When I wake, I see I have a text from Logan. I wait for Sara to leave for the shower before reading it. And I instantly smile with gratification when I do. He was thinking of me … apparently at two-thirty in the morning … but nevertheless, thinking about me—just me. We set off for school a half hour later, and I’m anxious to get through the day so I can see Logan. He texts me while I’m in class, letting me know we’re going out that evening. Going out! Like a date going out? And I spend the rest of the day in a daydream of him. I can’t wait to see him, and I practically speed all the way to his apartment when I’m finally finished with my last class of the day. Stupid really, when you consider he’s not even home when I get there. But I set out getting ready for the night.

I try to curl my hair, but only half will hold, and I end up looking lopsided—fail. I try to put makeup on, but end up looking like Elvira—fail again. After washing my face, reapplying my normal dose of cosmetics, which is very little, and finally pulling my hair up in a bun in an attempt to hide my experiment with the curling iron, I start going through my closet for something to wear. It is warm out for Michigan in early April, so I settle on a white cotton sundress with navy stripes which hits right above my knee, a coral colored cardigan and white deck shoes. I appraise myself and decide I look far too nautical for the middle of Michigan, but I like the beachcomber look. As I start to pin back a few stray hairs from my bun, I hear Logan come in, and moments later, he enters the bathroom. He looks at me, taking in my clothes and bun. It is a quizzical look, and he tilts his head to the side as he’s studying me. Perhaps the nautical look is out this year, and I just didn’t get the memo—wouldn’t surprise me in the least.

“You don’t like it?” I nibble on my bottom lip, suddenly self-conscious. He sees the uncomfortable look in my eyes and approaches me, instantly pulling me into his arms and leaning down, pulling my lip from between my teeth into his mouth.

“I like it very much. You look beautiful. It just makes me question our plans for the evening.”

At that, he turns and starts stripping while he reaches into the shower and turns on the jets. I stare after him, wondering if he’s going to explain further or if I should change. It’s clear he has no intention of elaborating. “So … should I change?”

From the shower, he leans out and with a smirk says, “Oh no. Please don’t do that. I’m changing my plans to suit your outfit.”

Hmmm. What, I wonder, does that mean? I leave for the kitchen, pouring a small glass of wine to calm my nerves. When he emerges ten minutes later, it is my turn to appraise. He’s wearing absolutely, fabulously, worn jeans with a pair of flip flops, a faded-out mustard colored T-shirt with his college emblem on the front, and a cream colored, zip-up, cable knit sweater. He looks like a bloody Ralph Lauren model! He does beachcomber far better than me, and in a third of the time it took me. I’m muttering inwardly. Damn naturally beautiful people.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I pry some more. “So, will you tell me where we’re going?”

“Well, I had thought we’d go to Grand Rapids to the new dinner theater and then dessert down in the village afterward, but as I said, your outfit made me rethink that idea.” At that, he grabs his keys, a couple of blankets from the foyer closet—interesting—my hand, and we are out the door.

When we reach his Jeep, I try again. “So, you still haven’t answered my question.”

He looks at me as we both climb in. He then takes my hand, looks at me a moment longer, and then replies, “No, I haven’t.”

We set off, leaving Allendale minutes later. However, we are not leaving in the direction of Grand Rapids. We head west instead. There is little out this way for nearly forty minutes, and then it occurs to me: he’s taking me to Grand Haven. I smile inwardly. It is one of my favorite places to visit. It is near where the Harringtons' lake house is on Spring Lake, but it isn’t the lake that is so impressive about Grand Haven. On the other side of town from that lake is Lake Michigan, and the seaside harbor. It is a beautiful, eclectic area, and I love it.

Ronnie takes Sara and me to the boutiques down by the harbor on occasion during the summer, and we shop and feast the afternoon away in the quaint village. I always love visiting Grand Haven when I can. And in growing anticipation, we get closer and closer until I can see Lake Michigan coming up before us. We park along one of the side streets of the harbor area, and as Logan helps me from the Jeep he pulls me up in his arms and whispers in my ear, “I thought you’d look far more appropriate here. I hope you won’t miss the dinner theater too much.”

