The Trouble With Quarterbacks - R.S. Grey Page 0,7

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