The Mistake

“It’s Friday night—how come you’re sitting around watching action movies?”

The question makes me bristle. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing.” Logan shrugs. “I’m just wondering why you’re not out partying or something.”

“I was at a party last night.” Don’t remind him you saw him, don’t remind him you saw him— “I saw you there, by the way.”

He seems startled. “You did?”

“Yeah. At the Omega Phi house.”

“Huh. I don’t remember seeing you.” He gives me a sheepish look. “I don’t remember much, actually. I got pretty shitfaced.”

It stings a little that he doesn’t remember our encounter outside the bathroom, but I quickly chastise myself for feeling insulted. He was drunk, and he’d just hooked up with someone else. Of course I hadn’t made an impression on him.

“Did you have fun at the party?” For the first time since he walked into my dorm room, his tone contains an awkward note, as if he’s trying to make small talk and isn’t comfortable with it.

“Sure, I guess.” I pause. “Actually, I take that back. It was fun until I totally humiliated myself in front of this guy.”

The discomfort on his face dissolves as he chuckles. “Yeah? What’d you do?”

“I babbled. A lot.” I offer a little shrug. “I have a really bad habit of doing that around guys.”

“You’re not babbling right now,” he points out.

“Yeah, now. Do you not remember the serial killer rant I gave you two hours ago?”

“Trust me, I remember.” His answering grin speeds up my pulse. God, he’s got a sexy smile. Slightly crooked, and every time he flashes it, his eyes twinkle playfully. “I don’t make you nervous anymore, do I?”

“No.” I’m lying. He absolutely makes me nervous. He’s John fucking Logan, one of the most popular guys at this college. And I’m Grace fucking Ivers, one of thousands of girls who are crushing on him.

His gaze travels over me again, a hot, lingering perusal that crackles along my skin like an electric current. This time there’s no mistaking the interest in his eyes.

Should I make a move?

I should make a move, right?

Lean closer or something. Kiss him. Or maybe ask him to kiss me? My brain races back to my high school days, trying to pinpoint how all those kisses happened, if the guys I locked lips with made the first move, or if it was a mutual yeah-we’re-going-to-kiss-now sorta thing. Except none of those kisses were with guys even half as gorgeous as this one.

“Do you want me to go now?”

His gruff voice startles me, and I realize I’ve been staring at him for almost a full minute without saying a single word.

My mouth is so dry I have to swallow a few times before answering. “No. I mean, you can stay if you want. We can watch something else, or—”

I don’t get to finish that sentence, because he slides closer and touches my cheek, and my vocal cords freeze as my heart rate skyrockets.

John Logan is touching my cheek.

The pads of his fingers are calloused, a rough scrape against my skin, and he smells so good I feel light-headed when I inhale the faint scent of his aftershave.

He lightly strokes my cheekbone and I have to stop myself from purring like an affection-starved cat. “What are you doing?” I whisper.

“Well, you were looking at me like you wanted me to kiss you.” His blue eyes become heavy-lidded. “So I was thinking I might do that.”