Logan fixed my washer. He also scratched the itch I hadn’t been able to do myself for the past three weeks. I woke up this morning, and he wasn’t there. I wish I could say I was surprised, but I wasn’t. What did surprise me, though, were all the texts on my phone:

* * *

I spend the morning doing laundry. Mom calls to check in on me. Grandma calls to tell me that she’s been thinking about me, that she hopes I’m meeting new people and having the time of my life. I keep her on the phone for as long as she’ll let me. Then I make a list of meals to cook for the next few days. I do everything I can to not think about Logan. Because even though I got a hint of what I saw three weeks ago last night—there was nothing more on his end. He said it plain as day. I was a girl he fucked. Nothing more, nothing else. If I’d met the current version of me a year ago, I’d probably slut-shame myself. But the truth is, there’s nothing wrong with a girl wanting a guy to pleasure her. And there’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing. It’s not as if we’re hurting anyone.

* * *

Two weeks ago, I found a bike on the curb in front of a house I pass on the way to work. It had a sign that read “Free to a good home.” I can’t exactly say that my home is “good,” but I took the bike anyway, left a note in the mailbox letting the previous owners know that I appreciated it. I really did. It was probably manufactured sometime before I was born, but hey—beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, it has a basket on the handlebars that can hold my groceries. Which means that I can buy ingredients for dinner more than just a day in advance. Seriously, I’m so weak I can’t even carry groceries. I remember what Lucy said about needing a man, and I smile to myself as I press down on the button that lifts the garage door. Gripping the handlebars, I wheel the bike out, then press the button again. While I wait for it to lower, I get out my phone, ignore Logan’s texts (not thinking about him) and change Rory to Lucy.

I send her a text:

Sigh.

Because I’m too clingy.

Too needy.

I pocket the phone and take my time peddling toward “downtown.” I stop by my shop, look at it from the outside: large windows, brick walls, enough stationery to last a lifetime. I make a mental note to study product display and merchandising when I get home. And, maybe if I have time, look at opening an online store. Entering the inventory would be insane, but at least I might sell something.

The town is dead on Sundays, besides the few stragglers. I worked this out after opening on Sundays for the first three weeks and not having a single customer.

The grocery store is the same on the inside as it is on the outside. There’s one register open, and I’m pretty sure the old lady behind the counter is asleep. I take a basket from the few they have by the entrance and pull out my list. Then I take my time perusing each aisle, because really? What else is there to do? I don’t see a single person on my walk, and I wonder if everyone is at church. Is church an all-day thing? I’ve never been to church besides three weddings and a funeral (a horrible movie, FYI). I grab everything I need and then head for the freezer section, contemplating whether or not ice cream is a suitable dinner. Fuck yeah, it is. There’s a guy standing at the floor freezer—a guy I hadn’t noticed before—and I slow my steps. Is the ice cream freezer in a grocery store like the men’s urinals? Is it weird if I stand too close? Should I come back? What is ice-cream freezer etiquette? My feet carry me to the other side of the freezer. This seems safe. Less awkward.

The guy looks up, smiles a half smile. He’s probably my age, maybe older, and he’s cute. In that quiet, unassuming way. Not at all like the boy I’m not thinking about.

Chewing my lip, I eye the tubs of ice cream as if they’re a work of art.

The guy hasn’t left, hasn’t made a move to open the sliding door and pick one out.

I glance up, catch him staring at me.

I drop my gaze, try to hide my blush.

“Are you new?” he asks.

“Apparently,” I laugh out.

“Sorry.” I look up to see him shaking his head. “It’s just that I haven’t seen you around before. Where are you staying?”

“Asks the stalker serial killer.”

He chuckles, short and deep. “Sorry,” he says again. “Is it less stalkerish if I ask where you’re coming from?”

I nod. “Raleigh.”

“I live in Raleigh,” he says, thumb pointed to his chest. “Well, sort of. I’m studying at NC State. Living in the dorms.”

“That’s cool. You home for the weekend?”

“Yeah. I don’t get—”

“Dude,” a familiar voice says, and I cringe at the sound. “They finally brought in flavored condoms!” Logan’s walking toward us, his gaze fixed on the back of the packaging. “Mint flavored for extra stimulation,” he reads. Then he looks up, sees me standing there. A cocky smile splits his face in two. “Hey, Red.”

