“What?” He’d heard me because he’d gone rigid. “How?”
“She came with her mother.”
He straightened, stepping away, and the desire inside me complained when the heat of his body was gone. His face hardened and soured, layer by layer.
“Did you two talk?” His voice was cold.
“Not really, Chelsea pulled me away.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “What did she say?”
I gave him a rundown of the brief encounter and repeated what Chelsea had told me. “Twelve years?” I asked. “You started dating when you were—”
“Fifteen.”
They’d been kids. “Can I ask what happened?”
“We weren’t right for each other.”
Wasn’t that ultimately the reason all couples broke up? There had to be so much more to the story. How had it taken them twelve years to figure that out? Logan’s face was a total fucking enigma. He seemed to be studying me, and I could sense I had to tread carefully. Now was definitely not the time to go investigating into his backstory.
“Okay. I liked your toast,” I said, hoping it sounded as sincere as I meant it.
He blinked as if stunned at my topic change. Then, he looked pleased. Yes, I was willing to accept another non-answer from him. The pads of his fingers skimmed over my neck, up to cup my face in a hand. He dipped his head to brush his lips across mine.
“Yeah?” he said. “Thanks.” He left his warm hand on my jawline. “Look, I know you probably want to talk about that—”
“It’s fine. You can tell me about it later, when you want to.”
A stunned Logan was so different from any other version. He’d expected me to push, but that wasn’t my way. I had no problem with compromise.
His kiss now was on fire but over too soon. “I have ideas of doing things you’d call highly inappropriate to you right now. But . . .”
“We have to get back.”
He nodded. “I’d like to hold ‘highly inappropriate’ for later. Does that sound agreeable to you?”
“Yes.” I matched his pretend serious tone. “That’s acceptable.”
During dinner he had one hand on my knee beneath the table, at times in a dangerously inappropriate spot. I think he liked the blush he drew out of me whenever it crept too high and I had to shift in my seat to guide it back to my knee.
This wedding was one motherfucking powerful aphrodisiac. During Nick and Hilary’s first dance, I’d turned in my chair to face the dance floor and Logan’s arms slipped around my waist, pulling me to lean back into him. He kissed my bare shoulder right where it met my neck, and I had to bite my lip. Heat sizzled down my body, through every nerve until it reached between my thighs.
The next dance was the bridal party, but the newlyweds let the party choose their own partners. I was on my feet and in his arms a moment later.
“You dance, boss?” I whispered.
“I can slow dance like an eighth-grader, yes.” His hands settled in the small of my back and my arms slid around his shoulders, and we turned slowly in a circle to a sweet love song, our feet shuffling beneath us. As we finished a rotation, there was a scowl painted on April’s pretty face.
I don’t think of myself as a particularly petty person, but I’d finished my glass of champagne and was feeling catty. I curled a hand into his soft hair and turned his face to mine, pressing my lips to his.
He was as into putting on a show as I was. Yet, I’d forgotten how good kissing between us was, and how it had been denied, so it flared wildly, deepening. A hand threaded through my hair and his tongue tasted mine.
“Stop showing us up,” Nick joked.
I hadn’t realized we’d stopped our eighth-grade dancing, or that the bride and groom were right beside us. And now April’s seat was empty.
Besides being fans of booze, Hilary’s family tore up the dance floor. It was a massive pile of sweaty bodies, young and old, shaking it to classic wedding fodder on the hardwood. Logan didn’t dance, nor did either of his brothers. They seemed content to stand in a semi-circle and critique the crowd, each with a drink clasped in hand.