How To Evict a Hot Jock in Three Weeks - Anyta Sunday Page 0,36
soles of his feet, leaving a burning ache in its wake. His voice came out thin, feeble. “Just because I want to give up this time—”
Jane laughed in disbelief. “You can’t even acknowledge your own faults, Logan. This is not the first time, and it won’t be the last. Don’t believe me? Ask your mom.”
Numbness stole over Logan.
He felt liked he’d shrunk to half the size of Jane. It took all his effort to murmur goodbye and pick his way out of the room.
Hall light glared in his eyes and he felt like he was watching himself move to the kitchen, slump on the couch. His breathing was ragged and his ears rang.
He thought about his life. What had he ever succeeded at? Not school. Not acting. Not paid employment.
He flitted away his time running errands for family and friends, and joking around.
With shaky hands, he dialed his mom’s number.
She picked up on the third ring. “Logan, how unexpected.”
The child in Logan wanted her to tell him it was okay, that she loved him. He swallowed it down and sought to keep a steady voice. “Hey, Mom. I have a question.”
“How can I help?”
“Did you apologize to Jane that she had to take me to the Indie Stage Awards?”
The following moment of silence said everything.
“After her father’s funeral, I knew it was not easy to take you as her plus-one.”
Logan shut his eyes. “Right.”
“She’s a nice, accomplished woman. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
“She wasn’t the one for me.”
“No. Perhaps you’re not ready to meet the one yet.”
Logan frowned. “What do you mean, Mom?”
“You don’t even have a proper job. You’ve got looks, so drawing interest in has never been your problem. Keeping it, though . . . perhaps you have to offer more?”
He stared at the magazine-covered coffee table. The dark cross-beams above him.
She continued, “I want the best for you, love. If you decide to go back to college, your father and I will finance it.”
“Right.” His voice crackled.
He ended the call and stared vacantly at a Paragon Theater poster.
Chapter Seventeen
ALEXANDER
* * *
Alexander couldn’t decide if he was happy about the real Logan sticking around. He’d been a bundle of jitters trying to reason away the potent feelings growing in his chest.
He wanted things to be the way they were at the beginning. When Alexander had no idea how kind, wonderful, and liberal Logan was. When he was stricter with himself about looking at Logan too long. When he could pretend he was having a quarter-life crisis.
When he had willpower.
He stopped flicking through the beautiful coffee-art book that still carried Logan’s kindness. He felt it in his hands like a heartbeat.
Alexander cursed.
The doorbell dinged, and a traitorous smile pulled at his lips. He leaped from his chair toward the familiar scuff of Logan’s gait.
Logan had changed, and it took a few seconds admiring his fit body packed into jeans and a flannel shirt before Alexander realized Logan was wearing his red cap.
Alexander’s delighted hello wobbled.
Shaded dark eyes steadied on him, and Logan smirked. It hit Alexander’s belly, as always, but the stiffness about it had him hesitating.
Logan looked away before he spoke. “Ya ready for our date?”
Back to the accent, were we? “Are you okay?”
“Reckon I can’t be better. Tonight, I’m gonna set your world on fire.” Still barely a glance Alexander’s way.
Fine. This was better. Perhaps it’d put these warm feelings on hold. Or better yet, douse them with ice.
What had changed since Logan left his gallery that afternoon?
This whole bit was an act, but what if Logan had another reason for throwing himself so deeply into the role again?
Logan parked his car in an industrial part of the neighboring town and Alexander followed him around creepy abandoned buildings. His heart hammered in his throat as he silently listed all the reasons this date was going wrong.
It was a big list.
They stopped outside a massive brick building with loopy neon lighting that didn’t look so bright in the setting sun. Alexander read the name of the bar and added another reason to his list.
Not quite the date he’d absolutely not spent most of the afternoon fantasizing about.
“Axe throwing, Logan?”
“I’ve booked us a cage.”
A crowd of forty-somethings herded into the bar.
Alexander choked on their cloud of perfume and aftershave and eagerness. “Wonderful. Stressed out millennials with beer and sharp blades. This’ll be fun.”
Logan grabbed the door before it swung shut. “This’ll be therapy.”
Alexander schooled his rampant emotions and strode into the bar.
After they checked in and signed a