Hand in hand we stroll down to the harbor and to Main Street, filled with its boutique shops and quaint restaurants. There is a street festival of some sort going on, and the look on Logan’s face tells me he’s not surprised by this.

“So, was this the other idea you had in mind?”

He confirms with a smile. “Yes. This is their Farmers’ Market. Too early for good produce, but still, lots of good food, music, and shopping. Then, if you’re not too tired, I thought we could drive out to the lighthouse at the beach and take a walk on the pier.”

Embarrassingly, this is my first real date, and I have a feeling every date in my life will pale in comparison. We continue strolling through the crowds of people. We look like any other real couple on the street, and it’s easy to pretend we are exactly that—a couple; just a normal happy couple spending time together—were that only true. He never lets go of my hand as we meander from shop to shop, one vendor table to another, and one street band to the next. When we stop to listen to music, he pulls my back into his chest and holds me possessively, resting a hidden hand inside my cardigan that strokes my nipple through the thin fabric of my dress. He nuzzles my bare neck as waves of desire shoot through my body straight to my center, and soon I feel the all too familiar wetness begin to build. We eat our way from one end of the street to the other, savoring every dessert and delicious treat we can get our hands on, and by the time we return to the Jeep, a couple of hours have passed and the sun is starting to set.

As I reach for the car door, Logan suddenly stops me, pushing me up against the car instead. The side street is blessedly empty except for us. My chest is against the door of the car and Logan presses in behind me. I can feel his hard length against my back, and I know instantly how much he’s been waiting to get me alone. He leans down to my bare neck and starts nibbling the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. His mouth makes its way around to the other side, made easy by my upswept hair. His hands work their way down to the hem of my dress as he slides it up my backside.

The cool air on the back of my thighs entices me, but not enough to stow my nervousness at being so exposed in a public place. When my hem is secure at my waist, his hands travel to the top of my underwear and slowly, oh-so-slowly, start working them down my hips. I’m incredibly turned on but also terrified someone will walk around the corner at any moment. As it is, there are people passing by the entrance of this quiet little street on their way down Main Street. They pay us no attention, and Logan continues. As he works my underwear down over the cheeks of my rear, he sinks to the curb behind me. He eases my underwear down my thighs and then helps me to step out of them entirely. His hands grasp my cheeks as his mouth finds the soft skin of my bottom. He kisses and massages the skin of my buttocks, first one cheek and then the other as I stand exposed in front of him. I’m soaking wet at this point, and I’m so addicted to his fingers that I would do anything to feel them on me. But he’s intent on focusing on my backside at the moment.

To my sudden horror, a middle-aged couple rounds the corner toward us, but as swiftly as they appear, Logan stands behind me, pulling my hem back down and pocketing my underwear. Before the couple even has time to look up and notice us, he’s reaching for my car door as though he’s doing nothing more than being a chivalrous gentlemen—if they only knew. As the couple approaches us, they nod a pleasant evening greeting to us, and Logan smiles and returns the gesture. He returns to his side of the Jeep and climbs in, winking at me. Once seated, he looks at me with a mischievous grin on his face before starting the car and pulling out into the street. After we’re on our way, he reaches over and takes my hand, pulling it up to his mouth and brushing his lips across my knuckles. I watch him, completely enamored. We drive for only a few minutes before reaching the lighthouse. He turns to me with the same mischievous smile. “Are you up for a bit more play?”

And here I thought we were just sightseeing. Who am I to turn down more fun? I meet his challenge. “You betcha”.

We amble toward the pier, again hand in hand. Logan has the blankets in his arm, and I wonder exactly how those are going to come in to play. Hmm. There’s that word again, “play”. And what an exciting word it is. The pier is deserted this time of year, and twilight is just settling in. The sound of the water lapping the concrete walkway is the only sound aside from our footsteps. We near the lighthouse tower that sits halfway out on a concrete pier between the land and an old historic house. Walking around the lighthouse, Logan finds a place on the far side, away from the view of land but well illuminated from the lamps that line the pier. Here he stops. Turning to me with eyes smoldering with need, he sits on the concrete ledge that runs around the circumference of the tower. It creates a short bench, which is about a foot high from the ground, and as Logan sits he pulls me toward him with his hands on the backs of my knees.