“Or I didn’t think you’d want to sleep in jeans.”
He makes some incoherent grumbling noise before rolling from his back to his stomach. One of his pillows ends up getting caught under his bicep from the movement, almost like he’s clutching it to his chest and cuddling it.
And there it is again: the strange, disarming feeling from earlier.
Clearing my throat, I head for the door, only stopping there to check on him one more time.
“You’re good, right? You’re not gonna, like, choke on your tongue or anything?”
“First you want to fake boyfriends, then you take my clothes off. Now I can’t die? Careful, Lil Reed. Might think you like me.”
The words come out choppy and jumbled by alcohol, but I understand him all the same. I wish I didn’t, though. Because even in his altered state—and despite tonight’s events—he’s picked up on something I hadn’t even considered a possibility.
And what’s even worse is the harrowing realization that he’s right.
Eleven
Camden
I wake up the next morning stripped down to my boxers, and with a very blurry recollection from the previous night. Of course, the minute I manage to recall the events—and more importantly, the shit that fell outta my mouth—I bolt upright in bed in a panic.
Not the brightest idea when I’m a bit hungover, but I ignore the hint of a headache and climb out of bed like a man on a mission.
My objective: find Logan and apologize.
PreferablyafterI shower and get dressed, because I smell a little bit like a brewery, and I really doubt he’d appreciate having any sort of conversation while I’m only in my underwear.
Wait, didn’t he undress me last night?
Shit, I think so.
Once I’ve cleaned myself up, I find him before I even make it down the stairs. He’s sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of coffee in front of him, neck craned over what I realize is his sketchbook. He doesn’t hear me, too engrossed in his work, but when I reach the base of the stairs, I notice the way he’s moving is off. It takes a second of me watching quietly from a distance to realize it’s the harsh strokes he makes with his pen, almost likehe’s angry. His movements are usually much more controlled and precise, at least in all the times he’s drawn with me around.
It doesn’t take a whole lot of brain power to figure out what he could be angry about this morning, especially after the antics I pulled last night. Which is why I have half a mind to turn around and go back upstairs to avoid this conversation completely.
We need to have it, though, and that’s the only reason I force my feet forward, entering the kitchen. I busy myself with grabbing a mug for my own coffee—something I only drink to kill the hangover headaches—and murmur a soft “good morning” to him over my shoulder.
“How are you feeling?”
“Probably better than I deserve,” I reply honestly. Glancing up from my mug, I find him still drawing with those quick, angered movements, and I’m hit with a bit of guilt. “Sorry for making you come get me last night.”
“Don’t mention it.”
The sentence comes out clipped, and I wince.
Yeah, definitely not happy.
“Well, still. I shouldn’t have called you when—”
“I told you to call if you needed something,” he cuts in, finally looking up for the first time. There’s a tiredness to his hazelnut eyes, and there’s a bit of irritation in the set of his brow, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that Logan doesn’t mince words—or make empty offers.
“So you’re not mad?” I ask slowly.
“No.”
“Then, what is it?”
His lips curl down in a frown. “What’s what?”
