SOFIA: Good luck tonight. Mrs.F says to keep your legs closed.
At least that brings a smile to my face. And it’s probably some of the best advice I’ve ever gotten.Thanks, Frau Frances.
Tonight I’m determined not to let my normal throw-caution-to-the-wind attitude have free rein, because every time I do, I fall into my same old habits. I’m not doing that with Logan.No, really. I’m not.
The door opens and I hold my breath.
Not him.
It opens again and again over the next fourteen minutes, and none of the people who come inside look anything like the guy in the picture I’ve been getting off to nearly every night for the last couple of weeks.
Finally, fifteen minutes after we said we’d meet, Logan Brantley walks into the tapas bar. Every curse word known to woman—and several I make up on the fly—flash through my brain.
This isn’t fair. Logan Brantley is even sexier when he’s not dressed in camo and carrying a big gun. More than one head swings in his direction. Women flip their hair and uncross and re-cross their legs as he steps up to the hostess stand.
A shaft of possessiveness lights up inside me, right along with nervous energy and my pounding heart.Back off, bitches. He’s not here for you.
I hear the low rumble of his deep drawl when he speaks to the hostess. She gestures in my direction, and he turns. Piercing blue eyes find me at the table where a lone water glass sits in front of me.
Liquid courage should definitely have been on the menu. Why didn’t I order a drink?
Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought I could handle this.
Now my heart is hammering so loud, my voice will probably be inaudible, or even worse—quaver when I speak.
Logan walks toward me with long, sure strides. He’s taller than I realized. And broader. Andbigger.Everywhere. He’s wearing a black Henley that stretches across his chest, leaving no doubt of the fact that the man is built. And his jeans. Jesus. They’re worn and snug in all the right places.
The picture I found was clearly not recent, and it’s not just the fact that his brown hair is longer and shaggier. He’s one of those men who agewell.
Logan stops in front of me when he reaches the tall bar table. He says nothing as his gaze drops to the toes of my boots and drags up every inch of my body.
“You’re a hard woman to find.”
His accent is absolutely delicious. The deep timbre reaches all the way to the very core of me, and I find myself uncrossing and re-crossing my legs just like the rest of the women in this bar.
“I gave you the address.” I shoot for casual, and thankfully my voice doesn’t shake.
“And for a guy with a dually truck and a trailer that had to park God knows where, that address was a challenge.”
I swear I feel all the blood drain from my face. “Oh crap. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think—”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m here. You’re here.” He holds out his hand. “Logan Brantley. It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Ms. Banner ...”
It hits me that through all of our texts, I never told him my last name. “Regent.” I slide my hand into his as he closes his wide fingers around it.
“Banner Regent,” he says slowly, trying out my name.
My non-sexy black panties are never going to survive the way it rolls off his tongue in that drawl. All the dirty things I texted him last night are front and center in my mind and my girly parts.
No.I throw up a mental stop sign.
While my brain is being pulled in opposite directions, Logan is waiting for me to reply.
“You’re going to hate tapas,” I blurt out.
“I don’t even know what tapas is.”
“We should get out of here.”