The Mistake

If I had a dictionary on me, I would’ve opened it to the H’s, passed it to Jess, and forced her to read the definition of HYPOCRITE.


Luckily, my phone buzzes before I give in and hurl a bitchy retort her way.

When I see Logan’s name on the screen, my heart does an involuntary flip. I’m tempted to hop up on the table and wave the phone around to prove to everyone in Carver Hall that contrary to what Piper Stevens has posited, John Logan is “aware of my existence.” But I resist the urge, because unlike some people, I don’t need a dictionary reminder—I already know the meaning of futile.

Logan’s message is short.

Him: Where u at?

I quickly type back, Dining hall.

Him: Which 1?

Me: Carver.

No response. Okay then. I’m not sure what the point of that conversation was, but his consequent silence has a dampening effect on my already flailing self-confidence. I’ve been dying to talk to him since last night, but he hasn’t called, texted, or attempted to make plans. And finally he gets in touch and this is the result? Two questions followed by crickets?

I’m horrified to realize I’m on the verge of tears. I’m not sure who I’m even upset with. Logan? Piper? Ramona? Myself? But it doesn’t matter. I refuse to cry in the middle of the dining hall, or give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me rush out five minutes after I got here. The girls at the neighboring table haven’t stopped smirking since I sat down, and I can still feel them watching me. I can’t make out a word of their hushed discussion, but when I glance over, all five of them quickly avert their gazes.

Ignore them.

Although my appetite has disappeared right along with my self-esteem, I force myself to eat my dinner. Every last bite, shoving stir-fry down my throat while pretending to care about Ramona and Jess’s conversation, which has blessedly shifted to a topic that doesn’t involve me.

Fifteen minutes. That’s how long I last before I can no longer take it. My eyes are actually sore from the incessant blinking required to staunch the threatening flow of tears.

I’m about to scrape my chair back and feed my friends an excuse about needing to study when they both fall silent. Jess literally stops talking mid-sentence. The table beside us has gone suspiciously quiet, as well.

Ramona looks like she’s fighting a smile as she peers past my shoulders in the direction of the door.

Frowning, I shift in my chair, turn my head—and find Logan standing there.

“Hey,” he says easily.

I’m so surprised to see him that all I can manage is a dumbfounded look. With me sitting down and him looming over me, he appears even bigger than usual. A Briar hockey jersey stretches across his massive shoulders, his dark hair windblown and cheeks flushed with exertion, as if he was just out for a run.

Our gazes lock for one heart-stopping moment, and then he does the absolute last thing I expect.

He leans down and kisses me.

On the mouth. With tongue.

Right there in the dining hall.

When he pulls back, I’m gratified to find that Ramona and Jess are slack-jawed—and so are the girls at the next table.

Not feeling so chatty anymore, are you?

I’m still basking in the glow of victory when Logan flashes me that crooked grin I love so much. “Are you ready to go, gorgeous?”

We didn’t have plans. He knows that and I know that, but I’m not about to let anyone else know it.

So I play along by answering, “Yep.” I start to get up. “Let me just bring back this tray.”

“Don’t worry about it—I’ll do it.” He plucks the tray out of my hands, says, “Nice to see you again, Ramona,” and then plants another kiss on my lips before striding toward the tray return counter.

Every female in the room admires the way his black cargo pants hug his spectacular ass. Myself included.

Snapping out of my butt-leering trance, I turn to my friends, who still look dazed. “Sorry to eat and run, but I have plans tonight.”

Logan comes back a moment later, and I paste on the brightest smile I can muster as he takes my hand and leads me out of the dining hall.


The second I slide into the passenger seat of his pickup truck, the dam I’ve struggled to keep intact all evening shatters to pieces. As the tears spill over, I make a frantic attempt to wipe them away with my sleeves before he notices.

But it’s too late.

“Aw, hey, don’t cry.” He quickly reaches inside the center console and pulls out a travel pack of tissues.

Damn it, I can’t believe I’m bawling in front of him. I sniffle as he hands me the pack. “Thank you.”

“No prob.”

“No, not just for the tissues. Thank you for showing up and rescuing me. This whole day has been so humiliating,” I mumble.

He sighs. “I guess you saw that Twitter feed.”

My embarrassment triples. “Just so you know, I haven’t been going around and telling everyone about us. The only person who knows we hooked up is Ramona.”

“Obvs. She was there at the movies.” His smile is reassuring. “Don’t worry, you didn’t strike me as the type to B&B.”