“Why?” I challenge. “Why do you like me?”

“Because…” He drags a hand through his dark hair. “You’re fun to be around. You’re smart. Sweet. You make me laugh. Oh, and just the sight of you gets me hard.”

I swallow a laugh. “What else?”

Embarrassment colors his cheeks. “I’m not sure. We don’t know each other very well, but everything I do know about you, I like. And everything I don’t know, I want to find out.”

He sounds so earnest, but a part of me still doesn’t trust him. It’s the hurt and humiliated Grace who almost had sex with him in April. Who told him she was a virgin and then watched him scramble off the bed as if it was covered with ants. Who sat there—naked—while he said he couldn’t sleep with her because he was hung up on somebody else.

As if sensing my doubts, he hurries on in a pleading voice. “Give me another chance. Let me prove to you that I’m not an egocentric ass.”

I hesitate.

“Please. Tell me what’ll it take for you to go out with me, and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”

Well. That’s interesting.

I’m not the type to play games. I’m really not. But I can’t fight this nagging distrust, the cynical voice in my head warning me his intentions might not be pure.

Yet I also can’t bring myself to say no again, because another part of me, the one that loves spending time with this guy, wants me to say yes.

God, maybe I do need him to prove it to me. Maybe I need him to show me how serious he is about dating me. An idea niggles at the back of my mind. It’s a crazy one. Outrageous, even. But hey, if Logan can’t tackle a few simple obstacles, then maybe he doesn’t deserve another shot.

“Anything?” I say slowly.

His blue eyes shine with fortitude. “Anything, gorgeous. Absolutely anything.”

23

Logan

“What rhymes with insensitive?” I tap my pen on the kitchen table, beyond frustrated with my current task. Who knew rhyming was so fucking difficult?

Garrett, who’s dicing onions at the counter, glances over. “Sensitive,” he says helpfully.

“Yes, G, I’ll be sure to rhyme insensitive with sensitive. Gold star for you.”

On the other side of the kitchen, Tucker finishes loading the dishwasher and turns to frown at me. “What the hell are you doing over there, anyway? You’ve been scribbling on that notepad for the past hour.”

“I’m writing a love poem,” I answer without thinking. Then I slam my lips together, realizing what I’ve done.

Dead silence crashes over the kitchen.

Garrett and Tucker exchange a look. An extremely long look. Then, perfectly synchronized, their heads shift in my direction, and they stare at me as if I’ve just escaped from a mental institution. I may as well have. There’s no other reason for why I’m voluntarily writing poetry right now. And that’s not even the craziest item on Grace’s list.

That’s right. I said it. List. The little brat texted me not one, not two, but six tasks to complete before she agrees to a date. Or maybe gestures is a better way to phrase it.

I get it, though. She doesn’t think I’m serious about her and she’s worried I’ll screw it up again. Hell, she probably believes this list of hers will scare me off and we won’t even get to the dating part.

But she’s wrong. I’m not afraid of six measly romantic gestures. Some of them will be tough, sure, but I’m a resourceful guy. If I can rebuild the engine of a ’69 Camaro using only the parts I found in Munsen’s crappy junkyard, then I can certainly write a sappy poem and produce “a quality collage showcasing the personality traits of Grace’s that I find most bewitching.”

“I just have one question,” Garrett starts.

“Really?” Tuck says. “Because I have many.”

Sighing, I put my pen down. “Go ahead. Get it out of your systems.”

Garrett crosses his arms. “This is for a chick, right? Because if you’re doing it for funsies, then that’s just plain weird.”

“It’s for Grace,” I reply through clenched teeth.

My best friend nods solemnly.

Then he keels over. Asshole. I scowl as he clutches his side, his broad back shuddering with each bellowing laugh. And even while racked with laughter, he manages to pull his phone from his pocket and start typing.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

“Texting Wellsy. She needs to know this.”

“I hate you.”

I’m so busy glaring at Garrett that I don’t notice what Tucker’s up to until it’s too late. He snatches the notepad from the table, studies it, and hoots loudly. “Holy shit. G, he rhymed jackass with Cutlass.”

“Cutlass?” Garrett wheezes. “Like the sword?”

“The car,” I mutter. “I was comparing her lips to this cherry-red Cutlass I fixed up when I was a kid. Drawing on my own experience, that kind of thing.”

Tucker shakes his head in exasperation. “You should have compared them to cherries, dumbass.”

He’s right. I should have. I’m a terrible poet and I do know it.

“Hey,” I say as inspiration strikes. “What if I steal the words to “Amazing Grace”? I can change it to…um…Terrific Grace.”

“Yup,” Garrett cracks. “Pure gold right there. Terrific Grace.”