Chapter 4
FRANKIE
Heat swirls up my neck as I stare at the handsome stranger who is making butterflies riot in my belly. “A kiss for your birthday?”
Logan’s breath is warm against my skin, and his gaze stays trained on my face as he nods. “Thirty of them, if you’re feeling generous.”
“Wait, what?”
“Birthday kisses. I’m thirty, Francesca.” He gives me what can only be described as puppy dog eyes, but instead of pleading, they’re promising.
Thirty kisses? With this hunk of a man?
I’m in real trouble. I tip my head back and laugh. “I think we’ll get kicked out of this bar if we start making out.”
He scoffs. “It’s Vegas. On New Year’s Eve. I think we’ll fine.”
“Let’s start with one,” I whisper.
He kisses my knuckle, his short-cropped beard tickling my skin, then leans in and whispers, “Thank you.”
It’s so filthy my panties crawl down my thighs and fling themselves into the ether.
Whew. I pat his chest. “How about we go find you some birthday cake?”
“Good idea. I should have something to absorb the gin.”
He throws a tip on the counter, then stands up.
I pull out my phone. “Hang on, I have to share my location with my friends. And, if you don’t mind, a photo of the weirdo demanding kisses from me.”
“You want a picture of my driver’s license?”
“Just your face would be fine.”
“Come here, then.” He hooks an arm around my waist and pulls me close, holding up my phone with his other hand. He knows exactly how to angle it, finding the light, getting us both in frame. His cheek is warm against mine, his beard surprisingly soft, and he smells good. Really, really good.
“Send that to whoever you want,” he says easily, not letting go of my waist as he flips over to my contacts and adds himself before giving me the phone back. “And my number, just in case you take any good birthday photos and want to send them to me.”
Yeah, I’m giving this man all the birthday kisses he wants.
Frankie
Found this guy. Going out on the town. Location sharing is on. If I die, he did it. His name is Logan and he reads fantasy novels. Also, it’s his birthday.
Sloane
He’s hot. Don’t die. Do other things.
Liz
He could star in the burlesque show.
I giggle.
Frankie
Was that fun?
Liz
So fun. We’re heading to a rooftop bar we heard about now. But it looks like you’ve found fun, too!
Sloane
Happy birthday, Logan! Be nice to our buddy or else!
“My friends say happy birthday,” I tell him.
“I like them already.” He grins, and in that easy, handsome smile, I see way too much potential. And risk.
“Come on,” I mutter. “I know where there’s a bakery.”
He waves goodbye to the bartender as we head out, but then his touch returns to my body pretty quickly, his hand ghosting in the small of my back as he take the escalator down to the level below, then scooping around my waist and holding me close for a second when the elevator is full of people.
His lips brush my temple just before we get off in the basement.
“That’s two,” he whispers.
A jazz quartet is playing at the entrance to the casino. They aren’t like buskers on the street, they don’t have a guitar case open, but Logan slows down and after twirling me around, he slides one of the musicians a folded bill.
After, he notices me looking at him. “My dad taught me to be a good tipper.”
“This way, Good Tipper.” I grab his hand and tug.
We keep our fingers entwined as we wait in the fast moving line for the bakery, Logan’s thumb rubbing back and forth over my knuckles in a way that is very distracting and very nice.
He’s definitely drunk, he’s got that unmistakable looseness to his body, that glossy look in his eyes. But he’s still well in control of his magnificent body, and he instinctively puts it between me and anyone who gets close.
I shouldn’t like that as much as I do.
I shouldn’t be doing this at all, I think as the girl behind us in line makes zero attempt to hide the fact she’s checking out Logan’s ass in his midnight blue suit pants.
I can’t blame her, he’s breathtakingly jacked.
The irony of me being so attracted to someone so over the top athletic, when I’ve spent my entire life trying to escape the gravitational pull of hockey and everything associated with it, is really funny.
This is an objectively hilarious way for my night to end.
But Logan’s also funny, and smart.
Plus I’m never going to see him again after tonight.
So it’s fine that I’ve tumbled into whatever this is that we’re doing. Right? It’s fine.
I tug on his suit jacket and reel him down to press my lips to his cheek.
“That’s three,” I whisper.
He steals four and five by kissing the tip of my nose twice before I let him go.
Then I force him to focus on picking a slice of birthday cake—he goes for a classic vanilla with sprinkles, which endears me for reasons that feel far too vulnerable and real for a drunk New Year’s Eve moment.
Once we’re settled at a table in the eating area, we dig in with duelling forks. He makes enthusiastic sounds as he tastes the first few bites, and I slow down, just enjoying watching him eat.
