My mouth snaps shut.

Is she right?

As her words sink in, my muddled brain quickly runs through the fantasies I’ve had about Hannah these past few months, and…well, if I’m being honest, most of them haven’t been sexual. I mean, a few have, because I’m a guy and she’s hot. And she’s also around all the time, therefore providing me with readily available images for my spank bank. But aside from a few naked fantasies, I usually picture PG scenarios. Like I’ll see her and Garrett snuggling on the couch and wish I was in his place.

But…am I wishing I’m in his place with her, or in his place in general?

“Look, I like you, Logan. I really do. You’re funny and sweet, and you’re a sarcastic jackass, which is a quality I happen to love in a guy. But you don’t…” She looks uncomfortable. “…make my heart pound—I guess that’s the best way to put it. No, not even that.” Her voice takes on a faraway note. “When I’m with Garrett, my whole world comes alive. I’m so full of emotion I feel like my heart will overflow, and I know this is going to sound like an exaggeration or maybe kind of obsessive, but sometimes I think I need him more than I need food or oxygen.” She gazes into my eyes. “Do you need me more than oxygen, Logan?”

I gulp.

“Am I the last person you think about when you go to bed and the first one you think about when you wake up?”

I don’t answer.

“Am I?” she pushes.

“No.” My voice comes out hoarse. “You’re not.”

Fucking hell.

She might be right. All this time I’ve been feeling guilty about wanting my best friend’s girl, but I think what I really wanted was my best friend’s relationship. Someone to spend time with. Someone who turns me on and makes me laugh. Someone who makes me…happy.

Like Grace?

The mocking thought slices into my mind like a damn lightsaber.

Shit.

Yeah, someone like Grace. Someone exactly like Grace, with her Ted Bundy rants and her calming presence and—hello, irony.

I broke up with her to avoid getting into a serious relationship with her, and now it turns out that’s what I wanted all along.

“Damn it. I…screwed up.” I rub my eyes, groaning softly.

“That’s not true. We’re good, Logan. I promise.”

“No, I didn’t screw up with us. I ended it with a really great girl tonight because I was so messed up in the head about all this.”

“Aw, shit.” She eyes me sympathetically. “Why don’t you call her and tell her you changed your mind?”

“She kicked me out.” I groan again. “There’s no way she’ll pick up the phone if I call.”

We’re interrupted by Garrett’s voice from the hall. “Seriously, Wellsy, how long does it take you to get a glass of water? Do I need to show you how to use the sink, because if so, that’s just sad—” He quits talking the second he spots me. “Oh hey, man. I didn’t know you were home.”

I hastily slide off the chair and hop to my feet, but it does nothing to ease the suspicion in Garrett’s eyes. Which triggers a fresh rush of guilt. Jesus, does he think something happened between us? Does he honestly believe I’d ever, ever make a move on his girl?

The fact that I’m even wondering that tells me the state of our friendship is even more precarious than I’d thought.

Swallowing hard, I shuffle over to him. “Listen…I’m sorry I’ve been such a dick lately. I was…distracted.”

“Distracted,” he echoes skeptically.

I nod.

He keeps staring at me.

“My head’s on straight now. Honest.”

Garrett peers past me, and although I can’t see Hannah’s face, whatever passes between them causes his broad shoulders to relax. Then he grins and slaps me on the arm. “Well, thank God. Because I was seriously considering promoting Tuck to the number one best friend slot.”

“Are you kidding? Big mistake, G. He’s a terrible wingman. Have you seen his beard?”

“I know, right?”

And just like that, we’re good again. Seriously, chicks need to take a lesson from dudes when it comes to burying the hatchet. We know our shit.

“Anyway, I need to make a call,” I tell him. “Night, guys.”

I’m already pulling up Grace’s number as I dart out of the kitchen and head for the stairs. Texting isn’t an option. I want her to hear my voice. I want her to hear how agonized I am about everything that went down tonight.

To my frustration, the dial tone rings and rings and rings before switching over to voice mail.

The second time I call, it goes straight to voice mail, which tells me she most likely pressed the ignore button.

Crap.

With a crushing sense of defeat, I open a new message and shoot her a text asking if we could talk.

Then I go upstairs and wait.

14

Logan

It’s past midnight, and still no word from Grace. I’ve sent her three texts already, and now I’m lying on top of my bedspread, staring up at the ceiling and valiantly fighting the urge to send a fourth.

Three messages borders on desperation.

Four would just be pathetic.

Fuck, I wish she would text back. Or call. Or anything. At this point, I’d be thrilled if a carrier pigeon tapped its beak on my window and delivered a handwritten letter done in perfect calligraphy.