Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
How was I supposed to make conversation with somebody so far out of my league?
“I haven’t been here in so long,” Logan said, breaking my trance. He gazed around the diner. “I kind of overdid it in freshman year.”
“Did you get addicted to the coffee like I did?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’d come here almost every single day after class. I’d sit with my headphones on and read for hours, and I’m pretty sure the waitresses wanted to kick me out. I started tipping ten-dollar bills just to apologize. Shit, I tipped enough at Red’s Tavern last night, right?”
“You tried to tip forty bucks, actually, because the bill was forty bucks,” I said. “But I put one of the twenties back into your wallet.”
“Apparently I’m an extremely generous drunk,” he said.
“You’re a total sweetheart drunk,” I said.
He looked down at the table, fiddling with a packet of sugar. But I could see the makings of a smile on his lips.
There.
Finally, the wall of insecurity that I’d fortified around me started to crumble. I didn’t have to be Albert Einstein to make conversation with Logan.
Logan looked so fucking sexy. His sandy-colored hair was ruffled from the wind on the walk over. He’d tossed on a plaid peacoat and a simple grey scarf for the walk, and now he’d taken it off and was in one of his usual dark blue sweaters, which hugged his body like a glove. His lips were pink and plush, a little ruddy as we heated up inside. I wanted to lean across the table and press my mouth to his. Fuck, I wanted to strip him down and taste every inch of him.
I wished I could reach across and drag my thumb over his lower lip.
“You were the one who was sweet last night,” he said. “Thanks for making sure I got back safe.”
“Of course,” I said. “I hope your hangover wasn’t too bad, if you had one?”
“Almost none at all,” he said. “The sandwich last night was a nice touch. Helped my body process through the alcohol.”
“And that’s why you’re probably the smartest person I’ve met. You even do a night of drinking in a smart way.”
He scrunched up his nose, shaking his head. “No way I’m the smartest person you’ve met. You’re flattering me now.”
“You definitely are,” I said. “I really can’t thank you enough for the study session today. History has never clicked like that for me.”
Finally his face relaxed, and even though he still seemed a little flustered, I could tell he appreciated the compliment. “I think you’re going to do really well on the next exam. And I’ll help you out any time you need. I could talk about history forever.”
“I’m so glad you turned out to be my roommate,” I said. “I got lucky.”
Logan was watching me now like he was trying to figure me out. I wasn’t used to getting that kind of reaction out of people. I was a blunt and honest person, and I kept things simple. Most people seemed to think they knew me after about a minute. But social stuff was a mystery to Logan, and sometimes I saw that look come over his face.
He tried to solve people like they were puzzles. Or maybe he was just trying to figure out how he should act.
“Brody,” he said softly after a while. I loved the sound of my name on his lips.
“What’s up, roomie?” I asked.
He swallowed, looking at me with earnest eyes and finally letting the packet of sugar rest on the tabletop. “Why are you so nice to me?”
My heart squeezed as he asked the question. He sounded so sincere, so genuinely confused.
“Because I really like you, Logan,” I said simply.
His eyes widened, just a little. If I hadn’t been paying such close attention to him, I might have even missed it. I couldn’t tell if it was excitement or shock in his eyes, or maybe a little of both.
Maybe me telling him how much I liked him scared him a little bit. But there was no way I could lie about that, at this point. Every minute I spent with Logan, I liked him more.
“Honey!” a voice said from the side of our booth.
I looked up and saw a middle-aged woman alongside none other than Prof Martinson.
“Mom, Dad,” Logan said, looking even more like a deer in the headlights than he had before.
“Haven’t seen you here at Bixie’s in so long,” Mrs. Martinson said, squeezing Logan on the shoulder.
Prof Martinson looked at me, squinting for just a second. “You’re in one my American History courses. Bryant, right?”
“Brody Bryant indeed,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand.
“You play for the Wolves,” he said. “You’re a great tight end, from what I’ve heard.”
I smiled graciously. “I always try my best out there.”
“So you’re the star footballer housemate Logan told us about,” Mrs. Martinson said. “Wow.”