When he finally pauses, I give in to my desire to be a bit nosy. “What was it like growing up with a New Year’s Eve birthday?”
“Weirdly complicated. It’s a busy time of year for my family.” No elaboration. “But tonight feels different. Maybe you’re my good luck charm, Dr. Francesca.”
“I’m not a doctor yet,” I remind him.
“You will be. June, right?”
“June.”
“That’s cool. And then what?”
“Then I start residency.”
“Will that also be in California?”
“I hope so. There’s a matching process, but my top pick is the university hospital where I’m studying now. We’ll see if I get it.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. Tell me how you’re the top candidate for that position.”
“Well, I don’t know—”
“Dr. Francesca, believe in yourself.”
I flush with unexpected pride. “I am a top candidate for that position,” I admit. “I fucking am.”
“Thattagirl.” He uses his fork to take a choice bit of cake with the perfect ratio of icing. “Have a reward.”
Automatically, I lean forward.
His eyebrow quirks up at my eagerness. “You like that?”
I blush, feeling giddy. I’m surprised at myself, too. I’m a high achiever, but for my own reasons and goals, not to please others. But one encouraging bit of praise from Logan and I’m practically panting.
“Good to know,” he murmurs before feeding me the delicious morsel. His gaze darkens as my lips close around his fork, his attention sharpening, and the din of the bakery around us fade away.
In this moment, I think I’d do anything to hear him say thattagirl again.
My heart is pounding as I swallow the taste of cake, even better tasting off his fork than my own.
“You got a little…” he says, gesturing at my mouth.
I lick my lower lip, achingly aware of his gaze darkening again.
“Did I get it?” I ask breathlessly.
He reaches across. “May I?”
After I nod, he brushes his thumb against my lower lip. I chase it with another kiss, feeling wild and reckless now. “Six.”
His attention stays locked on my face as he slides his fingertip into his mouth, licking the icing off.
Then he winks. “What’s next?”
We go looking for more music.
We find a jazz club, and there’s no place to sit, which doesn’t faze Logan at all.
He pulls me close. “If we can’t sit, then we should dance.”
He’s tall enough that I have to tilt my head back to see his face. His hand settles on the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric of my dress, and his other hand engulfs mine.
“I should warn you,” I say, “I’m not great at this.”
“Good thing I am, then.” He winks and starts moving, leading me through something very natural. Just two bodies moving to a lazy, sexy, sultry song.
He makes it easy to follow his lead.
“That’s it, you’re getting it,” he says. “You pick it up quickly. You’ve got strong little legs, don’t you?”
Warmth floods through me.
“Where did you learn to dance?” I ask.
“My mom made all of us take lessons when we were teenagers.”
“Your dad taught you to tip, your mom made sure you could dance. That’s interesting.”
“Is it?” He spins me out, then back in. “Why is that interesting, Dr. Francesca?”
I laugh. “I don’t know.”
He grins.
“I think you come from a very fascinating family.”
His hand settles on my hip and squeezes. “They would all be delighted to hear that you think that.”
I lift my face, about to ask him more about that, more about the things that we agreed were off-limits for tonight, because it feels like something has shifted in the last hour, I don’t know.
But then a big group comes in, loud and boisterous. Logan shifts me off the little dance floor, closer to the bar, and we watch with great amusement as a wedding party takes over the dance floor.
“Sorry for my friends,” one of the guests says when he makes it to the bar and notices us clearly people watching.
“It’s fine,” I say from within the circle of Logan’s arms. He’s stolen a few kisses, I think we’re up to ten or eleven now, and I’m buzzing from the endorphins. “You all look so happy.”
A woman joins him. “Hey, where’s our wedding license?”
He pats his jacket pocket.
She wiggles her fingers. “I want to show someone.”
Logan looks at the obvious bride and groom on the dance floor, then back to our new friend. “Is it your wedding night, too?”
The guy laughs and shakes his head. “No. That’s not my girlfriend. We, uh, got a wedding license alongside our friends because it’s an epic souvenir, you know? We’re not going to use it.”
“That’s legendary.” Logan shifts so he can give the guy a high-five.
Once we’re alone again, he tips my face up to drop birthday kiss number thirteen on the corner of my mouth, so close to my lips. As he kisses me, he’s still chuckling at the idea. “Is there anything more iconic than a Vegas wedding license? Best souvenir ever.”
Which makes me say something silly. “Let’s get you one.”
He grins, the kind of smile that should come with a warning label. Might be dangerous to panties, hearts, and responsible choices. “Dr. Francesca, I think you might be a bad influence on me.”