Page 10 of The Player Next Door

“You have a lawyer?” he asked.

“What? No, that was just a bluff. But I might start calling around, because I hate this.” And with that, she sank to the floor and opened her Minnesota Public Radio branded tote bag. She stuck her bare legs out in front of her, crossed at the ankles, and rearranged her bright blue skirt above her knees. “Good thing I have provisions.”

Logan watched as she pulled out a bottle of white wine. “Too bad you don’t have a corkscrew.”

Clare laughed and cracked the top with a twist of her wrist. “Bold of you to assume I buy anything more expensive than ten dollars,” she said, and took a pull straight from the bottle.

“You’re just diving right in, aren’t you?”

“I was going to get drunk in my apartment, but since I won’t be getting there for at least another hour I figure why not get drunk in the elevator with my neighbor?” She shrugged and pulled a second bottle out of her bag—this one red—and held it out to him. “Want some?”

Fuck it.It wasn’t like he had anything better to do. “Sure,” he said, taking the bottle and twisting off the cap as he sat down next to her. It was, he quickly discovered, absolutely terrible wine. “You paid ten dollars for this shit?” he coughed.

“I said I don’t buy anything that costsmorethan ten dollars. That one cost me seven.”

“Tastes like it,” he said. Logan made a face and took another drink. “Wait, no, I think you got ripped off.”

She tipped her head to the side. “Are you a wine snob?”

“Apparently,” he said. “And it seems we’ve established you’re not.”

“I’m economical with my money,” Clare said primly, her tone at odds with the healthy swig she took from her bottle.

“And careless with your tastebuds,” he muttered, but still went back for more. “Bad day?”

“A usual day, more like,” she said, and leaned her head back against the elevator wall. “I work with a lot of men. It’s exhausting sometimes.”

He thought about Sam and similar complaints he’d heard from her. He had a strange feeling these two could be friends, even though Clare was all optimism and friendly banter and Sam was, well, Sam. She was mean as hell and he liked that about her, but she was an acquired taste. “I work with a lot of bros,” he said, and his gaze landed on her ankles, delicate below her shapely calves. “We’re a lot to deal with,” he agreed.

“You know, you could do something about that,” she said, closing her eyes. He wished she hadn’t, because he hadn’t yet decided if her eyes were green or brown. “Agreeing that men suck is not actually the same thing as doing something to make your workplace more friendly for people who are not cis men.”

Logan couldn’t help but nod. Her cheeks were pink, flushed from the alcohol, and he fought the urge to reach out and straighten the folded-up corner of her Peter Pan collar. “How long did they say we would be stuck here?” he asked.

“Sick of me already?”

“Wondering how much time I get to spend with you,” he said before he realized what he was doing. His mouth had a way of going on autopilot before his brain caught up, and maybe this was his problem. But he couldn’t really help it, flirting came as naturally to him as breathing.

She turned to look at him, her nose just bare inches from his. She licked her lips, looking at his mouth, and then lifted her eyes to meet his gaze.

“Do you even know my name?”

Chapter Seven

He blinked, and Clare cursed herself for interrupting what was looking to be a promising moment. But she couldn’t help it. She had never kissed someone whose name she didn’t officially know, and his overt flirting had caught her off guard.

Maybe Craig had been on to something. The part of her who had been a shy, awkward nerd in high school—or maybe not shy, just not as comfortable in her own skin as she was now—kept wonderingwhythis was happening. But the part of her who wanted to experience new things told her to stop thinking too hard.

But still. Logan was too handsome, too charming, too used to women who looked like underwear models to be interested, even slightly, in someone like her.Reasonably cutewas her usual league, the sort of guy who would hardly stop traffic but who looked adorable in glasses, and probably had a poster of the Periodic Table in his apartment, and at least oneDoctor Whomug in his cupboard.

Logan looked like he just walked off a movie set where he played a character who was technically a villain but actually just deeply wounded; a sensitive, dangerous soul with a smile the screenwriter would callwickedat least once.

He was the sort of guy who would ask her to tutor him in physics even though she wasn’t that great at STEM stuff. (Guys like him just assumed all nerds were math and science nerds. The existence of English nerds was, apparently, still undiscovered by cool kids.) He’d flirt with her as a thank you, and then forget her name before final grades were posted.

Logan smiled at her, dark and, yes, a tiny bit dangerous in a way thatshouldn’tbe sexy butwas, and cocked an eyebrow. “Do you even know mine?” he asked.

A nervous giggle escaped her throat, puncturing the bubble of tension surrounding them. “I’m Clare,” she said, and he—very regrettably—leaned away.

“Logan,” he said amiably. “Sorry if I crossed a few lines there.”