Page 32 of Half Truths (Secret Society 1)
“That looked intense,” Max said.
I shrugged, noncommittal. By the time we were shown to our table, I was starving. We followed behind the perky hostess and were seated right beside Logan. Of course. That would be my luck. The tables in this place were set in a way that it was as if you were having dinner with the entire restaurant—tiny tables with such a small separation between them that they seemed more like a giant table that sat forty people at once. Max stood back as if he preferred the lone seat on the other side. I stood beside him because I did not want to share the booth with Logan. Logan was oblivious because he was too busy leaning into the girl beside him to look up and realize I was standing there. I swore under my breath, blood simmering, as I stepped forward and sat in the booth. I bumped him with my purse as I sat down. At least I had a shield between us, albeit a small one.
“You were finally seated,” he said.
Ignoring him, I picked up my oversized menu and focused on it. He was being a jerk tonight. He’d been so nice this morning, letting me sleep in his bed, where he supposedly had no germs. Looking at the three girls he was with I assumed that was highly doubtful. I shook that thought away and focused on the words in front of me—ham croquettes sounded good. Sangria! I could totally go for a sangria right now.
“I know two things I want.” I set down the menu and looked at Max, across from me. “Do you know what you want?”
“I know what I want,” Logan said beside me. I turned my head toward him. It was a mistake. Hazy, lustful eyes met mine, making my stomach flip flop.
“I didn’t ask you.”
“You might be interested in hearing it though.” He scooted over a little. My hand shot to my purse, keeping it upright. My shield.
“Why are you talking to me?” I gripped my purse. “You have three beautiful women at your table.”
“But you’re in this one.”
“Logan.” I gaped at him. “I’m here with someone.”
“On a date?” His arm moved and suddenly I felt his fingers caressing my knuckles. I tightened them more, hating the way my entire body seemed to come alive to his touch, hating the way I swayed a little toward him. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”
“Huh?” I yanked my hand from beneath his reach and confined myself to the small area I was allotted.
“Hey, Paper Boy,” he said, looking at Max, whose face was hidden behind his menu.
He glanced over it. “What?”
“You do know Amelia has a boyfriend, right?”
“I do not have a boyfriend.” I frowned. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“Yeah, you do.” Logan’s eyebrows furrowed. “Tall, black guy.”
“You mean Travis,” I said.
“I didn’t catch his name.”
“Well, his name is Travis.”
“And what exactly is Travis to you, if not your boyfriend? Friend with benefits?”
“What he is to me is exactly none of your fucking business,” I snapped, picking my menu back up. What the hell was taking this waitress so long? “Mind your harem and leave Max and I alone.”
“My harem,” he repeated, his eyes alight with amusement. “You really are stuck on that.”
“And you’re drunk and obnoxious. Please let us eat our dinner in peace.”
His eyes searched mine for a beat, then two, seconds that flew by, but felt like an eternity when he was looking at me like that from this close. Finally, without another word, he backed up and started eating whatever was in front of him. I exhaled. Max raised an eyebrow. I shook my head in response, hoping he could sense that I was just as annoyed as he was.
As I scanned the menu, trying really hard not to focus on his presence, one of the girls started laughing loudly, making a show out of whatever he was saying. My hands gripped the paper menu. Finally, the waitress came by and took our orders. When she left, I felt myself ease up a little. Logan stayed on his side of the booth, and I stayed on the other side of my purse.
Max started talking to me about the job he had lined up in Philadelphia, a newspaper where his older brother worked and he’d managed to interview with. It was pretty much in the bag for him. He hoped to work his way up in sports journalism specifically. I told him about how I really wanted to work for an esteemed journal, writing significant stories, but how my father expected me to join in on the family business and I wasn’t sure how things would ultimately play out.
“Maybe your dad can buy a newspaper and you can write for the paper.”
“Oh my God.” I laughed.
“What? I’m sure he can buy one.”
