Page 53 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

Once he was behind the wheel, Logan threw the truck into drive, and we were off. The city lights blurred by as he maneuvered through traffic with the confidence of someone who thought stop signs were suggestions. His hand rested casually on the steering wheel, but his eyes—those sharp, unrelenting,beautifuleyes—kept flicking to me every couple of seconds.

“So,” he started, his voice light but probing. “Where are you from originally?”

“Here and there,” I said, keeping my tone breezy, but also not wanting to talk about my childhood. At all.

“Hmmm.” He shot me a grin, his teeth white and wicked. “All right, Ms. Mysterious. Favorite food?”

“Depends on the day,” I said.

“Okay. What about music?” he pressed. “What makes you sing in the shower?”

“Again, it depends.”

“You’re killing me here,” he said with a laugh, tapping the steering wheel with his fingers. “Fine. What’s your favorite thing to do when you’re not busy?”

I opened my mouth to avoid the question…but my mouth had a different idea, apparently. “I paint,” I mumbled, crossing my arms and leaning back in my seat because for some reason that admission felt as vulnerable as if I was standing in front of him naked.

“What kind of painting?” he asked…actually sounding interested. He was holding my hand again, his fingers intertwined with mine like he was trying to make sure I didn’t run away.

“Oil and watercolor,” I answered, shifting in my seat uncomfortably.

“Well, I can’t wait to see something you’ve painted. We can hang them all over our house.”

I scoffed, trying to ignore the utter panic that came with not only his words…but showing him something as personal as my paintings, and tried to pull my hand away. “You didn’t just say that.”

He grinned at me unrepentantly. “I’m going to say a lot of things like that. So prepare yourself.”

“This is all part of your master plan to make me fall in love with you?” I asked sarcastically.

He laughed softly and winked before turning back to the road. “You’re catching on, Calloway. Has it worked yet?”

I scoffed and tried to bite back a smile, but it came out anyway, like he had some kind of magic that could pull them out of me when no one else ever could.

We pulled into the valet of a fancy steakhouse, and my stomach grumbled. Steak happened to be my favorite food. Logan handed the keys off, but not before making sure the valet didn’t look at me for too long. His hand found the small of my back again as he guided me through the entrance, his grip light but steady.

It almost seemed like he was proud to be seen with me.

That was strange. Not just strange…it was weird. I wasn’t used to it—being walked into a place like this, in the open, no hesitation. Where was the catch? The order that I come in from the back? The rules about keeping my head down and not making eye contact?

The hockey game had been weird enough in that Tyler had been acknowledging me in public…but this felt different. This felt like more…

As we entered, heads turned, and I shifted uncomfortably. But they weren’t looking at me. They were looking athim.

And I didn’t blame them. Logan was a sight to behold. Even if he hadn’t been an up-and-coming sports star, there was something about him—a magnetism that was hard to look away from.

He glanced down at me, a small smile on his lips. I wanted to lash out, to tell him to stop staring at me like that—like I was the center of his universe. I could feel it radiating off him, that quiet pride, and it made my stomach twist.

The hostess greeted him with a bright smile, one that faded as she watched him let go of my hand and instead wrap his arm around my waist so I was glued to his side. Logan gave her our reservation name, and then he kept me close as we were led through the maze of tables to our seat near the window that looked out on the whole city.

“Do you like it here?” he asked once we were settled. His voice was soft, uncertain, like he cared way too much about the answer.

“It’s good,” I said, trying to sound casual.

His brow furrowed, and he leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Good? That sounds like ‘fine.’ We can go somewhere else if you don’t like it. Seriously. I just guessed, but I should have asked. You probably don’t even like steak. Fuck.”

I blinked at him, thrown by how earnest he was. “It’s fine, I promise,” I said, more firmly this time.

“Fine isn’t good enough,” he said, almost pouting. “We’ll go somewhere else. What do you like? Italian? Sushi? We can get tacos. Do you like tacos? Ari has this one taco place that he drags us to all the time.”

---