I Love You, I Hate You: Part 2

“Dani,” Sarah huffs, hands on her hips. “She’s a four year old girl, not Hitler. Go before you’re late and Travis thinks you stood him up.” The doorbell rings and Sarah tilts her head. “I didn’t know he was picking you up.”

I slip my matching black converse on and follow her down the stairs. “He’s not.”

“Interesting,” Sarah says, the corner of her lip lifting. “You get that. I’m going to put Molly in the bath. Have fun tonight, girlie.”

“Love you!” I shout over my shoulder, opening the door.

There’s a chuckle I’d recognize anywhere and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge. “I didn’t know—” Logan cuts himself off and stares at me, jaw slack. His eyes roam over my body, sending a nervous shiver through me. “You look stunning, Danika.”

I open the door wider and he steps inside, eyes never leaving my face. “Thanks. Sarah’s starting Molly’s bedtime routine. I’m on my way out.”

A frown falls across Logan’s face, that tiny wrinkle appearing between his brows. I love his brooding, serious look; but I keep my thoughts to myself. There is no way I’m going down that road again. Twice is two times too many. “Dressed like that?”

I grab the clutch shoulder bag Sarah set on the end table for me and begin shoving my essentials inside it. “If you must know, I have a date.”

“With who?” Logan guffaws.

I narrow my eyes on him, fire running through my veins. Does he think I can’t get a date? Just because I’ve chosen not to be with anyone since him doesn’t mean I couldn’t be. “None of your business. Why are you here, anyway?”

Logan rubs the back of his neck and flashes me his signature crooked smile. “I thought I’d come see my favorite girls.”

I roll my eyes. Sarah’s humming carries down the stairs. “Sounds like Molly is almost done with her bath. She hates the water. You can help with story time. I’ve got to go.”

I don’t give Logan the chance to say anything. Slipping the thin rhinestone strap over my shoulder, I walk out the door and close it behind me. In my car, I pull out of the driveway, purposefully ignoring Logan peeking through the curtain. It’s not until I’m down the road at the stop sign do I realize my hands are shaking. I take a breath, tears pooling behind my eyes, and swallow the lump in my throat.

I hate Logan. I hate how no matter how much I wish it didn’t, that smile of his still sends my heart racing. I hate how one look twists my insides and turns me into jello. Most of all, I hate how I still love him because, truthfully, I never stopped.

Eventually, I get myself together and make it to Harden’s, a dinky pub on the wrong side of town that I’m overdressed for. I’m fifteen minutes late, but Travis doesn’t seem to notice or mind. He’s talking to a genuinely good looking man covered in tattoos. Then again, from what I can tell in the dimly lit bar, seems like everyone here has them.

“I was starting to think you stood me up.” Travis slips his arm around my waist and pulls me in for a hug. He plants a gentle kiss to my cheek, his beer tinged breath making my nose wrinkle. “You look stunning.”

I smile, heat climbing my cheeks. I’m not used to compliments. While they are nice, I can’t help but feel uncomfortable. “Thanks.”

“Fucktard here seems to have forgotten his manners,” the tattooed one says. He extends an equally inked hand to me, which looks strangely appealing next to his rolled up, button down sleeves. “I’m Bane.”

I shake his calloused hand, noting how cold it is despite the room being hotter than a sauna. Too many people in too small of a place. “Danika.”

Bane’s lips curl into a sinister smile. He lifts the rim of his cup and finishes his drink. “That’s an extraordinary name.”

I shrug. My name is unique at best. “What can I say, I’m an extraordinary girl.”

Bane chuckles under his breath and stands. Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans he says, “That you are, Miss Winters.”

I gasp, looking at Bane with new eyes. I’ve never met him before, trust me. You don’t forget a six-foot tall, tattooed man cut from marble. “How do you—”

Bane cuts me off with another deep throated laugh. He hands Travis a wad of bills and says, “Take her to Aribella’s tonight. My treat.” Bane steps towards me. He leans in, possibly for a hug, but changes his mind. “Tell Piper I say hello.”

Travis shoves the cash in his pocket then signals the bartender for two beers. He hands one to me, watching my every move with a newfound curiosity. “How do you know Bane McCarron?”

I shake my head, looking over my shoulder at the door. “I don’t.”

Aribella’s is the fanciest restaurant I’ve been to. Ever. It’s small—six spacious tables surrounding a pianist—providing an intimate experience. Our white clothed table has two chilled glasses of champagne waiting for us when we sit down. To my surprise, there is no menu. The restaurant serves a six course meal every night, prepared exclusively for each reservation, and they only take twelve people per night. The cost of such experience? About seven hundred dollars a table, before alcohol, according to Google.

A busboy of sorts sets a pre-sliced wedge of seasoned cheese with biscotti on the table as our waiter approaches with a bottle of red wine that has a deep maroon label. “The wine of the evening is a 2015 Joseph Phelps Insignia, compliments of Mr. McCarron.”

Travis arches his eyebrows, seemingly impressed. I don’t know what this Joseph something or another is, but I know it can’t be cheap. I need to ask Piper for Bane’s number and properly thank him for tonight’s dinner.

Our waiter fills our wide tulip glasses halfway then sets the bottle on the table. “Enjoy.”