2. Logan

2

LOGAN

At an uber-trendy sandwich and bowl shop with my friends an hour later, I practically need to duck to avoid the rotten tomatoes and eggs they lob at me.

Metaphorical ones.

And I deserve it.

But hell, this dating shit is hard, and I am beyond rusty.

“Let me get this straight.” Across the booth, my buddy Oliver holds up his fork, pausing mid-bite to give me hell. “You were flirty with her over a Snoopy lunch box. She was giving you all kinds of eyes. She mentioned drinks. Drinks. And you still couldn’t seal the deal with a number.”

Why do I tell these assholes anything?

Oh, right.

Because they’re supposedly my friends. Also, because they asked why I have a lunch box with me. Quite the conversation starter, even for a single dad.

I flip him the bird as Fitz stretches an arm to pat me on the shoulder mock-sympathetically, his eyes on Oliver. “It’s sad, Ollie. When our friend has zero game,” he says, shaking his head. “But we have to take pity on him. We have to rise to the challenge and help this man discover what it takes to reel ’em in.”

I roll my eyes at Fitz. But mostly at myself. I was this close. Mojitos. She wanted fucking mojitos.

And I’m having a sandwich with my friends instead of mojitos with the flirty, witty woman.

Oliver takes another bite of his Santa-Fe-chicken-and-kale concoction, then frowns. “It’s devastating. To see a good mate in such a pathetic situation,” he says as my sister sweeps in, sliding into the seat next to him.

After she gives him a quick peck on the cheek, Summer adjusts her blonde ponytail, a curious glint in her eyes. “What did my twin brother do that was pathetic?”

I tap my chest, offended. “Why do you assume I’m the pathetic one?”

She bursts into a laugh from deep inside her. “Well, I doubt it was Fitz who was the pathetic one,” she says, stretching across the table to ruffle Fitz’s hair.

The hockey star preens, happily taking the compliment. “I’m never the pathetic one. And I have excellent game, on and off the ice.”

Summer wraps a hand around her fiancé’s arm then presses another kiss to his cheek. “And it can’t be my sexy Englishman, since his game is only with me.” She drops her voice, lowers it to a purr, and looks only at Oliver. “Speaking of your game, dear sexy fiancé, last night was amazing.”

I groan, dropping my head in my hand. “Don’t go there. Please, I beg of you, don’t go there. I have no issues with you guys being together, but I cannot hear about my sister’s sex life with my best friend.”

Summer scoffs. “Did I say we had sex? We had . . . cupcakes.”

I look up.

Oliver wriggles his brows. “We had amazing cupcakes.”

I slam my hands to my ears and sing, “ La, la, la, la.”

My jackass friends laugh.

When I take my palms off my ears, I make a rolling gesture with my hand for us to move things along. “On to more important matters, like our paintball tournament this weekend.”

My twin sister shakes her head, undeterred. “Nope. I want to hear about your pathetic love life, or lack thereof.”

I take a bite of my sandwich, set it down, then level with them. These guys and my sister are my closest friends, so there’s no need to beat around the bush. “Look, my lack thereof is the most appropriate way to refer to my love life ever since my divorce from Stacey. Hell, ever since the last few years of my marriage. But that’s fine. Amelia’s my priority, and I don’t need to date. And Amelia has a half-day at school, so I need to pick her up soon, since this lucky bastard has her for the whole weekend. Case closed.”

Summer steeples her fingers together and stares at me with I’m waiting in her eyes. “Then you have fifteen minutes to tell me the pathetic story.”

Fitz jumps in. The man cuts to the chase in conversations like he speeds through opposing players on the NHL ice—just goes straight at it. “Logan went to buy Amelia a Snoopy lunch box, locked fingers on the handle with a babe, and tragically failed to secure her digits.”

I wince at his summary, but my frustration is self-directed. I should have finished the conversation with the sexy brunette with the pouty lips and rapid-fire banter. I was this close to asking for what I wanted most in our negotiations—a way to contact her. She’s the first woman I’ve felt that kind of crazy spark with since my divorce.

And I could use a crazy spark.

Oh hell, could I ever.

But c’est la vie.

I shrug. “What can I do? Just move on. I’m rustier than a bike that’s been in the garage for a decade.”

“But some things are like riding a bike,” Fitz says, miming gripping the handlebars.

“Yeah, pretty sure I remember how to do yada, yada, yada . I was married, not celibate.”

He arches a playful brow. “Did I say sex? I meant asking out someone you like.”

I hold up my hands. “Let’s view it as practice. Next time I’ll do better.”

“So next time when you suggest having drinks and she, ya know, wants to, you’ll remember what to say. Repeat after me: Can I have your number? ”

“Can I have your number?” My friends repeat in a mocking Greek chorus.

“It was just one random encounter. No biggie. But yes—yes, I will next time.”

Summer clears her throat, a twinkle in her brown eyes. “Actually, rather than wait for next time, you could get on Made Connections this time to look for the Snoopy Lover.”

I jerk my gaze to her. “What’s that?”

“It’s this new app. It’s like Missed Connections on Craigslist. But now in app form. You post where you had a moment with someone and hope they post back.”

Oliver beams and squeezes Summer’s shoulder. “That’s brilliant. You are brilliant.” He drops a kiss onto her cheek, then points at me. “You have to do it. Mostly because I want to read the responses to your post. I’m sure they will be hilarious to everyone who isn’t you.”

“Thank you, asshole,” I say dryly.

“Go for it.” My sister’s encouragement is bright and cheery—that’s who she is when she’s not needling me. “Find the Snoopy Lover. It’ll be so great if you do.”

Fitz stabs the table playfully. “Do it, man. Do it.”

“Would you? If you were in my situation?” I ask him.

He scrubs a hand over his beard, humming thoughtfully. “Hard to say, because if I met a guy I liked over a lunch box, there’s no way I’d walk out without getting his number.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course. I forgot I was talking to the prince of hookups.”

Fitz scoffs. “King, if you please.” Then he takes a serious tone. “But look, you’re getting back into the swing of things. So you missed the first time. Take another swing. Use the app. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

I draw a deep breath, weighing the options. I have deals galore to handle. Partnerships to manage. A kid I adore.

But, hell, it has been a while. I’d love a good date with a woman I enjoyed talking to. A woman I sparked with.

And the Snoopy lunch box gal and I were on fire.

What’s the harm in testing out an app?

Especially since my friends are probably never going to let me live this down if I don’t.

I take another bite of the chicken sandwich, swipe a napkin across my mouth, and grab my phone. Fifteen minutes later, I hit post.