“I’ve seen someone,” he told her, still rubbing his temple. “Everything’s fine. I just have occasional migraines.”
She frowned at him. “Are they always this bad?”
A crooked grin curved his lips. “Usually they’re worse.”
“Does anyone know?” Claire didn’t really have to ask. She already knew the answer.
His expression became more serious. “Only you.”
Naturally, being Logan, he would want to keep any weakness shielded from the rest of the world. She wished he had willingly entrusted her with the knowledge. But there was the problem. Logan didn’t trust anyone. Not really.
“You don’t have to worry about—” she began to reassure him, but he cut her off abruptly.
“I know. I trust you.”
His words took her aback and she searched his gaze, trying to gauge the depth of his sincerity. He stared, bemused, rubbing his temples. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“Honestly, yes it is,” she replied, turning to retrieve the purse and laptop case she’d discarded earlier. Something about the dim lighting, their proximity and Logan’s candor lent the moment a sense of intimacy that disturbed her. She looked at him, keeping her expression carefully blank. “I guess dinner’s out for tonight. You’ll want to rest.”
“No.” Logan stood, but he swayed slightly, belying his denial. He leaned against the desk and pressed both hands to his head.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” She crossed the room and found herself at his side again, concern once more dominating any voices that told her she should just leave.
Logan’s eyes were closed. “Fine,” he gritted out. “Sometimes it just takes a little longer to recover.”
“I’m not going to dinner with you like this,” Claire informed him, using the I-have-better-judgment-than-you-do voice she often used with Sophie. Only now that tone was merely a pretense. Sophie never would have gotten herself into Claire’s current straits.
“I’ll be fine.” Logan opened his eyes, wincing.
“I don’t even think it’s safe for you to drive like this.” Claire bit her lip as she considered her options. Logan needed rest and relaxation, not a dinner date. But she didn’t think he could drive himself home safely in his current condition.
“Then how will I get home?” He closed his eyes.
“I’ll take you,” she blurted before she could question the wisdom of such a decision.
“I’m not a child.”
“No arguing.” She linked her arm through his. “I’ll drive you home.”
Surprisingly, Logan didn’t offer further protestations. He even remained quiet for the duration of the ride, troubling Claire more. Fortunately for her, she already knew how to get to Logan’s home, since it was in the same neighborhood as the house she’d once shared with Garrett. In fact, she had to pass her old home before reaching Logan’s. It was the first time she’d seen it in several weeks, and she saw it now as a stranger from the street. It was odd, looking from the outside in.
“Do you miss your old life?”
The question startled Claire, her hands clenching on the steering wheel as she glanced at Logan. She’d assumed he had dozed off on the drive. “I don’t know,” she responded after a moment.
“I don’t think I like the sound of that.” His voice sounded tired, pained.
Claire flicked another glance at him, his reply not what she had expected. But Logan never seemed to do or say what she expected these days. “I miss having someone to talk to. Living alone can be, well, lonely.”
She wondered if she had revealed too much. Logan remained silent, not bothering to comment. Claire couldn’t determine whether it was because of her candor or because of his headache.
The road curved to the right and Logan’s house slid into view.
Claire had driven past the imposing edifice hundreds of times before realizing it belonged to Logan. As she paused by the electronic gate at the foot of his drive, Claire found herself pondering whether Logan ever got lonely, living in his big, cold, stone mansion. It was the ultimate throne, befitting the arrogant King Monroe, but Claire had begun seeing him as simply Logan the man, and wondered if it wasn’t a hollow victory. He had his palace, but no one in it.
She looked over at him, reclining in her passenger seat with his eyes closed. He looked like Logan the man now, with his white shirt unbuttoned at the throat to reveal a hint of golden chest, the tails wrinkled in his lap.
“The code is one-three-one,” he said without opening his eyes.
