Wicked Sexy Liar
Page 29

Maybe the fact that he’s trying to make it okay between us should make me feel better, but, given everything, it doesn’t.
“Are you going to ask me about the weather next?”
He breaks his attention from the television and looks over at me. “What?”
“Why do you sound like you’re reading for the lead in The 40-Year-Old Virgin? You’re being weird.”
“I’m not—”
“Yeah, you are.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I think I’m just a little off today.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Sure.”
“Do you have any girl friends you don’t bang?”
His eyes narrow. “Of course I do. Margot—”
I hold up a hand to stop him. “Let me rephrase that. Do you have any female friends you just hang out with, who you are not related to, and who you have never banged, and/or never think of banging?”
He looks mildly offended. “Yes, Logan. Several.”
Leaning my elbows on the bar, I lower my voice, telling him, “Really? Because you’ve dialed down the flirtation tonight, but you’re acting like a robot. It’s like you have two settings: pickup artist or awkward.”
“Like I said, I’m just in a weird mood,” he says quietly.
“Luke?”
His shy smile melts me a little. “Logan?”
“You don’t need to have your dick out for someone to like you.”
The smile is dialed up a few hundred degrees. “Is that right?”
“Would I lie to you?”
This makes him laugh. “You’ve ignored all of my texts,” he says again, as if this proves me wrong.
A waitress drops a ticket on the counter and I reach for it. With an inward wince, I realize how easy it is to fall into flirtation with him—I’m even initiating it.
Flaky.
Douchey friends.
Womanizer.
Off. Limits.
“I worked pretty much nonstop,” I tell him.
Luke takes a pull from his beer and then examines the bottle. “You know, one of these days I’m going to turn into a raging alcoholic and it’ll be your fault.”
“I drive you to drink?” I ask.
He tears the corner of the label and begins to slowly peel it away. “No. But I hang out in bars hoping to see you. Eventually all this is going to catch up with me and I’ll look like my uncle Steve.”
Unease pulls my shoulders up tight. It’s not only that Luke bangs all the women, it’s that now I realize being with him could jeopardize my friendships. “You could always hang out somewhere else, you know.”
“I don’t really want to, is the thing,” he says, and winces a little, as if the admission is as unsettling to him as it is to me.
Someone steps up to the end of the bar, and I motion to Luke that I’ll be right back. When I return, he doesn’t look any happier than he did. Luke checks his phone and then looks toward the door.
“Expecting someone?” I say.
“Dylan,” he tells me. “We’re driving up to some bookstore or something. How do you know him, anyway?”
“Friend of a friend,” I say with a shrug. “And he surfs, so I see him down at Black’s Beach sometimes.”
“Maybe we—” he starts to say, when the outside door opens and a couple of his friends from the other night make their way inside.
“Sutter!” one of them shouts, pointing in his direction.
“Your fan club is calling,” I tell him with a smile, picking up a towel to dry a load of dishes.
“When will I see you again?”
“I’ll be here,” I say, but I can tell it wasn’t the answer he was looking for. He continues to watch me for a moment before he sighs, and glances back to where his friends have begun circling a group of girls playing pool. Of course they are. He nods to tell them he’ll be right there.
“I’m assuming you’d shoot me down if I asked if you wanted to do something later?”
“You would be correct,” I tell him. The door opens again, followed by the sound of voices and cheers as another large group of men in softball jerseys files in. Another team, I’m guessing.
Luke stands and pulls out his wallet, laying a few bills out on the counter to pay for his drink. “Then I guess I’ll see you, Logan,” he says, and smiles before he heads to the back.
Chapter EIGHT
Luke
I STARE UP AT the ceiling, piecing together the last few interactions I’ve had with London. It’s odd to have things ended so abruptly and have no say in it. I get why she doesn’t want to hook up again. I get why she thinks I’m not her type. The problem is, she’s Stonewall London right now, and there’s no convincing her that I’m worth her time.
I forgot how much I hate the twisty restlessness of feelings.
The partners at the firm are all at Lake Arrowhead for a meeting, and the pre-law legal interns most definitely aren’t included. We can barely be trusted to carry a legal brief from one office to the next let alone have input on firm policies and the most critical cases. It means I have a few days off, but the timing is awful. I don’t want to be left alone in my own head.
I’ve filled the day with errands: taking Grams to her physical therapy, helping Andrew move his old fridge out of the garage, swimming some laps. And by the time I need to leave to have lunch with Dad, I can feel the tension in my shoulders, all along my back.
This is normally when I’d be in the mood for a good fuck, but London, Mia, a blur of limbs and mouths and eyes in between . . . I can’t seem to find exactly what it is I want.
The UC San Diego campus nearly vibrates with the impending end to the school year. Students lounge on the open lawns, throw Frisbees over clusters of seated groups, and walk lazily down the path as if there isn’t a class to attend.
Ahead of me is a guy who looks really familiar . . . it takes my brain only a second to place him, and when it does, my stomach drops.
Ansel is speaking to a female student. He’s tall, and has bent slightly to make eye contact and gestures with his hands while he talks. There’s nothing remotely sexual in the way he’s so attentive, but even just looking at him I can see how much it matters to him that she understands whatever it is he’s saying.
Goddamnit. He’s a nice guy.
I glance over my shoulder down the path, back the way I’ve come. I could avoid him by retracing my steps and walking around the humanities complex, but for some reason I don’t move, even when the option occurs to me. With each second that ticks past, I lose my ability to disappear without him noticing.
And then he looks up over her shoulder, and sees me standing there watching. I can see the mental filing he needs to do to place me, can see recognition dawn, and then he swallows and looks back down to the girl.
Within two seconds, she’s making her way down the path, and he’s making his way toward me.
What would I do in his shoes? Would I just serve up a right hook? Would I keep walking?
He stops a few feet away “Luke.”
“Ansel. Hi.”
We exchange the briefest, most awkward handshake in the history of time.
Up close, and away from the dim light of the bar, I can tell that he’s got a few years on me. It’s not just in the set of his brow, but the way he’s watching me: even, calm, unintimidated.