Bryn: But the evidence on my phone points to only one thing.
Bryn: You have a foot fetish.
Bryn: Or possibly I do. Because last night . . . I sent you THREE PICS OF MY FEET.
Bryn: Can we pretend that didn’t happen?
I sink back into the pillows, laughing out loud, my chest warm, a smile spreading across my face, and it’s barely eight. Queen Of Tofu pads across the bed, curling up next to my head.
Logan: Nope. I have the pics. And it definitely happened.
Bryn: *groans*
Logan: But feel free to even things out by sending pics of other body parts.
Logan: Also, I did NOT just say that. I’m trying to behave.
Logan: Ignore that. Ignore that wholly inappropriate request.
Bryn: Ha! I can’t ignore it. I have the evidence. Also, here you go.
An image lands on my screen. Of her ear. The edge of it, a few locks of her chestnut strands curling over it. And fuck me, but it makes me smile. And I’m not grinning because I can recall how her hair felt in my hands. I am grinning because it’s such a random, unexpected shot.
Logan: I can honestly say that’s the first ear shot I’ve ever received.
Bryn: Well. Where’s mine? *waiting*
I do something I never thought I’d do. I snap a picture of my ear. And I send it to the woman I’m definitely falling for.
Bryn: Do you have glasses???? I see one of the arms, I think.
Logan: Um. Yeah. Reading glasses.
Bryn: I NEED A PICTURE. OF YOUR FACE. IN GLASSES.
Logan: Right now?
Bryn: No, tomorrow.
Bryn: Yes, right now.
I do as the woman asks, my chest flipping in a funny way. But as I snap a photo of myself, this feeling becomes clear. It’s warm and bubbly, like that first sip of champagne. It’s . . . infatuation. And hell, do I ever like it. It’s something I haven’t felt in a long time.
All at once, I’m a man who’s been in the dark for years, and the light’s suddenly turned on. I want to see everything I’ve missed. Every possibility.
Bryn: I’m not even sure where to start, Mr. Smolder. But that is the most smoldering shot ever.
Logan: Yeah, right. I just woke up, my hair is a mess, and there is a cat on my head.
Bryn: Exactly. Your hair is sticking up in twenty-five directions, you’re wearing a cat, and you have Clark Kent glasses. Shut the front door.
Logan: The glasses are simply because I’m more farsighted than any thirty-two-year-old should be.
Bryn: The glasses are sexy. That’s all. Plain and simple.
Logan: So it wasn’t just the wine last night that had you sending me all those texts?
Bryn: Hush. I can hold my wine, thank you very much. It was not the wine talking then or now. You are endearing. Especially in those glasses.
My heart speeds up, slamming against my chest. Dangerously. But deliciously too. It’s like another light goes on, illuminating even more. I want all this light she’s bringing to me. This spark. This possibility.
Logan: Honestly, when I saw your first message this morning, I thought you were serious. That I was a liar. And I was scrambling to figure out what I could have lied about. Because I don’t want to be that guy. And I hate lies.
Bryn: Me too.
Logan: I know people say this, but I mean it. Honesty is the most important thing to me. I didn’t have it with Stacey. And I want to practice it. (Hence why I said what I said to you at Dr. Insomnia’s.)
Bryn: I’m with you, Logan. So, let me start by saying this—your face makes me happy. Your glasses are sexy and make you look real. And you are the easiest guy to talk to because nothing feels like a line. You sort of move fluidly between being smolderingly sexy and painfully blunt. And it’s wonderful.
Logan: Painfully blunt doesn’t sound wonderful.
Bryn: It is. I assure you, I like blunt. It’s such a welcome change.
Logan: Was your ex manipulative?
Bryn: He was . . . delightful and not delightful at the same time. Delightful and wonderful when I got to know him. But once we were together, he was wildly jealous.
Logan: In what way?
