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It started with me lying to Mrs. Warden. She seemed so pleased when I told her that I’d gotten a better job and that I’d be moving in with a new friend from work. I know it’s what she’s always wanted for me, standing on my own two feet and experiencing life like a normal 24-year old, with a real job and real friend. But none of this is real.
I hope she won’t be lonely. Mrs. Warden is retired, but used to volunteer at a local cat shelter until a couple of weeks ago, when she started to stay home more, eating very little and sleeping a lot. She admitted to being “a little under the weather” when I asked her about it, but was always quick to change the subject. I should call and check up on her,soonerratherthan later. I would never forgive myself if something happened to her and I wasn’t there to help.
A knock on the door yanks me out of my pensive state with such abruptness that the book drops down to the floor as I jerk up in surprise.
“Yes?” I respond. “Come i—”
Logan doesn’t wait to be invited and lets himself in before I finish my sentence. He looks dashing in a black shirt and a pair of dark denims, his hair a bit ruffled and a slight flush on his cheeks.
Oh my God, why does he always have to look so utterly irresistible?
“We have dinner reservations at eight,” he announces, still standing in the door.
“We do?” I ask. He’s stating this as if I should have known about it already. Did I forget? Or is this just his MO when it comes to making plans?
“Yes, at a very nice place,” he elaborates. “Dress accordingly.”
“Accordingly meaning I should refrain from picking my own clothes?” I want to know.
He arches an eyebrow at me. “No, meaning you’ll pick something fromyournew clothes.”
I nod. “Of course. Understood.”
His eyes linger on my stack of books for a moment, but just when I think that he’s about to say something about it, he turns aroundand walks out without another word.
“Good talking to you, too,” I whisper into the void.
Chapter 17
Logan
“This is unacceptable!”
The receptionist ducks as if I’d just hit him.
“I’m sorry, sir, there’s nothing I can do,” he utters helplessly, pointing at the screen in front of him. “There’s no reservation under your name and we’re fully booked—”
“Yes, I know you are fully booked, you always are, which is why my assistant made a reservation with you days ago!”
Next to me, I notice Kat awkwardly shifting from one foot onto the other, her uneasiness painfully palpable.
“I’m sorry sir, I truly am, but—”
“No but!” I cut him off. “I’m sure there’s something you can do. Maybe this will help you.”
I push a hundred dollar bill his way, discreet but blatant enough for him to understand what I’m saying. This will work, it always does.
“There’s more where that came from,” I promise, adding a confidential wink in his direction.
But he shakes his head, a single black lock dancing on his unlined forehead.
“I can’t accept that, sir,” he insists. “If you give me a second, I could check to see whether we can get you a table with a little waiting time.”
“I made a reservation to make sure we wouldn’t have to wait,” I tell him.
“Yes, of course, but—”
“I keep hearing that ‘but’ a little too often,” I interrupt. “Let me put it this way: We’re not going to wait here, not even for a single minute. You either give us a table right this second, or there’s hell to pay.”
