Logan’s head turns my way. He catches me staring and flashes a white, toothy grin. My heart skips a beat.
Shit.
“Hey, Jersey,” he shouts. Then he drops the wood down in front of him and lightly jogs my way. Why am I so damn nervous? We had a good weekend together, but I shouldn’t feel this fluttering in the pit of my stomach. “Hey,” he says again with a smile. Small beads of sweat glisten on his upper lip and neck.
“Hey,” I respond.
“You look really nice. Hot date?” he jokes.
I peek over to the driver, and then back to Logan, who follows my gaze. His smile falls a bit.
“Something like that,” I respond. What the hell possessed me to say that? It’s not like I’m trying to make him jealous or anything. But then again, it’s none of his business. Maybe if he thinks I’m dating, he’ll get the hint and won’t ask me out again.
“Oh. Well, he must be one hell of a guy,” he says. Then he fidgets with the rim of his cap, pulling it lower.
“Why’s that?”
“Well, I mean, it’s obvious. Look at me. If you passed up on something like this, the tool must be a hell of a guy, that’s all.” He’s joking, but something tells me it’s a cover-up. Either way I laugh because he has this amusing side of him that makes it difficult not to smile or giggle or find his charming sense of humor intriguing.
“You know, I’ve never met such an egotistical man.”
“Pfft. Imagine how I feel. I have to live through it. It’s not easy being me, Jersey.”
“Jersey? Is this a new name for me?” I ask, amused.
“Yeah. I figure two friends like us should have nicknames for one another.”
“I see. I don’t like nicknames, but I think I can come up with something for you.” I smile.
“Make it good, Jersey. You only get one shot at this. If it sucks, then you lose.”
“I wasn’t aware we were playing a game.”
He leans in, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “I didn’t think so either, since I’m not so keen on playing games. But there’s nothing wrong with a little fun.” His voice is low, rough. He’s not talking about the nicknames anymore; he’s talking about us. Before I can think of a witty response, Logan looks over at the car waiting for me. He straightens up and adjusts his cap again. “Well, I don’t want to keep you,” he says, suddenly upbeat.
I breathe in the chemistry wrapping around us. I feel it. I see it in his grey-blue eyes and right now, I want him to keep me. I want him to continue his attempts at flirting. I want him to make me smile, make me laugh, and bring back the side of me I’ve missed for so long. But then reality sets in. It whirls back around to the forefront of my mind, sweeping away any hopes I have of normalcy, of affection, of…love. Again, I’m reminded of all the reasons why Logan and I can’t be more than what we are. I let out a slow breath, one I’d been holding since he leaned in close enough to kiss me. “Okay. Well, um, chat soon?” I ask nervously.
“Yeah, sure.” He nods and turns away, walking back to the stack of wood assuredly. I watch as he bends over, picks it up, and tosses it over his shoulder. He doesn’t look back.
The drive into Manhattan is better than I had anticipated, except for one thing—the entire drive all my thoughts trail off to Logan. I question whether I should just come clean and tell him about my “issue.” At least that way if he wants to back off, he can. It won’t bother me. I’ve only known him for a little more than a week. And we haven’t shared anything more than what we’ve shared, which isn’t much.
The car pulls up and stops in front of Moon. The driver opens the door for me and gives me his business card with instructions to call him when I’m ready to be picked up. I quickly take in the busy streets of New York and hurry into the restaurant. Being in and around large crowds, especially the hectic crowds of New York, makes me feel uneasy.
My anxiety kicks in as I step into the waiting area of the restaurant. It must be a busy day for the restaurant. It’s jam-packed. I weave through all the people waiting to be seated and approach the hostess. “Hello, I have a reservation under Gregory McDaniel.”
The hostess skims through the list. “Yes, he’s already seated.” She tilts her head toward a gentleman beside her. “Please take her to table 45.”
The gentleman’s gaze lands on me. With a smile he says, “Please, follow me.” And so I do. I follow closely behind, focusing my eyes on the back of his head. “Here you are.” He halts. I almost stumble into him, but I catch myself before I do.
My anxiety quickly dissipates as he walks away and my father turns to face me. His warm smile lights up his face. “Jenna, you look absolutely beautiful.” He stands, places a peck on my cheek and guides me into the booth. He settles in as well, across from me. It’s the same booth he always reserves—tucked in the far corner of the restaurant, beside a large window that looks out over Manhattan’s skyscrapers. Although Moon is surely filled to capacity, our little corner feels private, like it’s just the two of us in the crowded space.
“I’m glad you were able to make it,” Dad says. He stretches his arm out across the booth and grabs my hand.
“Me too.” I gently smile at him. “We haven’t had one of these in a long time. It’s nice.”
“Yes. It was quite overdo, wasn’t it?” He grins. The waiter approaches us and we order our usual. Dad leans back, unbuttoning the perfectly tailored suit jacket as his eyes pierce mine. “So, tell me, how are you feeling?”
“All right, I guess,” I answer with a slight shrug.
“Jenna,” he hesitates. “I don’t want to make you upset”—which means he will—“but I want to speak to you about your mother.”
Here we go.
My shoulders tense uncomfortably. “I’d rather not. I just want to enjoy lunch with you without Mom ruining my day, as always.”
“Well, how about we just get it out of the way so we can enjoy the rest of our lunch? What do you say?”
“Fine.” There’s no escaping this conversation, so I give in. “What do you want to talk about?”
“First, I feel you owe your mother an apology.” My eyes narrow to a harsh glare, and he lifts a hand to stop me from an outburst. “Before you say anything, I feel she owes you an apology as well. I’m not picking sides, Jenna. I love you both. It’s very difficult for me to see two women whom I love deeply despise one another. She’s your mother, and you are her daughter. I’m already swamped with work in the office. I have a potential client I’ve been trying to pull in for years that’s finally beginning to cave. The last thing I need is to come home to the two of you acting like juveniles. I shouldn’t have to deal with it. It’s infuriating. Do you understand?”