Real Good Man (Real Duet #1)

Sofia looks at me like I’m not speaking English. “I don’t understand.”

I trace the rim of the glass with my index finger, hesitating before I speak. “I’m basically good at three things when it comes to guys. Talking dirty, one-night stands, and the walk of shame. And then there’s Logan. He’s the first one in forever who talked to me without doing it just to f*ck me. He has never asked me to send him a pic of my tits. He actually likes me, and without knowing if I look like Cruella de Vil. He’s . . . different. So I thought that meant whatever he and I are doing would be different. But I couldn’t help myself. I had to screw it all up.”

I look toward the bar rather than make eye contact with Sofia, but my gaze snaps back to her when she asks, “Does he have a brother? I could use some different too.”

“We haven’t gotten that far. Maybe we never will. Ugh, I suck at this.”

Sofia points to my phone where it rests on the table between us. “Are you going to answer him?”

“I have to, don’t I?”

“He’s coming here tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“And where are you going to meet him?”

“I gave him the address of the tapas bar on the corner.”

“Really?”

Her question makes me reconsider my choice. “Bad idea?”

Sofia shrugs. “If he’s so different, maybe tapas isn’t your best choice. You’ll find out tomorrow, I suppose. I need another drink, and I’m not waiting for the slow-as-hell waitress. Don’t do anything ridiculous while I’m gone.”

“Of course not,” I say, my tone indignant.

I tap my phone screen as soon as Sofia struts away, and stare down at the message from Logan.



LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: You imagining me naked?



I’m so screwed, because I’m definitely picturing him naked now. All my resolutions about how this is supposed to be different don’t stop my thumbs from flying across my screen with the absolute alcohol-induced truth. I’ve already messed this up. And at least I’m being honest.



BANNER: Only when I come.



His reply arrives within moments.



LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: f*ck. You shouldn’t have told me that, because now I’m thinking about you too.

BANNER: Is that a bad thing?

LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: You tell me.



Oh. Well. Hmmm.



BANNER: I guess we’ll find out when you get here.



As soon as I hit SEND and read back over the messages, a wave of excitement washes over me that I finally get to meet him in person, but there’s a pang of regret with it. What are the chances I can break my old habits with him, and not end this with the walk of shame?



LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: I guess we will.



Now, what does that mean? Did he just shoot me down? Gah, this man has me all over the place.

I pause, my thumbs poised above the keyboard on my phone, unsure how to reply.

Sofia returns, no doubt saving me from messing this up even further by saying something more. “Hey! I ran into a friend. She’s doing shots at the bar.”

“Shots? I could do shots.” My voice sounds unusually perky, even to me.

As we head over to join Sofia’s friend, I decide more alcohol is the perfect way to help me figure out how to deal with Logan tomorrow . . . although it might not be the smartest.

*

I wake up in my own bed, but I’m not alone. Thankfully, the dark head on the pillow next to me belongs to Sofia. I vaguely recall her ushering us into a cab around three in the morning.

Thank God for the weekend, or I would be calling into work hung over again, which would probably result in me getting fired. And somehow that doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world, except for the fact that I’d be broke for the time being.

No, I can’t lose this job. I have to stick it out for another six months, and then I’ll be all set.

I roll and swing my legs over the side of the bed, taking my time as I stand to make sure I’m not going to land on my face. Balance acquired, I shuffle into the bathroom to find my clutch on the counter.

Out of habit more than anything else, I flip it open and pull out my phone. Two texts from Logan are waiting.

That familiar rush of excitement floods me when I see his name on the screen. Rather than unlocking my phone to read them, I force myself into the shower to rid myself of the smoke and club nastiness from last night. My hair looks like it’s been styled by a two-year-old, and my eyeliner smudges should qualify me for honorary raccoon status.

The steam from the shower melts it all away, and thankfully my stomach isn’t angry with me for whatever I put in it. I hurry through sudsing up, washing, and conditioning because I need to know what Logan said. Even now, he’s somewhere between Kentucky and Manhattan. Equal parts anticipation and apprehension battle it out in my chest.

I like this guy.

That’s the terrifying part. I don’t know what his cock looks like, or his favorite position in bed, but I like him as a person. That’s not something I’ve been able to say in a long time.

It’s not like Logan and his messages have been part of my life for long, so how did both become so important so fast?

Tonight can’t be the end.

I will not one-night him.

Resolute in my decision, I shut the water off and reach for my towel. Feeling confident about my newfound determination, I unlock my phone and the messages appear on the screen.



LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: Those are things I’d rather discuss in person.

LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: Get some sleep, Banner. You’re going to need it.



Oh God. What did I say? After the shots, I thought I told Sofia to take my phone away. I scroll upward through the messages I sent him.



BANNER: So, anal . . . I need to see the equipment 1st. 2 big is a thing.



My stomach twists and plummets to my feet.

Sofia didn’t take my phone from me. Jesus Christ. This is a train wreck.

Above that, I asked him if he was cut or uncut. Whether he liked his balls played with while he got head. If he would pull my hair.

I glance up and see myself in the mirror. All the color has drained from my face, and I’m doing a great impersonation of a drowned albino rat. That is, if albino rats had fabulous colorists.

My gaze drops back to the phone as I read the rest of the damage. Logan deflected all my questions, but he wasn’t rude or unkind.

How am I ever going to face him after all that? What must he think of me?

My stomach still twisting, I wander into my living room and curl up on the couch under my fuzziest blanket.

If I was worried about screwing it up before . . . mission accomplished. Is this my own form of self-sabotage? Maybe I’m so scared that I actually like Logan, that I want to make sure there’s no possible way this could actually go well?

This is what happens when you know you need a shrink but refuse to go to one. You psychoanalyze yourself and do a really crappy job at it.

I need a voice of reason. I need Greer, but I can’t talk to her because she’s way too busy sorting out her own life right now.

Grabbing a throw pillow, I squish it over my head and groan.





Chapter 7


Logan