“You know each other?” the guy asks.

Logan raises his eyebrows at me, as if he’s waiting for me to either confirm or deny. I press my lips together.

“I didn’t catch your name?” the guy says.

“Aubrey.”

“Aubrey, huh? Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

“Shut up,” says Logan.

“Hey,” I interrupt. “He can tell me I’m pretty if he wants. It’s not like anyone else does.”

Ugh. Needy. Clingy.

Logan glares at me. “You don’t need anyone telling you you’re pretty, Red.”

The guy chuckles. “I’m Leo.” He thumps the back of Logan’s head. “This punk’s older brother.”

I ask Logan, “Are you related to everyone here?”

Logan readjusts his hat, ignores my question. “Our parents had me because they failed so badly with him.”

Leo shakes his head, focuses his smile on me. “So maybe we can get together sometime, and you can tell me all the good places in Raleigh to see.”

“That sounds—”

“Like a giant fucking snore fest,” Logan cuts in, and Leo’s laughing, silent.

“Call it,” Leo says. I assume he’s talking to Logan because I have no idea what that means.

“This isn’t high school, Lee. I’m not calling shit.”

Leo winks at me, pulls out his phone. “What’s your number, Aubrey? I’ll call you la—”

Logan interrupts, “Let’s get this ice cream and leave.”

Leo says, “I haven’t picked one out yet.”

Without looking, Logan slides the door open, picks out a tub, and slams it against Leo’s chest.

Leo laughs again.

“There,” says Logan. “Now we have one. Let’s go.”

Leo takes the ice cream, glances down at it. “Do you have a death wish?”

“What?” Logan looks as confused as I feel.

“This is Peanut Buttah Cookie Core.”

Logan groans.

Leo looks at me. “So, your number?”

Logan slams the tub of ice cream back in the freezer, picks up another one. “Let’s go.”

“Call it,” Leo tells him. “Or I call her.”

Logan turns his back to me, his shoulders squared.

After a second, Leo’s smile takes up half his face. “I’m sorry, little bro. I couldn’t hear you. What’d you say?”

Logan shakes his head. “Dibs! Okay? I call dibs!”

I frown on the outside, fist pump on the inside. “What the hell, dude! I’m not property,” I say, the same time Leo teeters on his heels, smiles over at me.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Aubrey. Have a pleasant day.”

And then they’re both walking away, Leo laughing, Logan attempting to trip him over with his foot.

I go back to existing, wishing I had a marketing team similar to Ben and Jerry’s because the names for these ice creams are—

A hand tugs on my sleeve, and I follow it up to Logan’s chest. “Hey,” he says.

I meet his eyes. “What’s up?”

“This.” And then he’s kissing me, both hands on my face, forcing me to rise to my toes and release my basket. He’s everywhere around me, inside of me. My eyes open the second I feel him pulling back, but his eyes stay closed a second longer. I kiss him one more time. Quickly. And his lips lift at the corners. “You need a ride home?” he asks.

I shake my head, breathless.

“Sure?”

“I rode here.”

His eyebrow quirks. “On a bike?”

“No. On my gigolo.”

He laughs. “We can put it in the back of my truck. The bike or your gigolo.”

“I’m good,” I tell him. “Honestly, I could do with the exercise.”

He smirks. “Your stamina seems fine to me.” He kisses me again, this time slower, softer, more powerful. He has my back against the freezer, his hands in my hair, my hands wherever they land as long as they land on him.

“Oi!” the store clerk shouts at us.

Logan pulls away, adjusts my clothes, keeps the smile on his beautiful face.

The old lady behind the counter yells, “Quit groping the poor girl, you damn Preston Punk.”

Logan rolls his eyes. “She was groping me!”

I look over at her and nod enthusiastically. “I was totally groping him!”

Logan chuckles, runs his finger along my palm. He doesn’t hold my hand, but he comes pretty damn close. “I’ll see you later?”

“Okay.”

And then I spend the rest of the day failing at my task of not thinking about Logan Preston.