Page 2 of Viking

“Oh yeah? How so?”

“Let’s play twenty questions.”

I snort. “Are you twelve?”

“I’m twenty-six. Is that really your first question?” He glances at the bartender, who smiles too brightly at him and rushes over. Of course she does. “What are you drinking?”

I lean closer than I need to. “Mojito, please.”

“And a Yuengling, please,” he adds.

“Fine. What’s your name?”

“Logan.” He offers his hand.

“Lila.” I take it.

The second our skin touches, a current zips up my arm. His grip is firm and warm, his palm rough and capable.

“Lila! Are you going to introduce us, or are we supposed to just watch this unfold like a Hallmark movie?” Alinna calls from the table, earning high fives and hoots from the rest of the girls.

Mortification heats my cheeks. I glance back to Logan, ready for the moment to break, but he just leans closer, voice low. “Should I introduce myself to your fan club, or do you want to save me the trouble?”

My lips twitch. “Ignore them, they’re just nosy,” I say loudly enough for the girls to hear.

He flashes a lethal smile their way, then turns his attention—his full attention—back to me.

The bartender drops our drinks in front of us. “Thanks. Keep it open,” he tells her, card down, already committed.

“Thank you, Logan.”

“You’re welcome, Lila.” My name sounds different when he says it, like maybe it’s meant for more than just introductions.

“What do you do?” A barstool opens beside me and he gestures for me to sit. I smooth my ridiculously over-the-top dress down before sliding onto the seat. Ivy came home one day flashing a ring and announcing, without warning, that we were all going on a bachelorette trip which she aptly dubbed “Femme Fatale.” Think Vegas showgirl meets Met Gala. It’s very Ivy—equal parts impulsive, over the top, and completely unbothered by logistics. I’m not sure if she’s always been this way or if her new fiancé just brings out her wilder side, but lately, she’s been hard to keep up with. As maid of honor, I was under strict orders to commit. So here I am. Smoky eyes, sky-high heels, and a dress that sparkles like I’m trying to outshine the Strip itself. I tug at the hem again as I sit, hyper-aware of just how much leg I’m showing. It’s a little more revealing than I’d normally go for. A little louder. A little more Ivy.

But tonight’s not about subtlety.

And for some reason, Logan’s gaze makes me forget why I ever preferred it.

“I just graduated college a few months ago. I’m an event planner. I was offered a job coordinating for military contracts. I started last month.”

His eyebrows lift, interest sparking. “Military, huh? You’ll be sick of guys like me in no time.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Well”—he shrugs, casually—“I’m Air Force.”

I nearly choke on my mojito.

He nods toward a table a few spots over. “Those are my buddies.”

They’re rowdy, loud, and several are watching us. One of them—blond, grinning, a little drunk—climbs onto a chair and cups his hands like a megaphone.

“Viking! Introduce us to your friend!”

Logan rolls his eyes, but smiles.

“Viking?” I ask, eyebrow arched.