Page 28 of The Best Worst Thing

“No, I have. A lot, actually.” He scratched his throat for a moment. “Sometimes, I think about starting my own thing. I know it’s dumb, that everyone in advertising does that. But I’ve been saving up for a few years. I could get by for a while if I kept things really lean, I just …”

Nicole looked at him, so ready to tease him, to tear him to shreds. After all, when had Logan Milgram had reservations about anything, ever? But instead, she squeezed his hand.

“It’s not dumb,” she said. “I think a lot of people want something that’s only theirs. If you can do it, I think you should try.”

“Someday, maybe. It’s a big risk, going out on your own. And it’s just not the right time, I don’t think.”

Nicole nodded again, still squeezing his hand. He played with her fingers, stretching them, circling them.

“What about going somewhere new, then?” she said. “A bigger agency, maybe?”

“Working on that too,” he said as Nicole slid his hand back onto her leg and guided him higher up her thigh. He leaned forward, his jaw twitching as his fingers found the napkin in her lap and slipped beneath it. “Not sure I love the details, though. Of what’s out there.”

Nicole nodded a third time, tightening her grip on his wrist, leading him to the hem of her dress, helping him get to know the skin below it.

Her mouth was wet, and his hand was trembling.

She knew he wouldn’t go any farther than this.

Not here, not now. But she kind of wished he would.

She wanted his hands on her hips. She wanted him peeling back every inch of lace and cotton and denim that kept him from her.

She wanted him figuring out how to make her fall apart. She wanted him, here and hard and now.

“What else have you been thinking about, Logan?”

“Are you trying to kill me?”

“The opposite, I think.”

He looked at her, and then at their waiter, who was off somewhere, reading the menu from a very impractical chalkboard at the top of his lungs. And then, without taking his gaze off her, Logan shoved a wad of cash underneath that candle and nodded her toward the sidewalk.

“Car,” he said. “Right now.”

They scurried into the street; his arm around her waist, her hand in his back pocket, their steps, quick and brisk and in sync.

They got all the way to that sleepy, residential street where they’d parked—a dark, sloping road that ended in a cul-de-sac at the base of the hill.

Above them, power lines dangled like string lights.

But they didn’t quite make it to the car.

They were more, on it? Against it? Nicole was, anyway.

Pinned there against his door, his hands up her dress, her mouth on his collar, both of them panting, pulling, pushing as Nicole’s hands slid underneath Logan’s shirt, as Logan’s teeth met her ear, her neck, her shoulders.

Nicole only pulled away—lips, swollen; her voice, a whisper—to plead with him.

“Please don’t stop touching me.”

Logan kissed her again. This time, differently. Softly. Slowly.

“Do you want me to take you home?” he said.

“Yeah.”

He took a deep breath, then unlocked his car and helped her in. When she buckled her seat belt, Logan—already bent over—put his mouth on her knee. Nicole grabbed the hair at the nape of his neck and gasped.

“Your place, please,” she said.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”

By the time Logan was fumbling for his house keys, Nicole had already locked her legs around his waist. She was glued to him—kissing his neck, unbuttoning his shirt, scraping her fingernails down his back—as he laughed and groaned and pulled her closer.

He hoisted her against his front door with a single knee, twisted his key into the lock, used their bodies to force the door open, then spun her against the wall of his pitch-black entryway. She yelped.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he said, throwing his keys to the floor. He sunk his teeth into her throat, her collarbone, her chest. His hands were all over her. “I’ve been thinking about you all week. I—”

“Kiss me,” she said, grabbing his face, finding his mouth, sliding her tongue between his lips. She unbuckled his belt, then begged him to grab her harder, pull her closer, push her dress up sooner. He did as he was told.

“You’re …” she said as his hands flew up her thighs, rushing to find the lace of her underwear. He yanked it down her arching hips, slowing himself only to drag a single finger across her now bare and sparking skin. She gasped, then tipped her head back and closed her eyes. “You’re …”

“I’m what, Nicole?” he said, pushing his hands—still, under her dress—up her waist until she was in his arms, until she was over his shoulder, until he’d flung her onto that old couch of his. When she landed, laughing, her dress was already halfway up her stomach and her hair was everywhere.

Logan threw off his shoes, crawled on top of her, and kissed her hard.

Nicole pushed herself up a couple of feet, tugged at the collar of his shirt, and finished unbuttoning it.

She tossed it somewhere, anywhere, then collapsed back onto the cushion as Logan, still in his jeans, pressed himself harder between her legs.

When she moaned, he did it again, then traced the nearly invisible links of her dainty little necklaces with his tongue.

“Tell me what I am,” he said.

“You’re really good at this,” she said, between mutters. Between tiny gasps for air. “Why didn’t we do this weeks ago?”

He chuckled, then pushed her dress up another inch, two inches, three inches, until it was off, until his mouth was sliding down her sternum, down her stomach, while he touched her, kissed her, tasted her, while she fumbled for the buttons on his jeans, the waistband of his boxer briefs.

His hands were back on her hips, they were right there, right where she’d wanted them all night, right where she’d wanted them all week, and he was reaching for his wallet, touching her face, whispering “are you sure?” and then, just when she began to nod, just when she began to lick her lips, just when she began to reach for him, to pull him into her, she froze.

She couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t move.

She couldn’t see.

The truth flooded her body like a punishment.

All at once—and ruthlessly. And every last thing she’d tried to hide or forget or bury these past few weeks began to surround her, sink her, drown her.

Her cheating husband, her broken body, the divorce she couldn’t have.

The career she’d given up. The pregnancy she’d prayed for.

The surrogate she couldn’t stop lying to.

All of it, engulfing her. Here, tonight, as her heart raced, her skin screamed, her body begged for someone else. Someone who barely knew her.

“Nicole? Are you—”

“I can’t do this.”

Logan peeled his hands off her. He sat up. He wiped his brow, rolled back his shoulders, then took a deep breath and nodded. “No problem.”

“I’m so sorry,” Nicole said, folding herself in half. She just sat there, pulling her knees into her chest and her head into her hands. “I don’t know what happened.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

Nicole slumped. Through the darkness, Logan slid on his jeans and found his shirt. He offered it to her, but she shook her head.

“I didn’t mean to lead you on,” she said, closing her eyes. “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t mean to, I promise. I really wanted this.”

“It’s okay, Nicole,” he said. “You don’t have to worry. It is completely okay.”

They were quiet for a minute. When she finally opened her eyes, Logan was folding her dress and placing it on the edge of his coffee table, right beside her.

“Do you want to talk?” he said. “Do you want me to leave? Do you want me to take you home? You can stay as long as you’d like. Just tell me what you need, okay?”

She looked at him.

“I think I should probably just go home.”

“Okay,” he said.

Nicole got dressed. Logan looked away. When she was ready, they walked through the living room and down the hall.

Nicole turned around for a second, just to take another glance, just to remember this place.

That old couch and those cluttered kitchen counters and the bare, warm walls.

And then it was over. The door was closed.

They dragged their bodies into Logan’s car. The six-minute drive was long and swift and silent. The windows were cracked, and the night air was cold and damp and cruel.

He pulled into her driveway.

“I’ll call you,” she said.

“Anytime.”

Nicole nodded, then opened the car door.

She turned to him one last time. He was reaching for his seat belt—all this, and he still wanted to walk her to her door, didn’t he?

—but Nicole winced and he did too. He pursed his lips, put his hands back on his steering wheel, then looked at her and that was it.

They were strangers.