“Not last night.” He sits up, and the blanket that was covering him pools into his lap, revealing his bare chest. “To your head.”
“An accident.” Then I remember that Dalton was there last night, that Logan stepped between us, didn’t let Dalton take me home. I don’t know if I would have had it in me to make a scene, to refuse Dalton’s “help,” even if I know it wouldn’t have been good for me to be alone with him. “I’m sorry you had to look after me last night. That’s really unprofessional of me.”
“You’re allowed to be human, doc. I just want to know that you’re taking care of yourself. A concussion is no joke. Have you had one before?”
“I fell off a horse as a kid.” I don’t tell him that we were in Spain, and that Nathaniel had to convince my parents that my drowsy, erratic behavior probably meant I needed a doctor. Our parents were never the attentive type—unless one of us was threatening the Tucker name with unacceptable behavior or relationships they considered beneath the family.
“More than one concussion.” He shakes out the blanket, and his phone falls out. “We’re getting you checked.”
“Logan…”
He’s scrolling through his phone, and he holds it up to his ear, making defiant eye contact with me while it rings. “Doctor Bennett? Sorry to call you on a weekend, but I need an emergency consult.”
“Logan! You can’t call the royal doctor as though he’s your own personal servant,” I whisper-shout, crawling off the bed toward him.
His gaze drags over me, and I see the flare of interest before he looks away, shuttering the expression. “No, it’s not me. But it iscritical that she gets help today. She’s not good at looking after herself.”
“Oh my god,” I mutter, crossing my arms. Now that I’m off the bed, I’m very aware of what I’m wearing and what I’mnot. While he talks, I scan the room for my clothes, but I don’t know where my dress has gone.
“Suspected concussion, yeah,” Logan says. “She says it was sustained a couple of weeks ago. You’ve got the correct diagnostics there?”
I can only hear his side of the conversation as I head to the closet to look for my dress. He’s overreacting, and if I was less hungover, I’d probably be pissed off. Right now, I just want to find my clothes.
“What are you doing?” he asks before I can open the closet doors.
I turn to find him standing in the doorway, the phone clutched in one hand while he stretches the other across the top of the doorjamb.
“I’m looking for my dress.”
“Just wear some of my sweats to the royal estate. The car’s on the way. Do you really want to go there in last night’s pink frilly outfit?”
“I don’t want to go there at all, actually.” I cross my arms again, and the shirt rides up at the action.
“Your toothbrush is in the bathroom. I found a new hairbrush in one of the drawers, so I put that in there too. ETA is ten minutes on the driver.” He shoves the couch out of the way, and I follow behind him.
“Logan, you don’t need to take me to the royal doctor.”
“If I had the driver take you home, would you go get yourself looked after?”
I can’t say that I would because obviously I haven’t up to this point. Any symptoms I had at first are almost gone. Evenif Doctor Bennett diagnoses a concussion, I probably won’t do anything differently. A reasonable amount of rest. Limiting electronics. Being conscious of the types of lighting I spend a lot of time in. I know what I’m supposed to do, but I can’t, hand on heart, say I’ve been following any of it consistently.
“If the accident was something stupid or embarrassing, I’m not judging. My guy friends have done all sorts of idiotic things over the years. If this is your second concussion, you need to know. Three or more can lead to long-term consequences. I take this shitveryseriously, and so should you.”
“It’s not likely to happen again.” Or at least that set of circumstances isn’t. I hope. My heart sinks at the idea I could ever be in that situation again. God knows I never anticipated being in it in the first place.
“That’s why we call it an accident. You don’t do this to yourself on purpose. Something goes wrong. You make a mistake. Nothing to be ashamed of, but you do need a diagnosis. That’s important.”
“I just… I don’t think…” I rub my face because my head isn’t cooperating as I try to gather my thoughts. There’s a reason I never went to the doctor, even though I was pretty sure I had a low-grade concussion.
“Humor me,” he says. “Ease my mind. Next time you want me to do something I don’t want to do, remind me about today, and I’ll do whatever it is.”
That’sappealing. Logan seems like the type to dig in his heels, and having a get out of jail free card in my back pocket would be handy.
“I can’t believe Alex gave you access to his doctor. That’s basically unheard of. He tends to the royal family and no one else.”
“And the star player of their newest franchise.” The slightest hint of a smile appears. “I demanded the best as part of the move—I got him, and I got you.”
The urge to downplay the claim sits on the tip of my tongue, but I find that I don’t want to release a denial into the world. Iamthe best on the island at what I do, even if I haven’t felt that way in a while.
