He reads it out loud in a British accent that’s so good it could convince anyone, and I’m reminded that I’m sitting in the car with a fucking Emmy-winning actor who willprobably be well on his way to some Oscars, too, when he starts filming more movies.
I don’t understand half the shit he’s saying, but it all sounds amazing coming from him. I’m sure if I asked, he could explain it all to me perfectly.
So I just listen. And somewhere along the drive to the event, my nervousness melts away.
It’s going to be great.
It’s going to be fucking fun, because I’m going to be there with him.
I reach out and squeeze his thigh as he moves on to the next Shakespeare passage, and the enormity of this simple moment finally hits me. Tonight is a major first for Logan, too. It’ll be the first event he brings a date to since his career exploded last year.
I want to make the night perfect forhim.
I love him, and it still feels too soon to say.
A deeper part of me feels like it would never be too soon, and that I’m so much craziernotto have said it to him, yet.
The words claw at me almost every moment I’m with him.
He makes me a smoothie, and I think it.
I love you.
He reads me Shakespeare only to calm me down, all the while keeping a hand laced in mine, and it pulses through my mind, over and over.
I love you.
His existence, on its own, when he’s tired, or burnt out, or happy, or laughing with me in the shower, brushing the droplets from my eyelashes… it’s so much more real than any connection I thought I’d share with another person.
I love you, I love you, I love you to the bottom of my beating heart.
If I could, I’d want to give Logan the whole world.
So tonight, I’m going to show him a good time.
Every fear I had about the event disappears when I walk in and see the food and desserts on display there.
It doesn’t hurt that Logan keeps his hand holding mine as we walk in, too.
The gala is being held in the ballroom of a trendy, modern hotel in Soho, and their desserts absolutely rival the ones I used to make at the Bellwood. I gawk at the amazing fruit tartlets and tiered tiramisu bites, and I make a note to ask about their pastry chef later on.
“Stone, my man,” someone says behind us only a minute into walking by the food tables.
I turn to see the actor I recognize from some of the YouTube interviews of Logan’s I watched when I finally broke down and binged them all.
It’s Charlie Maccan, Logan’s costar onYard Line.
He clasps Logan on the back, bringing him in for a hug. “Howdy. How have you been?”
“Not too shabby. Did you see that Shelley and Laz are here? Make sure you go chat with them tonight, or we’ll have a repeat of Malibu.”
Logan snorts. “Laz wouldn’t do that again. The table reads were like pulling teeth the day after, and Jamesknewthey would be.”
I have no clue what they’re talking about, and for a moment I don’t know if I should turn to butt into their conversation or not.
But as I’m reaching for a strawberry cheesecake bite, I feel Logan’s hand on my shoulder, and I spin around.
I have a moment of that same stunned feeling that I got when I first met Logan. Charlie isn’t utterly perfect to me, like Logan is, but he’s immaculately well-dressed, has perfect hair, and looks and smells expensive in the most subtle ways.
