“Well, fuck a duck,” comes Morris’s delighted voice.

I jerk in surprise, then spin around to glare at him for sneaking up on me from behind. Judging by the amusement dancing in his eyes, it’s obvious he peeked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of the photo I’d been drooling over.

“I was wondering how he’d pull that one off,” Morris remarks, still grinning like a fool. “Shouldn’t have doubted him, though. That dude is an unstoppable force of nature.”

I narrow my eyes. “He told you about the picture?”

“About the whole list, actually. We hung out last night—Lorris is close to taking over Brooklyn, by the way—and he was moaning and groaning about not being able to track down a red velvet couch.” Morris shrugs. “I offered to throw a red blanket on the sofa in my common room and take some pictures, but he said you’d consider that cheating and deprive him of your love.”

Stifling a sigh, I shove the phone in my purse, then walk over to the mini-fridge across the room and grab a bottle of water. I twist off the cap, doing my best to ignore the sheer enjoyment Morris is getting out of this.

“I wish I was gay,” he says ruefully.

A snicker pops out. “Uh-huh. Go on. I’m willing to follow you down this rabbit hole and see where it leads.”

“Seriously, Gretch, I love him. I have a boner for him.” Morris sighs. “If I’d known he existed, I wouldn’t have asked you out in the first place.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re awesome, and I’d tap that in a second. But I can’t compete with this guy. He’s operating on a whole other level when it comes to you.”

It’s funny—after our brief, ill-fated foray into dating, Morris and I have become even closer friends. Sometimes the lingering guilt about kissing Logan at the Sigma party still arises, but Morris won’t let me apologize for it anymore. He insists that one measly date doesn’t count as either a relationship, or the committing of adultery, and I think he means it. I also think it’s probably better that we didn’t start anything up, because I’ve started noticing the way he looks at Daisy, and I’m pretty sure she’s the one he really wants to “tap.”

As for me? I want that date with Logan more than anything else in this world, and I regret all this hoop jumping, because honestly, he won me over the second he sent me that poem. And clearly he wants this date as much as I do, otherwise he wouldn’t have put so much effort into the most kickass collage I’ve ever seen. And the origami hearts. And soggy, near-death roses that he used food coloring to turn blue.

And now the boudoir photo? His determination is downright inspiring.

“You know what,” I say slowly. “I feel bad making him do all this stuff when we both know I’m saying yes to the date. I think I should tell him not to bother with the last item.”

“Don’t,” Morris says instantly.

My forehead furrows. “Why not?”

“Purely selfish reasons.” He chuckles. “I’m curious to see what he comes up with.”

I press my lips together to fight a laugh. “Honestly? So am I.”

*

Logan

Two days after fate delivers the red velvet chaise lounge into my life, I speed off the highway ramp and drive toward Hastings, with Garrett sitting quietly in the passenger seat. Neither of us said much during the one-hour return trip from Wilmington, though we probably have different reasons for our silence. Me, I can’t stop thinking about the arena we drove past on our way to the restaurant. It was nothing like the splendor of TD Garden. Just a large, nondescript building, similar to any old arena you might find in New England.

And yet I’d sell my soul to the fucking devil for a chance to wake up every morning and practice there.

I pull into our driveway, but leave the engine running as I glance at Garrett. “Thanks for doing that, man. I owe you big.” I pause. “I know you don’t like relying on your dad’s connections.”

He shrugs. “Mikey’s my godfather. I was using my own connections.” But I know he hated making that call. Godfather or not, NHL legend Mikey Hanson is still Phil Graham’s best friend, and Garrett has spent most of his life trying to separate himself from his asshole father’s shadow.

“Have you spoken to him lately?” I ask cautiously. “Your dad, I mean?”

“Nope. He calls every few weeks, but I just press ignore. Have you spoken to yours?”

“A couple days ago.” I’ve been making an effort to check in on Dad and Jeff, and Mom and David, because once pre-season starts and our practice schedule becomes more intense, I’ll be living in a hockey bubble and will probably forget to call my family.

Garrett goes quiet for a beat, then looks over thoughtfully. “Is she worth all this, bro?”

I don’t ask who “she” is. I simply nod.

“It’s not just for the sex?”

My smile is rueful. “We haven’t had sex yet.”

Surprise flickers through his eyes. “For real? I assumed you fucked her back in April.”

“Nope.”

The corners of his mouth tug upward. Either I’m imagining it, or he actually looks proud of me. “Well, then that just answered my question about her being worth it.” He thumps me on the shoulder, then reaches for the door handle. “Good luck.”

Truth be told, I’m not sure I need luck. Every time I delivered one of my cringingly romantic gifts to Grace’s door, I was rewarded with a brilliant smile that lit up her entire face. And either I was imagining it, or she kept staring at my mouth, so damn intently, as if she was dying to kiss me. I didn’t make a move, though. Didn’t want to push too hard, too fast. But I have a feeling I might be getting that kiss tonight.