“Marieke,” I say. “It’s Logan. I have an idea for me and Lelie, and I’d like to tell you about it.”
7
I’m standing in line at the post office when my phone starts playing “Pussy Monster” by Lil Wayne, and I realize that I hadn’t fully considered this possible situation when I programmed all my contacts the night before to have distinct ringtones. At the time, assigning that song for Logan’s number seemed like a secret sexy joke. But now that my cell is singing, “I’m the Pussy Monster, and you better feed me pussy, pussy, pussy, pussy, pussy” in a crowded public building, I think I quite possibly made a bad decision.
With cheeks hot from humiliation and nervousness (Logan is calling me!), I abandon my place in line and head outside to dig through my purse and find my cell. I’m breathless when I finally hit talk. “Hello?”
“Devi?”
“Hi! Logan. I…” can’t believe it’s really you and ohmygod I can’t believe you’re calling me even though you text me pretty much every day.
I won’t tell him that. “Hello,” I say again instead. “Hi.” I’m an idiot.
Logan’s so smooth that he almost makes me feel at ease, even as he laughs. “I think we have a greeting established. Should we move on?”
“Yeah.” I cover my face with my hand. “Yes. Sorry. I was…distracted…when you called.”
“Distracted? That sounds intriguing. Tell me more about that.”
He has no idea that I have a massive secret crush on him, but sometimes, when his voice is layered like this with thick innuendo and comprehension, I wonder if he possibly could know.
Which is a ridiculous thing to wonder. He probably treats every woman as though she’s madly in love with him, and every woman likely is madly in love with him. So of course he knows I’m harboring affection as well. Because, who isn’t?
But hell if I’m admitting the ringtone I’ve assigned him.
“I just.” I sigh into the mouthpiece, regrouping. “I was in line at the post office, and I hadn’t realized my phone wasn’t on silent. So your call surprised me.”
“Ah. I see.” He’s quiet, and I decide he’s as disappointed with my lame answer as I am. He probably regrets calling me.
“But thank goodness it wasn’t on silent. Because then I would have missed you all together.” Yep, I’m totally transparent.
And I totally want to die.
But it’s not likely that I’m going to spontaneously fall dead, and also I’m curious about what he wants, so I ask, “Anyway, what’s up?” He’s never called before, and the reasons he could be calling now are swimming through my mind.
Or one reason is swimming—the reason that he might be calling for a date. The other ideas are drowning in my optimism.
“Actually, I…” He pauses, as though he’s nervous too, which, of course, is impossible, but wouldn’t it be nice if I could let myself think that? That he’s as off-balance around me as I am around him?
In his hesitation, the hopeful tension grows until I can’t stand it. “Yes?”
“I wondered if you were free later today,” he says quickly—excitedly, maybe. “I need to see you.”
“You do?” It’s probably not cool to question it. “I mean, no, I’m not. Or…did you ask if I was busy or if I was free?”
“You know, I don’t remember now.”
I let out a chuckle that sounds an awful lot like a giggle. “Well, whatever you said, I’m not busy. I could see you. If you want.” Way to sound nonchalant, Devi.
“I do want.” His tone is so low I almost am unsure that’s what he really said. Louder, he says, “That’s great. I have a meeting right now, but I could do three-ish?”
Somehow I manage to speak like an intelligent human being as we arrange the specifics. Then we hang up, and I clutch the phone to my chest and let out an uncharacteristic squeal.
Two women jogging by throw me narrow glances, but who cares? I already have to find another post office to patronize, and I have a date with Logan O’Toole.
When I arrive at the coffee shop where we agreed to meet, I find him already in line to order. He hasn’t seen me yet, and I take the opportunity to check him out. He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, not too tight, but thin enough to make out the muscles in his back. I’m overwhelmed with sense memory—the way he smelled, the way his fingers dug into my jaw as he held the sides of my face, the way his tongue felt darting over my skin, between my lips.
I shiver. It’s been three years, and yet, his is the only touch I remember.
I come up behind him in the line and nudge my shoulder against the back of his arm.
“Hey, there you are.” He turns to give me the hug that’s standard in Europe and Hollywood, and I have to force myself not to audibly sigh or cling.
I’m disappointed when he pulls away. But then he glides his eyes down my body, and I think I might not care if he never touched me again, as long as he keeps looking at me like he is now. His stare is invasive and warm and thorough.
I’m suddenly shy, which is strange. Because I’ve been naked with Logan O’Toole, and yet I’ve never felt as undressed as I do when he looks me over now. My outfit is casual—tan short shorts and a cream halter-top. I spent forever choosing it, but I glance down at my appearance, trying to see myself with different eyes, imagining what he sees, and I can’t figure it out. The girl I see is curvy and lush with dark exotic features and piercing eyes. She’s beautiful—I’ve never doubted my allure—but compared to the women he spends his time with on a daily basis, I’m same old, same old.