He curves around the tables to get to the entrance of the VIP section, and I watch him move, amazed by how fluid his steps are, how he commands his body and the people around him. They move and shift for him before he even has to ask. Noah parting the Red Sea, this one. Sheesh, quite convenient little trick that is. I’d never have to fight my way through packed subways again.
It’s only been a week since I met him at The Day School, but I’d forgotten tiny details about him already. They coalesce back into perfect clarity as he comes to stand right in front of me.
I haven’t had the good sense to wrest my hand away from Mr. Clammy Smells-a-Lot, and he hasn’t finished the task either. Logan glances down at where our hands are linked, and a disgruntled frown takes over his handsome features.
“Are these guys bothering you?”
“I FUCKING TOLD YOU! IT’S HIM!” the original guy declares, and his friends all go crazy, crushing toward the end of the booth to get to Logan.
“Mr. Matthews. Truly, it’s a pleasure. Oh my god. Dude, can we get a picture?”
My hand is released and I’m long forgotten, pushed to the side as they all try to get closer to him. I rub my shoulder where one of them not-so-politely elbowed me out of the way, and Logan is there, taking in every moment, completely unbothered by the swarm of lads surrounding him.
I looked into the foosball league like I meant to, but I didn’t find much, and truthfully, it looked a bit…silly? Nothing like these guys are making it out to be. It’s like Logan is really their hero. They want autographs and photos and “Can you call my girlfriend and leave a message? She’s in love with you, man. You’d really be helping me out.”
Logan doesn’t take photos, but he signs a few cocktail napkins quickly and they get distributed among the group with a few grunts and threats and one solid punch to an arm.
“Dude, he gave it to me!”
“Candace?” Logan says, pinning the full weight of his attention back on me. My knees go weak a bit like maybe I’m not quite strong enough to handle him like this, looking at me from head to toe, brows pinched together, concern filling his brown eyes. “Come back to my table with me,” he says, waving away the group’s further requests and reaching out to take my hand.
With the contact, an electric current zings up my arm like I’ve just shoved the tines of a fork straight into a wall socket. I’d be shocked if my hair wasn’t standing on end.
His hand is so big it engulfs mine completely. There’d be no chance of escaping him even if I tried, though I really, really don’t want to try.
He tugs me along without confirming if I’d like to go with him, and I get half-dragged, half-carried up the flight of stairs into VIP. I’ve only been up here a few times and only before the bar opens to help shine glasses and lay out the bar. The veteran staff get to work this section every night, racking up tips and bragging about who they waited on. Even now, I briefly lock eyes with Simone—the waitress who trained me—at the VIP bar and shrug to let her know I have no idea what’s going on. She sees Logan’s hand on mine, and I think she realizes I’m not just waltzing up here to steal her tips. Thank god.
Logan’s table is near the back, real secluded and tucked away. I expected a group of guys, but it’s a mixture: two huge blokes and three absolutely stunning women, sitting between their dates in showy dresses I’d die to get my hands on. The one on the end perks up when she sees Logan approach again. Then her smile noticeably fades when she sees him and me holding hands. I try—immediately—to yank mine free, but he doesn’t let go, not until we’re right at his table.
“Guys, this is Candace. My friend.”
Friend?! Are we? God, I hope so. Wouldn’t that be lovely to have a friend like him? I’d never have to bother hiring a moving company again! Never have to struggle with an unopened jar of olives!
“Hey Candace,” the group choruses, along with offering nods and smiles.
Logan turns to me and gives me another once-over. “Were they harassing you down there?”
I scoff and cross my arms over my chest, rubbing the elbow that’s still smarting for a moment before dropping it. “What? No. C’mon, it’s part of the job.”
He frowns. “I thought you were a preschool teacher.”
“I am.” I grin. “But a few nights a week, I’m also Candace the cocktail waitress.”
I wave a hand down my outfit, and he rubs the back of his neck like maybe he doesn’t quite like it.
“That skirt’s pretty short,” he notes.
“I’m short.”
For show, I flatten my hand to the top of my head then draw it across the gap between us until the side of my pinkie hits his chest, right between his pecs. When I try to pull it back, he lifts his hand to wrap his fingers around my wrist.
His bad mood finally lifts, and a soul-searing smile dimples his cheeks. “Yeah, I guess you are.”
“Now are you going to stop harassing me so I can get on with my job?”
He peers down at me with a cheeky little look in his eyes. “Oh, now I’m the one doing the harassing?”
“Yes.” I puff up my shoulders and chest like I’m going to take a real stand. “Dragging me away like that, all brutish and cocky.”
His grin turns positively edible—or maybe it’s his eyes doing that, making me think he’d like to eat me alive if given the chance.
“I saved you from them,” he says, mighty proud of himself.
“Saved me from the absolutely massive tip they’ll be giving me once they’ve knocked back a few rounds and become properly pissed?”
“Pissed,” he repeats back, amused. “Your British words make no sense.”
“Oh, right, let’s see. Sloshed? Sozzled? In-e-bri-ated? That good enough for you proper Americans?”
“I like your words better,” he says, all smooth and quiet, like he wants me to take what he’s said and twist it into something a bit more sinister.
It’s impossible to stop the flush from taking over. My fair skin means I color like an English rose any time someone pays me the slightest compliment, and well, when that compliment comes from Logan’s lips, there’s no sense in attempting to fend off the impending blush.
“Logan, is your friend going to join us?”
The question comes from a huge black guy with broad shoulders and a smooth bald head. Not many people have bald heads and still fall into the hunky category, but this guy certainly does. With his dark skin and big smile, it’s easy to see why the girl beside him is crushed so close, staking her claim.
“There’s not really room.”
This statement comes from the girl at the end of the booth, the one who looked so miffed to see Logan’s hand around mine. Owing to the numbers and the fact that with Logan, there’s a girl to every guy, I’d imagine she’s his date for the evening. Her snarky comment confirms it.
I feel bad for her, actually. She’s clearly into him, and he hasn’t looked her way this whole time. Cruel, really.
“Oh, no worries! I can’t stay. I’m working.” I offer up a big smile, and I sense, rather than see, the girl’s relief. She wants me gone—yesterday.