, so I was already in business casual. This is the first time we’ve done something off the clock with just the two of us. Spencer and Eli are out golfing with Dallas and Henri, and will be gone most of the day.

Thankfully, before I can overthink things any more than I already have, a firm series of knocks on my hotel room door pull my attention. I gather my purse, ensuring I have my room key, slinging it over my shoulder as I answer. Oliver is standing a few steps back, looking at a framed painting to the left of my door. My cheeks flush as I look him over, taking in the way his black jeans cling to his thighs, the blue flannel with sleeves rolled up to the elbows and buttons left open to reveal a Shreveport crew t-shirt, the plain ballcap that shadows his amber eyes. And when he senses my gaze and turns to smile at me, that flush creeps down my neck to settle in my lower belly.

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