Page 57 of Wild Catch
“Ugh.”
I snicker for a brief moment until it dies off.
Logan stays in his own world though, like two minutes of bantering were already enough to burn him out for the night—bantering that I kicked off while fishing for a compliment that I didn’t really care for and also didn’t get.
Biting my lip, I nudge his arm with my fist. The fabric of his white button shirt is surprisingly soft and I’m almost considering touching it again when he turns my way. Clearing my throat, I mumble, “I’m sorry.”
Even in the dark at the back of the cabin I can see his brow tighten. “What for?”
“For dragging you along with this and for the teasing.” I play with my thumbnails, bummed that I made the extra effort of doing my nails all nice and pretty for tonight. “I’m sure we can still get Cade to drive us back to our homes.”
“It’s fine.” Then he shakes his head hard, muttering, “Why did I say that word again?” Pausing, he clears his throat. “I mean that I have no problem going to this thing with these clowns and you. No need to apologize.”
My lips stretch into a whole grin. “Thank you for not lumping me with the clowns.”
“You’re welcome,” he returns in a far too serious way that tells me he’s playing around. At last.
Now that he’s out of the funk I put him in, I tap his arm again—I need to ask what that shirt is made of—and point at the front with my lips. “Look at that.”
Logan leans toward the center, and he’s so large that I have to move away or we’ll be way too close. “What?” he asks.
“See how they’re holding hands?”
He narrows his eyes. “Yeah?”
“Let’s try it.”
Logan whips his head toward me. The streetlights illuminate his face while he studies mine, trying to find if I’m serious. I offer my left hand, palm facing up and fingers spread wide. I close and open them until he gets the hint.
It feels way more monumental than it should be when he picks up his right paw, and brings it up slowly until it hovers over mine. Then he stops, like he’s not sure about this after all. I lift my hand until our palms slap, and veer it slightly to slide my fingers between his.
Okay, I’m a tall girlie. I can’t say that I have dainty anything, least of all hands. But his definitely makes mine look tiny. Slowly, I watch as he curls his fingers to close his hand over mine, holding it tight.
The sensation travels all the way down to the toes on my opposite side. I bite my lips not to gasp.
“It’s weird,” he whispers with a mighty frown.
“Why?” I don’t mean it to sound like a whine but it kind of does. It feels unfair that he finds this weird when I’m enjoying it way too much.
“I don’t know, just weird.” He peeks back at the front. “Not natural, I guess.”
“Makes sense.” I try to pull my hand away and he won’t let me. If he notices me staring at him harder, he ignores me altogether. Instead, he leans back to sit straight, leaving his arm stretched out so as to not pull mine. And I don’t know why that tiny, barely significant kindness does something to me.
It is I, actually, the one who spends the rest of the drive propped against my window, staring at the passing streets and cars so I can avoid Logan. Even though my left hand stays firmly engulfed in his.
The logistics of getting out of the truck and shutting the door make our hands break apart. While Logan’s rounding the truck, I make sure to wipe any sweat off my hand with my jeans. But then my jeans ride down and he joins me when I’m in the middle of pulling them up. His eyes travel down somewhere to my hips, but I don’t have enough time to wonder what interests him there when he’s reaching for my hand again.
“Are, uh… Are we gonna do this all night?” I ask for his ears only as we walk behind the lovebirds.
Logan looks down at me for a quick moment. Facing forward again, he answers, “I told you. You’re the one who is going to set the tone. If you want something else, you start it.”
I draw a deep breath, the responsibility of that finally settling in.
I was the one who initiated the hand holding. Now he’s the one not freeing my hand. Does that mean that if I hug him he won’t let go?
Hmm. Maybe that wouldn’t be so terrible. I wonder if he’s a good hugger.
I check him out from the corner of my eye. Even though he’s not bulky like a bodybuilder or anything, Logan is still a wall of muscle. Muscle happens to be quite hard and maybe he’d feel like hugging a wall, where I have to be the one to mold to him. The normal guys I dated before Ben were, ahem, far more pliable. Even Ben had a bit of a pouch where this guy has nothing but rock solid firmness. I already know, since drunk-me hugged him from behind on his bike.
