Possibly a quarter.
Likely an eighth.
In other words, I was the kind of sister who would always need to be taken care of.
I knew I should wake up one day and change that.
I knew that just as I knew I never would.
At a party, in a house, twenty-three years earlier...
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
He started it. He’d been checking me out since he got there ten minutes ago and not hiding it. Then he’d come right to me and started it.
I liked that.
I also liked that he’d approached, not wasting a lot of time.
But mostly, I liked how incredibly cute he was.
Cute and edgy.
Holding my cup of beer in hand, I stared up at him.
God yes, he was cute. So cute.
But cute in a way that my mother would not curl up at night, safe in the knowledge her daughter had excellent taste in men. In other words, I wasn’t talking to a well-dressed guy who I would soon learn had a life mission he’d decided on when he was a boy, this being astronaut or curer of cancer.
He was cute in a way my mother would despair, pray, live in terror and my father would consider committing murder (one of the various reasons my mother would be living in terror).
But looking into his warm, brown eyes, for once in my life, I didn’t care what my mother and father thought.
I just cared about the fact that he was standing close to me at Kellie’s party, he’d come right up to me and he’d said, “Hey.”
“Name’s Logan,” he told me.
God, he even had a cool name.
“Millie,” I replied.
I watched his eyes widen a bit before he burst out laughing.
That wasn’t very nice.
I swayed a little away from him, feeling hurt.
He kept chuckling but he noticed my movement and focused intently on me, asking, “Where you goin’?”
“I need a fresh beer,” I lied.
He looked into my full cup.
Then he looked at me, smiling.
Oh God, yes. He was so cute.
But he was kinda mean.
I mean, my name wasn’t funny. It was old-fashioned but it was my great-grandmother’s name. My mother had adored her and Granny had lived long enough for me to adore her too.
I liked my name.
“You got Millie written all over you,” he stated.
What a weird thing to say.
And more weird, it was like he knew what I was thinking.
“What?” I asked.
“Darlin’, all that hair that doesn’t know whether it wants to be red or blonde. Those big brown eyes.” His smooth, deep voice dipped in a way that I felt in my belly. “That.” He lifted his beer cup with one finger extended and pointed close to my mouth so I knew he was indicating the little mole that was just in from the right corner of my top lip. “Cute. Sweet. No better name for a girl that’s all that but Millie.”
Okay, that was nice.
“Well, thanks, I think,” I mumbled.
“Trust me, it’s a compliment,” he assured.
I nodded.
“What’re you doin’ tomorrow night?”
I felt my head give a small jerk.
Holy crap, was he asking me out on a date?
“I... nothing,” I answered.
“Good, then we’re goin’ out. You got a number?”
He was!
He was asking me out on a date!
My heartbeat quickened and my legs started to feel all tingly.
“I... yes,” I replied, then went on stupidly, “I have a number.”
“Give it to me.”
I stared at him, then looked down his wide chest to his trim waist, then to his hands. One hand was holding his beer, the other one had the thumb hooked in his cool-as-heck, beaten up, black leather belt.
I looked back to his face. “Do you have something to write it down?”
He gave a slight shake of his head and an even slighter (but definitely hot) lip twitch before he stated, “Millie, you give me your number, do you think I’m gonna forget a single digit?”
Okay, wow. That was really nice.
I gave him my number.
He repeated it instantly and accurately.
“That’s it,” I confirmed.
He didn’t reply.
I started to feel uncomfortable.
And nervous.
I’d just made a date with a guy I didn’t know at all except I knew my parents wouldn’t approve of him and then I gave him my number.
Now what did we do?
“You come with someone?” he asked.
It was weird that he asked that now, after he’d asked me out.
After I thought it was weird, I thought that maybe he thought I was on a date and then made a date with him while I was on a date and then he’d think I was a bitch!
“No, just some girlfriends,” I told him quickly.
He gave me another smile. “That’s comin’ with someone, darlin’.”
Oh.
Right.
I bit my lip.
“Who?” he asked.
“Justine,” I answered, tipping my head toward the kitchen table where there were four guys and two girls sitting. When he turned his head to look, I expanded my answer, “The brunette.”
And right then, Justine, my friend the pretty brunette, drunkenly bounced a quarter on the table toward a shot glass, missed, and grinned. Two of the guys and one of the girls immediately shouted, “Shot!” Thus, she unsteadily grabbed the glass and threw it back, some of the vodka in it dribbling down her chin.
She finished this still grinning.
“You ain’t ridin’ back with her,” Logan growled, and my gaze shot back to him. “Fact, she ain’t drivin’ anywhere.”