The Boyfriend Candidate (Fool Me Once, #2)

by Ashley Winstead

“That wasn’t a line,” he protested. “I only mean whenever she starts talking, I lose my train of thought. I’m working on it.”

He’d been talking to the hostess, but stopped midsentence when he saw me. The look in his eyes before he’d swallowed and schooled his face had caused a return of that fizzy feeling in my stomach.

His face brightened. “Really? Great.” He suddenly looked at a loss for what to do next. “Uh. You want Earl Grey?” “Sure,” I said, and he sprinted for the kitchen.

And she thinks he's not into her

“I would follow you anywhere,” he whispered, his lips brushing my cheek, and then he was striding forward and waving at the crowd.

Logan tensed over the table. “She doesn’t like me?” “I’m sorry, Logan, I promise it’s nothing personal.” “Should I invite her over? Do a dinner with your family? Is there a cause she wants me to promote?” He frowned. “Does she like flowers?”

“You know, when you really smile, you do it with your whole face. I can see your smile in your eyes. It’s the best thing.”

I turned to face the library’s double doors just as they flew open. Logan streaked through. He looked like he’d run across the entire city. His navy suit was disheveled, his tie askew, his face sweaty and stricken. Worry radiated from him. He saw me and his face crumpled in relief. To my astonishment, he seized me, wrapping his arms around me and clutching me to him. I blinked into his shoulder, cheek pressed against the smooth wool of his suit, feeling the rapid thump of his heart. I pulled back. “Logan—what in the world?” He gripped my face like he needed to make sure I was real. “I was in a meeting with the wind farm people when Cary came in and said a tornado had ripped through the city and hit your school, and no one knew the extent of the damage.”

The double doors flew open again. “I can’t take this anymore.” Logan strode through. He was still shaking his head, but this time he looked determined, not ashamed. “Fuck the rules.” His sudden presence, the single-minded focus in his eyes—it was so strong I took a step back. He came within reaching distance and stopped, hands gripped by his sides, as if he was restraining himself. His pulse beat visibly in his throat as his eyes searched my face. “Please.” His voice was rough. The voice of a man at the end of his rope. “Please let me kiss you.”

Do you know what it’s like to work for something your whole life and then have someone walk in and become the most important thing to you in an instant?

“Fuck leading anyone. I want to follow you on my hands and knees across the desert.”

When I was very nearly asleep and the world was warm and hazy, I felt him kiss my temple softly. Then he whispered, so faint it was barely more than a breath, “Whatever it takes, let me keep her.”