Page 94 of Wild Catch
“Yeah, I’m sure Logan needs his beauty sleep before the trip tomorrow.” I smile in a sad way, legitimately bothered that I don’t get to tag along with the team to the next away series, and that I won’t see him for three days.
At least not in person. I’ll sure look at the screen version instead.
“Fine, I guess I’ll go nag the cowboy. See you at home later?”
“Yup.” I also didn’t have much left of my burger and polish off the rest as Hope and Logan meet halfway. She says something quick to him that makes him nod. Unlike a professional baseball player, I’m really bad at reading lips and I can’t tell what he responds back with, and then they continue their separate ways.
My pulse climbs quick and nimble like a spider as he approaches. After hours of careful observation, I can confirm that his swimming trunks have dried up by the fact that they’re no longer clinging to him.
“Ready?” he asks as he reaches the pool chairs that Hope and I commandeered for the better part of the day.
My response is a hum, since I’m still munching away. Logan reaches for the backpack and sets it on the free chair, opening it to pull out our clothes. I wipe my hands with a napkin before accepting my shorts and top—the baseball one, not my lavender one from Old Navy. He pulls out his black cargo pants and I watch, riveted, as his pecs jump with the motions of putting on his pants.
I drown down a groan with a sip of Dr. Pepper.
Now he’s putting on that tight muscle T-shirt he wore on the way over. A sliver over his pants catches my attention and I nearly choke on my drink. That’s a tanline right across the ridge of the V that goes down his pants. He deserves jail for showing me that.
As his T-shirt clears his head, I scramble to toss my towel away from my shoulders and start to get dressed as quick as possible. I wish I was brave enough to peek at him, see if he’s watching me the way Hope described—but I don’t dare. I need to get on his bike ASAP where he will look away from me for half an hour and I can stew in my own misery.
After putting on our shoes and grabbing our helmets, I grab his free hand with mine and tug him for a quick round of farewells. The whole disaster of the dinner with Logan’s parents taught me to take heed of his advice about people, and even though I politely bid my thanks for the day to Amber Brown, I don’t stick around long enough to enter any sort of yikes territory with her.
I’m much warmer saying good night to Miguel and his daughter, who is the spitting image of him, but tiny female version and way grumpier. Lucky, Cade and Hope get hugs from me and nods from my boyfriend.
Er, my pretend boyfriend.
That mental slip speeds me up and I all but drag Logan out of the property. When I’m sure we’re out of sight, I drop his hand like it burns.
He sighs. Probably relieved to finally be free.
Logan puts on his helmet and as he fastens the chin strap, I observe his bulging bicep. Most of it is taken by a big red rose that must’ve been a pain to get tattooed on. “Logan?” I ask.
“Hmm?”
“I’m curious about something.” He turns to me, which is kind of eerie when he’s wearing his helmet, visor down. “Did it hurt to get so many tattoos?”
“Yes,” he responds candidly.
My eyebrows rise. “Then why did you do it?”
“Because…” He trails off and I think he’ll leave me hanging until he finally finishes the sentence. “I needed to pretend I’m different from them.”
My brow furrows because at first I don’t get it.
Pretend? From who?
But then he pulls ahead, opening one of the pockets of his pants to extract the key as he reaches the bike. He slots it in and digs into the same pocket to produce his gloves, and I watch him put them on, his forearm muscles shifting as he works his hands in.
And that’s when I realize that he needed to busy himself because he said too much.
Which means this is about his family. That’s the one topic I unfortunately lucked into learning about that others don’t know.
“You don’t need to pretend,” I say in a quiet voice that still snaps his attention to me, making my chest squeeze so hard that I almost gasp for air. Instead, I add, “You’re very different from them.”
I put my helmet on and feel around for the strap. One of them got sucked in and I hook my finger around it to pull it back out.
Logan takes a few steps toward me and I freeze as he reaches for my hands—no, not my hands. He actually pulls them away. Instead, his gloved fingers, which are so large they should be clumsy, easily find the straps and clasp them under my chin.
He taps the top of my helmet and says, “No, I’m not. I’m just as bad.” Before I can protest, he makes a project of removing his backpack and hooking the straps over my shoulders.
