“I get it, I do. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. I just want to get it back to her before she starts panicking.”
Her eyes searched his face for a long moment. He could almost see the internal debate happening in real time. Then, with a heavy sigh, she clicked the computer mouse and leaned towards the screen.
“I didn’t give this to you,” she muttered.
He nodded. “Of course.”
“What’s her name?”
“Daisy Thomas.”
“Room 411,” she said under her breath, and Logan raced for the stairs.
XXXX
DAISY
She knew it was him when he knocked on the door. It was soft at first, hesitant almost, and then he did it again.
If she unlocked it, she pictured what would go on in her mind. The undoing of clothes and frantic kisses as if they’d been injected with a slow-release poison which would render them dead in an hour. Then she heard it, the sound that unravelled her; he was crying.
“Daisy.” His voice cracked. “Please open the door.”
Her breath caught, and before she could talk herself out of it, she stood, crossed the room, and pressed her eye to the peephole. He’d taken off his tie, leaving his shirt halfunbuttoned, and his hair was a mess. And he was pacing, his expression tight and unreadable.
“What is it?” she finally said, watching him.
He turned back towards the door. “We need to talk.”
In her mind, she catalogued all the unsaid words. He could tell her he was in love, admit all he did was think about her, and throw an off-handed comment about how easy it would be to run off together. All she needed to do was say yes. Then the optimist in him would argue they could go to his mother's homeland, forge new identities, and create a new life. It was a nice fantasy, sure, but there was only one thing wrong with that idea. For him, it was easy. His life was the complete opposite of hers—uncomplicated, free, untouched by responsibility or the weight of consequences.
“Not here,” she said, opening the door and scanning the hall. “Is there somewhere we can go?”
He nodded. “I have my rental car.”
“A drive then?”
He nodded again, pulling out the keys.
They walked down to the parking lot in silence, and as she slid into the passenger seat, her mind flooded with unease. All she could picture was Callan at home, unaware she was in a different country with another man. She’d promised to love him through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, yet there she was, questioning whether she’d ever truly been in love or if she’d simply forced herself to be.
“You know,” Logan said, interrupting the silence as they pulled out of the lot. “I’ve always preferred New York at night. There’s something about it.”
She followed his gaze and stared ahead. He had a point. Unlike the droves of people and chaotic, congested traffic, all she saw was a mirage of lights.
They drove for another block in silence when he took a left turn. “I thought I might take you to the Brooklyn Bridge lookout,” he said, glancing at her.
After parking the car on the street, they headed to the lookout. There were a dozen pockets of people all standing around, staring at the way the lights danced over the East River. They found a spot on a bench and sat down.
“I’ve always liked it here,” he admitted. “It usually isn’t this busy, though.”
She nodded, unsure what to say. Nobody had given them a second glance, yet she still felt like they were on display.
“You have to know,” he continued, staring at the sidewalk. “I love you. Call me crazy for saying this, but I think a part of me has loved you since the day we met.
He paused, almost as if waiting for her to reply, but she couldn’t. The words, unexpected and raw, had rendered her silent.
She turned to face him, her heart hammering in her chest. “I—”
