Page 26 of The Best Worst Thing

The Problem

She tried everything.

Cold shower.

Long walk.

More Cormac McCarthy.

When all that failed to cool her down, Nicole gave up and texted Mari.

I think I have a Logan problem.

When Mari called her, immediately, Nicole didn’t even know where to begin.

How could she explain to her best friend that some guy—Mari’s old boss, no less—had left her …

like this? That her stupid body was suddenly so sure?

That the rest of her was now dumb as rocks? Little more than a melted pile of mush?

She couldn’t. So instead, she pretty much stuck to one-word answers.

“Did he talk about Star Wars the whole time?”

“Mari.”

“Was he better than Gabe?”

“Mari.”

“Do you remember how to use a condom?”

“Mari!”

Once that interrogation ended, Nicole poured herself a massive glass of wine, sent Paige a very niche Charlotte Bronte meme, and dumped Gabe’s newest issue of The Economist straight into the recycling bin. She was about to head out on another aimless walk when her phone buzzed.

My seatmate just told me I had bedhead.

Nicole shook her head. Her fingers fired back.

Literally zero chance that happened.

Oh, it did. We’re friends now.

He gave me his cashews.

She laughed. He was funny. He really was. In this dumb, perfect way that barely made sense.

What did you tell him?

That this crazy hot girl from work tried to have sex with me in her driveway, but I didn’t do it.

Nicole inhaled sharply. This was a game, wasn’t it? A game she had not forgotten how to play.

Wow, that’s wild. Why didn’t you take her up on that?

His text bubble came and went, came and went. When the wait became untenable, Nicole flipped her phone over, held her breath, and walked in a circle around the kitchen island. Halfway through her fourth lap, Logan put her out of her misery.

Because I wanted to take my time.

“Well, fuck,” Nicole said. Possibly out loud.

She steadied her hands onto the cool marbled curve of the countertop.

She closed her eyes, she clenched her fists, she straightened her toes.

It didn’t help. She was a mess. All she could think about was that morning.

All she could think about was that kiss.

His hands, his mouth, his teeth flying over her frenzied skin.

How hard he was.

How close he was.

How good he felt.

And every time she did anything—washed her hands, watered her basil, walked past a mirror—she could see it, feel it, taste it. The whole scene, playing on repeat. Backward and forward. Hard and soft. Fast and slow.

Their morning was all over her.

She was swimming in it.

And by nighttime, Nicole was a lost cause.

She lay in bed, tossing and turning, her hands and legs and lips desperate and restless and lonely.

She threw off her sheets. She dragged her forefingers down the sweat gathering on her throat, her sternum, her stomach.

She closed her eyes, flexed her toes, and shoved her fist between her teeth.

Yeah, she had a Logan problem, all right.

A big one.