Real Good Man (Real Duet #1)

The drive to New York is a long one and gives me way too much time to think. What the f*ck am I doing?

I wish Banner hadn’t caught my attention the way she has, but how could she not? Smart, sarcastic, confident, and funny as hell. She isn’t looking for a man to take care of her, because she has the world at her fingertips.

So, what can a guy like me possibly offer a woman who has everything? From the turn our messages took last night, it’s clear I have at least one thing to offer her.

She might have been drunk, but that’s when a lot of the truth comes out. I wish I could be a fly on the wall when she reads the messages this morning. Banner didn’t just cross the line. She obliterated it.

I’m not pissed about that, but until I meet her in person, I’m withholding judgment.

My goal for tonight? To have an amazing f*cking time with her, regardless of whether we end up naked or not. And if we do, you better believe I’m going to leave her measuring every guy she’s ever been with against me. That’s what a real man does.

Banner has been radio silent all day, and I’m starting to wonder if she changed her mind. Would it surprise me? Hell yes. Would I let it stand? No way in hell. If she isn’t interested in anything beyond a drink and a meal, that’s her call. But there’s no way I’m going to let her chicken out before I get to introduce myself face-to-face.

Decision made, I turn my attention to the road where it belongs.





Chapter 8


Banner


After Sofia left to go home, I changed my outfit fourteen times, and now it looks like Fifth Avenue threw up all over my bedroom.

What do you wear when you’re trying to prove that you’re not cheap and easy despite your text messages while you were drunk the night before? I’m coming up blank. Six dresses, two pairs of jeans, four skirts, two jumpsuits (what was I thinking when I bought those, anyway?), and countless tanks, shirts, blouses, and sweaters lay strewn across every flat and not-so-flat surface in my bedroom.

Do I go casual? Sexy? Flirty? Boring?

Once again, I wish Greer were here so she could stage a fashion intervention. What would Greer wear?

My best friend is classy to the nth degree, so she’d probably go with one of the more conservative dresses. Or possibly a skirt-and-blouse combo.

But then again, I’m not Greer.

I look down at the dresses on my bed and close my eyes.

“Eeeny, meeny, miney, mo.” I reach out and grab a handful of fabric and decide that whatever it is, I’m going to wear it. I have approximately thirty minutes to finish getting ready, so I need to hurry my ass up.

I open my eyes and look down at what I picked.

A long-sleeved, olive-drab shirt dress with gold buttons and a matching belt. I pulled it out of my closet on a whim while picturing Logan in his uniform.

Do I really want to wear that? It’s probably the least sexy of everything I’ve picked, but maybe that’s exactly why it’s perfect.

Because I’m not going to have sex with Logan Brantley.

I pull it on over plain black lingerie, not even the lacy kind, before straightening everything and tying the belt. I look . . . conservative. It’s like the anti-Banner.

I tell myself unfastening the top button makes it look a little more Banner-ish, but still conservative. Not like when I unfastened the top three buttons while trying it on in the store so the neckline played peekaboo with my bra.

Classic gold accessories complete the look, and my hair is curled in waves down my back. I slip into my favorite knee-high black boots and pull on a black trench coat.

I look very New York.

My reflection hammers home the fact that the guy I’m meeting is the complete opposite of everything New York, which is exactly why I’m so freaking fascinated by him.

Except now I’m not sure I’m going to be able to look him in the eye after the downward spiral my texts took last night. With any other guy, sending flirty or downright dirty messages wouldn’t bother me. That’s who I am—the girl who isn’t afraid to say all those filthy things and follow through on them. But for some reason, what Logan thinks of me actually matters, and I don’t want him to put me in that category.

Then why did I do it?

Because I’m an idiot who shouldn’t be let near a bottle of vodka without adult supervision.

I’m not going for shock value here, which means I’m completely out of my depth. I’ve never wanted to impress someone by just being myself before.

For the love of God, I need to stop with the introspection.

I have to get out of my head, so I clean up my clothing disaster and make sure my bed is made. Why am I bothering? We aren’t sleeping together. Still, I take the time to look over everything again before glancing at the clock.

It’s go time.

*

Why did I pick this place? When I walk into the tapas bar, I question that decision and every other one I’ve made in my life since I got that first text message from Logan Brantley’s number. He isn’t a tapas kind of guy. He’s steak and potatoes and man food. Or even bar food. Anything but tapas.

I’m castigating myself for being an absolute moron and not thinking this through as I allow the hostess to lead me to a table in the front corner where I’ll have a view of the door. I check my phone and the time every thirty seconds.

When it vibrates, I freeze.



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.