He reached his arms out. “I’m an open book.”

With my mouth barely around my straw, I mumbled, “For some reason, I doubt that.”

Just like me, he was able to compose himself in a moment’s notice. It was obvious; we were both good at hiding things. Which was exactly what he did.

Smirking, he said, “Fine, don’t believe me. Ask me anything.”

First-date questions should be easy. Like, what’s your favorite color? What do you like to read? But I wasn’t one for pretense. Small talk wasn’t my thing. I had questions I wanted to know the answers to. And besides, we both knew this was no first date. I put my elbows on the table and tucked my hands under my chin. “Okay. Why are you driving your father around?”

Quite abruptly, he turned his head toward the door before turning back to meet my gaze and whispered, “His driver’s license was revoked. One too many DUIs.”

Plausible. Still, I contemplated his answer. “Then why didn’t you drive him home after you left Michael’s?”

Elbows on the table, he leaned forward. “Because he’s a fucking hothead and he pissed me off, so I left his ass.”

I tried not to laugh. I was certain the situation wasn’t funny. Instead, I moved my head closer to him. “Sounds like you are too.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes I am, but I try not to be.”

I liked that he didn’t have a filter—it made him seem more honest.

On to question two of I didn’t know how many. I had way too many questions for the man who was somehow connected to my sister and Michael. “Why are you staying at the Four Seasons if you live in Boston?”

Logan picked up his glass and sipped from it. “I don’t live in Boston. I live in New York City. I’ve been coming here to help my father out with his practice for the last six months, but his house in Dorchester Heights is a shit hole.” When he finished speaking, any amusement he once had in his hazel eyes was gone. Seriousness had replaced it all. “Anything else?”

Yes, I had a million other questions. I wanted to know who he was and what he did. What he knew about Michael’s situation. Deep down, I really hoped Logan wasn’t involved in what my sister had gotten herself into, but it seemed after what happened earlier, he had to be. My laundry list of questions would have to wait. I could see in his eyes that my time was running out. I leaned back in the booth. “I do have one more question.”

Eyeing me wearily, he heaved a sigh. “Go ahead.” But then he threw me a smile to let me know he wasn’t completely annoyed—yet.

My stomach did a flip and I think he knew it. I knew I should watch my body language. I might be giving off a vibe I could never live up to. Sucking in a breath, I asked my final question. “What is it you do to help your dad out?”

My mind was coming up with all kinds of things that should have worried me.

A hit man.

A drug runner.

A bookie.

“I’m a lawyer,” he said matter-of-factly.

Okay, I so wasn’t expecting that. I eyed him skeptically. He wasn’t dressed like Michael or even his father. Sure he had the white shirt, but that was where the similarity stopped. His white shirt molded to his toned chest like perfection, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, top two buttons undone. He wore distressed jeans that looked almost lethal on him. Add black suede sneakers and a casual black coat. Hot. Casual. Mouthwatering. Yep, other than the white shirt, he was not dressed like an attorney at all, or at least any attorney I knew.

He chuckled, and then as if reading my mind, he reassured me. “I am. I wasn’t seeing clients today. But trust me, I graduated from law school two years ago and currently work for the Ryan Corporation in New York City.”

Shocked, it took me a moment for his words to sink in. “The Ryan Corporation? Like in the largest international hedge fund management company in the country?”

He smiled. “That’s the one.”

So did I. “I’m impressed.”

Nonchalantly, he lifted his gaze to mine. “Don’t be. My grandfather owns the company and my position in the legal department was created solely for me. Associate counsel, Litigation and Employment. It’s a bullshit job.”

I was sipping my soda and almost spit it out of my mouth. “Your grandfather is . . .” I paused as it clicked.

“Logan Ryan,” we said in unison.

Logan. I got it.

“You know him?” he asked, seemingly surprised.

Wrenching my eyes from his, I said, “Well, not personally, but when I worked for the International Trade Center, he was our biggest client.”

Logan nodded in recognition. “Ah yes, he has a penchant for collecting exotic things.”

“So what are you doing in Boston helping your dad if you have a job in New York?”

Logan’s body stiffened, but he answered anyway. “When my father was arrested, I told him if he got back on the wagon, I’d come up here every Thursday and Friday and help salvage what was left of his practice. Like I said, my job at the Ryan Corporation is a joke, and to be honest, I much prefer working with my father’s clients. They’re people who need help.”

Surprised by his candor, I asked, “Then why don’t you work in Boston full-time?”

He shrugged. “That is a long story.”

Well, either way, it sounded like he made an honest living. Yet something in the back of my mind still nagged me. I wondered what part of the mess my sister had created his father was a part of and, in turn, what involvement, if any, Logan had. But I wasn’t about to just ask. The situation was way too delicate. And I was smarter than that. As I sat across from him, though, I had to question—was I? I wouldn’t be here if I were.

“I don’t understand. Why not just—” I started to ask, but he cut me off.

His expression hardened. “I think that’s enough about me.”

I felt myself flushing. I may have gotten a little carried away.

Expectedly, and within moments of shutting me down, he said, “Your turn.”

Mentally switching gears, I tried to think about what I could tell him. I never talked about myself. I hated it, so instead I lied. “Honestly, there’s not much to tell. What you see is what you get.”

He eyed me dubiously. My lie was just that—a lie.

I wasn’t surprised that he doubted what I’d said. I would have too.

The truth was, I often wondered if the word damaged wasn’t inked across my forehead for any man who might be even mildly interested in me to see, because they always seemed to know something was off.

Could Logan tell I wasn’t whole?

Much to my relief, he smirked and then nudged me under the table. “You’re not playing fair. I just spilled my life story and you’re giving me one of the oldest lines in the book? Come on.”

He hadn’t spilled his life story, but he did tell me more than he had to. I’d give him that.

“Here you go.” The waitress set two red plastic baskets down, each containing a huge burger and way too many fries. “Anything else?” she asked.

Logan glanced over at me just as my gaze darted to the ketchup. “I’m good.”

“Me too,” he said.

“Enjoy. If you need anything else, let me know.” She slipped the check on the table and left us to our meal.

Logan was handing me the ketchup before I had a chance to reach for it.

I raised a curious brow.

Was he reading my mind?

He shrugged. “I saw you eyeing it.”

With a quick twist, I removed the sticky white lid. “Can’t have fries without it.”

Logan seemed amused as I pounded the bottom of the ketchup bottle, failing miserably to make a pile in the middle of my fries. Nothing was coming out.

“Here, let me show you.” Instantly, his hand was across the table and I willingly relinquished the bottle to him. When he took it, he held the glass at the neck and tipped it in such a way that the thick red liquid poured out easily.

“How?” I harrumphed.

His hazel eyes lifted seductively. “The secret is knowing where the sweet spot is.”