Sidelines (Wounded Hearts #1) (7 page)

Crossing my arms, I let one hip jut out in defiance. “What exactly is it that you hope she didn’t say?”

The sea rolls in his eyes and I suddenly fight the urge to rush to him and hug him. Odd.

“Nothing. There’s nothing to be said there.”

“Why do I doubt that?”

“Don’t push it, Allie.” I sigh as he starts to return his attention back to the bottles on the counter in front of him. His head snaps back up at the sound of my heavy exhale. “Something wrong?”

“Honestly, yes. But I have no wish or desire to start this evening off on the wrong foot, so I’ll let it go. For now.”

He puts the paper down on the counter and sighs himself. I’m beginning to understand that when he runs his hand through his scruffy, dark hair that it’s his attempt at becoming reasonable again. “Allie.” He doesn’t say anything, but a myriad of emotions cross his face all at once, the first sign of me finally getting under his skin.

“Yes, Logan.”

He stares at me with what looks like exhaustion for a moment longer before he glances down at Hank. When he looks back up at me, his face is stolid again. “How does some Mexican sound for dinner?”

Of all the things I thought he was going to say, that was not it. “Mexican? Is it some gourmet, high protein, low carb recipe you have stashed around here for when you want to cheat on your mean green smoothie diet?”

A sly smile tugs at his lips and I mentally smack myself for being so glib after I just said I wanted things to go smoother tonight.

“Oh it’s a cheat on my diet for sure. But I wouldn’t call it gourmet, unless you call authentic, fully loaded, high-carb, high sodium, and high protein Mexican ‘gourmet.’ I honestly couldn’t do this place justice.”

My heart nearly skips a beat at the idea of getting out of here for an evening. But then I remember why I stuck around this afternoon and my hopes are all dashed. “But what about Hank? Is he okay to be left alone?”

Logan’s pursed lips twitch slightly as he glances down at the poor baby who is watching us banter as if it’s an exciting ping pong match. “We’ll take him with us and bring it back here. We can watch film while we eat, if you don’t mind.”

I try to ignore the fact that in my book, this plan of food and a football film is what I’d call a “perfect date.” I’m not going on a date with Logan Lassiter though, let alone a perfect one.

“I don’t mind at all.” I check my watch, wondering if it’s too early to call it dinner time. The late afternoon sun is starting to descend and since I slept through lunch time, my stomach is about to eat itself.

“Okay, let me shower and check in with Travis. I’ll call in our order and we’ll go pick it up in about an hour. That sound okay?”

I say, “yes,” as my stomach growls a loud “no.” Hank snorts as if he’s laughing at me. I give the peanut gallery a condescending look but he stands and comes rubbing up against my leg as if to tell me he still likes me, weird stomach noises and all. When I look up, I think I see Logan smirk as he reaches up into a cabinet and pulls a box out. Without any warning a protein bar is flying at my face. I catch the bar and give Logan an appreciative smile.

He chuckles. “I won’t take long.”

Chapter Seven

Flipping through the three hundredth channel of nothingness, the back door finally opens. Hank and I both perk up as Logan struts back into the living room in a pair of fitted jeans and a faded, vintage Rattlers t-shirt.

“You guys ready?”

I don’t know who gets up faster, me or Hank. I pick him up though, not wanting him to strain himself trying to get off the couch again. He takes off as soon as his paws touch the ground, making a break for his master. Logan leans down to scratch the top of his head causing Hank’s dripping tongue to loll out the side of his mouth.

“She’s spoiling you, you know. When she leaves, it’s back to your own chair again, you know.” The dog snorts at him again before leading the way to the front door.

“Am I doing something I’m not supposed to?” I ask as I follow the waddling pooch.

“Nope.” His lazy smile tells me I am but he either doesn’t care or he’s trying to be as civil as I am. The poor dog just had surgery though, I think he deserves a little spoiling.

We all walk down the porch toward Logan’s big black truck when Hank turns around and looks up at us expectantly, I reach down and pick up the hunk and carry him to my side of the truck. It isn’t until I try to juggle him that I realize that Logan has followed us to open the door for us.

“Thanks,” I say, still trying to decide how I’m going to climb up into the beast of a vehicle with the fifty pound pup in my arms.

“Here.” He holds his arms out for Hank. In the process of handing him over, our arms get tangled up, sending those zings through my body. I watch as Logan’s thick chest expands, making me wonder if he’s having the same reaction. I shake the thought from my head and gracelessly dump the dog in his arms. I turn and try not to climb into the truck without sticking a butt or leg or foot in Logan’s face. Knowing he’s watching my every move makes it hard for my graceful tendencies to make an appearance.

By the time I get settled into my seat, brush the mess of hair that falls in my face in the process, and reach out for Hank, Logan’s face is alight with amusement.

“What?” I ask a little to harshly.

