“Do not take the meds until the morning,” I say as she crawls into bed.
“Okay,” she says, yawning. “This is pretty.” She fingers the quilt on the bed.
“Cost me a million dollars,” I admit, tucking it around her. For some reason, my throat grows tight at the idea of her sleeping inthis bed with this blanket. “You ever slept under a million-dollar quilt before?”
“I don’t know,” she says, her eyes fluttering closed. “I never ask how much things cost.”
Her comment drives home how differently we were raised. I can’t imagine not knowing or asking or even assuming the value of something. But to Sawyer, those were details that didn’t matter as a kid or as an adult.
Her breathing evens out, and for the first time since we left the bar, a twinge of unease sets in. I’ve been a loner for most of my life, and that’s suited me. Apart from Chayton a time or two, I’ve never looked after anyone other than myself.
But here I am, a fucking mother hen, over Sawyer Tucker, a woman who could afford to pay someone a hefty sum to watch over her by the minute without even batting an eye. Bringing her home with me was some kind of madness.
I don’t know what I’m getting myself into with her, but I already feel in too deep.
Chapter Ten
Sawyer
There’s warmth on my face, and when I crack open one eye, I realize Nathaniel’s curtains are thrown wide open with no part of the oversized windows covered. I must have forgotten to close them last night. When I sit up, my head throbs, and I rub my face, my dry mouth a clue to how much I drank last night.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been drunk enough that I needed to stay with my brother… and then I glance down and notice the pretty patterned quilt on the bed, and I swear my mouth goes even drier, which I didn’t think was possible.
Shit.I close my eyes and try to center my chaotic thoughts and my pounding head. This isn’t Nathaniel’s apartment anymore, and the man who tucked me in wasn’t my brother.
Pushing back the covers, I realize I’m naked under an oversized California Crows jersey. At least Logan isn’t in here with me or I’m not inhisbed. I cover my mouth with my hand when a vague memory of puking in the street resurfaces.
So classy.
He must think I’m an absolute disaster. Then I catch sight of the water, Gatorade, and aspirin on the side table, and I can’t help an audible sigh of relief. I toss the two pills into my mouth, and I chug the Gatorade.
The bed creaks as I ease back under the covers, drawing them over my head.
“You’re awake?” a gruff voice comes from somewhere much closer than I’d like.
I draw the quilt back down, hoping Logan isn’t as near as he sounded a second ago. “Awake doesn’t seem like the right word,” I mutter. When I can’t see him, I risk sitting up again, and I notice the bedroom door is wide open, and the oversized couch that used to be in the center of the living room is across the threshold of the door. Logan is sprawled on it, looking too big to have slept there.
“Why are you on the couch? Please tell me I didnotpuke in your bed.”
“Rest easy. Only out the door of the car,” Logan says, and he shifts on the couch to face me.
“So, why are you on the couch?”
“Because someone is not looking after themselves.” He gives me a pointed stare.
I hold his gaze for a beat, trying to piece together what makes him believe that other than my inability to hold my liquor.
“A concussion mixed with too much alcohol? Ring any bells?”
“I don’t have a concussion.”
“The way I see it, the only reason you can say that is because you haven’t had anyone assess you. There’s a bump on the back of your head.”
Self-consciously, I run my hand over the spot that’s still tender sometimes, but I consider it phantom pain, not the real thing.My brain tries to remind me once in a while to be careful who I trust.
“What happened?” he asks.
“I drank too much.”
