Perfectly Damaged

“I saved your life,” he says irritably.

Saved my life? Is he kidding? I snort, crossing my arms over my chest. “You nearly killed me. Because of you, I swallowed a gallon of water. I could’ve drowned.”

Lance or Logan—whoever the hell he is—reaches into the pool and pulls out a floating red baseball cap with a blue letter P stitched in the center of it. Clearly a Phillies fan. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The worn cap twists in his hands as he drains the water from the fabric. “You were under there for almost three minutes. I jump in, save your life, and this is the thanks I get?”

He shakes his head and tosses the baseball cap over it. It isn’t until he reaches for the edge of his white T-shirt that I notice his arms—arms that are fully sketched in dark artistry. I try to make out some of the images, but they bend and twist with others, making it impossible to decipher what’s what without staring. My eyes shift away from his tattoos and take in his physique. As he wrings his drenched shirt out in front of him, I catch a glimpse of a toned stomach. His wet clothes mold to every muscle of his impressive shape. Even so, it doesn’t matter if he’s good-looking or not. I’m still annoyed. “I didn’t need saving,” I mumble.

His head kicks back as he snorts. “Yeah, I’ll remember that next time. Can I just grab the toolbox and be on my way?”

Right. The toolbox. Which is in the house. After one last scan of the pool and surrounding grounds, I glare at him and walk to the lounge chair. I toss on my cover-up, grab the towel and my phone, and lead him to the foyer. The only sound accompanying us is the squishing of my flip-flops along the marble floors. I throw my hand out, indicating the completely out-of-place toolbox sitting on the table. “Here it is.”

His fingers grip the handle and he lifts it to his side easily. “Can I exit through here?” He points at the double doors. “My truck’s parked out front.”

“Yep.” I walk over and open it for him. As he’s walking through the door, I hear a car pull up the driveway. At first I think it’s my parents, but once I see the familiar black sedan my heart starts to race.

Shit.

“Wait. Lance, come here.” I grip his bicep. My fingers curl around the hard, toned muscle. The car door slams. My anxiety level’s spiking, and I pull him closer to me.

Blue eyes wildly scan my face and look down at my death grip. He gives me a look, a this-woman-is-crazy look. “What are you doing?” He jerks his arm in an effort to pull away.

“Hold me—no—kiss me,” I urge, yanking his arm to force him down. Unfortunately, he’s not budging. What. The. Hell. My foot stomps once to the ground as if I’m having a five-year-old tantrum.

“What? You’re a psycho,” he says.

“No, please. Just please, Lance.” I quickly glance over and see Matthew exiting his car.

Lance shrugs off my grip. “First of all, my name is Logan. L-O-G-A-N. Logan. Second, I’m not holding you, and I’m most definitely not kissing you.”

Dammit, he’s one of those. The good-looking ones always are. “Okay. I get that you’re gay and all—”

A sharp raised brow cuts me off. “I’m far from gay.”

Oh my God, Matthew is now making his way up the pathway. My attention back on Logan, I slam my hands to my hips, surely giving the impression that I’m younger than my twenty-one years of age. “Okay, well prove it,” I challenge.

“You’re kidding?” he asks, but I’m pretty sure my expression tells him I’m anything but. His lips curl into a lopsided grin as he considers this test I’ve given him. Blue eyes slowly and seductively roam my face. He takes me in as if he’s trying to figure me out. News flash, buddy, no one has ever figured me out. Logan’s stare drops to my mouth, lingering, and then a sense of dominance clouds over his features. I’m surprised. His stare is enticing, flirtatious, and goddamn sexy as all hell.

He sucks his bottom lip in, slightly scraping his flesh against his teeth with a seductive grin. That’s hot. Yes, I’ve officially lost my mind. He places the toolbox down. Then, in the blink of an eye, he reaches his arm around my waist, hauls me in, and slams his lips to mine. Urgent, hard, and quick drives of his tongue steal all thoughts from my mind. I quickly inhale and my hand finds its way up and around his neck. He’s a good kisser. He tastes like an apple-flavored Jolly Rancher, which is usually the one flavor I ditch in the pack; after this it may become a favorite. I think a moan just vibrated through me. Get your act together, Jenna. You’ve been kissed before. Our tongues begin to settle into a slow rhythm with long, soft strokes.

Lost momentarily in the sensation of our kiss, I feel his hand cup my ass, securing me in his sturdy hold. His soft lips, molding perfectly with mine, and the strong, confident movements of his talented tongue more than prove to me that Logan, Larry, Lance—whatever his name is—most certainly is not gay. Far. From. It. His fingers tighten on my ass when he pulls me in closer, and a groan vibrating up from his chest causes a throbbing pull deep down within me.

Someone clearing their throat for a second time registers through my daze. For a split second I feel a bit reluctant to pull away from the kiss. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say Logan feels the same way. That is, until I see his expression. Our eyes lock briefly before mine break away. He looks angry. His forehead is wrinkled and his lips, so adept at kissing me just moments ago, now form a thin line. Then he turns to face Matthew.

I swallow, slightly shake my fuzzy head to compose myself, and turn as well. “Matthew.” I force a smile. “How are you?”

Matthew awkwardly reaches up and scratches the back of his head. “I’m good. I’ve been trying to reach you.” He glances over at Logan. “Hey, man. I’m Matt.” He reaches out and offers his hand.

Logan takes it. “Logan,” he answers smoothly, but it seems like there’s a hint of irritation in his voice.

There are a few seconds of uncomfortable silence as I try to clear the kiss—a kiss I can’t believe I forced—from my still foggy mind. I attempt but fail to utter a freaking word. Finally, I blurt out, “I’m sorry, I’ve just been really busy. And I meant to call you, but I lost track and…”

Matthew lifts his hand, palm facing me. “No need to explain. I understand.” Disappointment clearly written all over his face, he continues charmingly, “Well, I see that you’re busy, so I’ll leave you to your day. Take care.” He nods, turns around, and walks back down the pathway.