“Nothing. Here.” He lays Hank in my lap, one hand brushing the top of my knee and I can’t help the gasp that escapes my lips. Embarrassed, my eyes find Logan’s in time to watch that strong jaw of his tick. He shuts my door a moment later and I watch him circle back around to the driver’s side, his hand brushing through his dark curls just before he reaches for his own door. He pauses and I look down to find Hank’s black eyes watching me amusedly.

“It’s gonna be a long night, handsome.” I ruffle his ears and he licks his jowls in appreciation.

Logan gets in unceremoniously and immediately rolls his window down. Hank shuffles in my lap so that he can put his front paws on the door panel. Before I know what’s going on, my window is sliding down and Hank leans up to let his fur fly in the wind.

“Just so you know, he drools when he does that.”

I shift toward the middle console and get the honor of hearing Logan actually laugh. I try not to let the tug in my stomach get to me as the wind blows around us, but feeling a laid back Logan next to me and smelling his unique scent of soap and outdoors has my brain swirling.

“So, Mexican…” I try to make conversation but thoughts and questions tug at my conscious. My brain is telling me that now is not the time for my investigative side to make an appearance.

Logan nods silently, not giving me anything.

“Why Mexican?”

His fingers tighten over the steering wheel. “Is this on the record?”

“Maybe. Are your reasons for wanting ethnic food article worthy?”

He shoots me an unamused glare from across the console and I suddenly have no qualms with getting drooled on if it means that I don’t have to sit so closely to Mr. Inscrutable.

“It’s my favorite. It may seem cliché, especially since we live so closely to the border, but it…” he swallows as if the words get stuck inside are hard to say. “It feels like home.”

I want to gape at him, but I’m trying really hard not to scream, “was that so hard to say?” Logan’s thoughts are locked up tighter than Fort Knox.

“It might be article worthy.” I say instead.

His hard exhale tells me that wasn’t what he wanted to hear, so I decide to give him some slack. “Hmm. I think I can say the same about my favorite food.”

He’s so quiet for a second that I don’t think he’s going to take the bait. “What is your favorite food?”

I smile. “Bacon.” He laughs again, and so do I. “Well actually, that’s my second favorite. You’re going to think my first is dumb though.”

He glances over and props an arm on the console, clearly intrigued. “You can’t just say that and not explain.”

This is where I have to hold my tongue from saying something stupid like, “Why? You do the exact same thing.” But instead I busy my hands with petting Hank and suck it up.

“Nachos.”

He smiles curiously and pulls a pair of aviator shaded from from a cubby under the dash. “That doesn’t seem dumb. This place makes the best nachos—”

“Oh, I’m sure their nachos are great, but they won’t be the kind I love.”

His brows furrow as he glances at me again.

“I’m talking stadium nachos. With extra salty chips and creamy cheese sauce.” The thought of all the different nachos I’ve tried over the years makes me moan embarrassingly.

“You mean the stuff with the fake cheese?” I’d be offended by Logan’s disgusted tone if I didn’t know about his knack for all foods healthy.

“Yep. That’s the stuff. Healthy or not, it’s my comfort food.”

Logan purses his lips together, obviously unsure of what to say to my confession. “So nachos with fake cheese sauce…”

“Oh, yeah. Some stadiums ruin it but most do a pretty good job. Baton Rouge has these shrimp nachos, oh my word! Talk about heaven. But the lobster nachos in Portland, ugh!”

“So you don’t like seafood?” Logan turns onto the main strip of the town and slows. He waves to an older couple strolling hand in hand down the sidewalk.

“Oh, I love seafood, just not lobster with fake cheese sauce.”

He chortles at my comment, but I’m being dead serious. It was totally gross.

“So which stadium has the best nachos?”

I have to think about it for a few minutes. “It’s a tie. Baton Rouge, this tiny college in Missouri, and San Antonio.”

He slows to a stop at the only working stoplight on Main Street and looks surprisingly at me. “We do?”

“Oh yeah! The chili is total artery clogging-worthy and the pickled jalapenos…Mmm.”

He presses the gas pedal when the light turns green and shakes his head. He’s quiet while I try to keep my stomach under control. I don’t have to wait long though because just as soon as I think we’ve hit the outskirts of town and are going to have to wait another thirty minutes to reach society again, a tiny building surrounded by a small mass of vehicles comes into view. Logan slows the truck and pulls into the dirt drive, dust kicking up behind us, and Hank gets antsy in my lap. He shifts and props himself on the console, expectantly watching Logan’s every move.

“I’ll be right back.” He puts the truck in park and I try not to pout as he hops out and makes his way toward the front door of the quaint little restaurant.

“Maybe dogs and sports reporters are not allowed?” I mumble when Hank sinks his head to rest on his paws. He snorts and his whole body shakes while I continue to run my fingers over his short coat.

A few moments later, Logan steps back out of the building carrying two large, stuffed, white plastic sacks with a laugh on his face. The two older gentlemen he walks out with wear matching smiles until they see me waiting in Logan’s truck, snuggling with his dog.

“Got a real pretty date there, Logan.” One man wearing faded denim overalls over a short sleeved, red and blue plaid pearl snap shirt gives Logan an exaggerated wink. Logan glances my way, the blush on his cheeks clearly noticeable before shaking his head.

“It’s not what it looks like, boys. Miss Mooreland and I are just going to watch some football films and eat some of Maria’s world famous enchiladas.” He opens the back passenger side door and sets the sacks in the floor board, trying his hardest to hide a shy smile.

“Sounds like a mighty fine date to me,” the other, thinner man in tight jeans and a wide brim cowboy hat says with a lazy smile on his face.

“Me too,” I murmur while Logan shuts the door. His head jerks back to stare wide-eyed at me through the open windows. I shrug.

“This is not a date,” he says a little too unconvincingly.

“Cool your jets there, Lassiter. I have no delusions of this being anything other than a business dinner.” I shake my head and pull my sunglasses over my eyes. He stares a moment longer while the two good ole boys snicker and make their way to their own dusty farm trucks.

“Got yourself a fiesty one there, Logan. Have fun on your non-date.” Laughter is diced up by truck doors slamming shut while Logan shakes his head and makes his way around the front of the truck. He glares at me as he climbs into the truck and turns the key, getting the engine to roar to life.

“What was that about?” he asks before he puts the truck in reverse.

I shrug again. “Most girls love going to dinner and a movie, being paraded downtown to be toted around like arm candy. Me? I’d much rather pig out on good food while watching a game. I’ve never done the traditional tailgate or SuperBowl party thing, so it’s kind of a big deal for me to watch a game without having to talk to stinky, sweaty boys afterward.”

He doesn’t respond to my answer as he takes us back through the town. He waves at a few people when we stop at the stoplight again, but it isn’t until we pull back onto his driveway that he speaks to me again.

“Do you have a favorite team?”  He rubs his chin with his forefinger and thumb, his jaw tight.

“There are teams I enjoy watching more than others, but I don’t think I can say love one team over another. I do have favorite players, though.”

His eyes dart my way before he makes the small curve around the end of the house and puts the truck in park. Instead of climbing out, he turns his body to me, a question churning through his mind and causing him some severe unease.

“You want to know if you make the list?” I ask, pulling Hank to me. Logan doesn’t say anything, just cocks his head to the side and watches at me straight-faced. “I try not to favor existing players. You’d have to retire to actually make that list. There are some players I like to watch play, though, because of their astounding athleticism or because they prove themselves to be good guys on and off the field. I can honestly say I love watching you play. There are some that I like to interview because they always seem to have good things to say and don’t try to make themselves look like some hotshot, even if they are the MVP of a game. Aside from our recent interviews, I’ve never had any problems with our post game interactions.”

He nods, face still unreadable, as he sits a moment longer mulling over my answer. Without another word, he exits the truck and I can’t help but exhale slowly as I hug Hank one more time. He gives my hand a slobbery kiss just as Logan opens my door.

“I’m sorry for my attitude during our last couple of interviews,” he says, one arm laying against the door. “I really don’t mean to be so difficult.”

A timid smile pulls at my lips because I think he honestly believes what he’s saying. He honestly does not mean to come off as a pompous jerk.

“I think I get that. I just wish you’d trust me a bit more. I’m really not here to make you out to be some bad guy, Logan.”

He nods gently as he reaches in and grabs Hank off my lap before putting him down on the ground. Hank waddles up the steps while Logan turns back to face me. Curiosity and something else swim in those sea blue eyes of his. When he steps back and holds out a hand for me, I hesitate to take it, remembering the jolts I’ve gotten the last couple of times we’ve touched.

As if sensing the reason behind my uncertainty, he cracks a small smile. “Come on, I’ve got you.”

I suck in a breath and take his hand, the tingles curling and wrapping their way up my arm and into my chest. Whatever that is about, it needs to stop.

He doesn’t let go of my hand when my feet touch the ground, making me look up to find out why. “You’re my favorite person to talk to after a game.”

Those tingles must have some trigger that turns my filter off because before I can explain to myself all the reasons why I shouldn’t ask, I do. “Why?”

His lips twitch and his grip on my hand tightens a bit. “You’re way prettier than any of those guys who bombard me with twenty meaningless questions after a grueling game.”

The backhanded comment shocks me, taking all my words away from me and causing my jaw to hang open. He chuckles and finally lets go of my hand before reaching behind me and closing the truck door.

“Come on, Miss Mooreland. We have your dream date ahead of us.” He takes off up the steps and holds open the door to let Hank in first while I stand there and watch Logan’s Jekyll side come out to play.