“No,” I say flatly.
“Why not?”
“I won’t do it,” I reply and try to pull myself up off the floor. He is off the bed and hooking me under the elbow in a flash. His other arm slips around my waist when I start to tilt to the left. He guides me toward the bed, but I dig in the heels of my winter boots and refuse to move.
“Chloe, look, I don’t know what the fuck is going on here,” he says and his tone is definitely more concern than judgment. “Talk to me so I can help you.”
God I still feel like barfing. How is that possible? There has got to be nothing left in my stomach. “Unless you can tell me without a doubt that I will drop dead if I walk out those doors, then I am not staying the night in here. And honestly, even if you say I will drop dead, it’ll be hard to convince me to stay.”
My voice quivers—hard—on that last part, which was kind of a joke.Kind of.
He is just standing there, inches from me, holding me up and staring at me. “Does this have to do with your limp?”
He noticed I limp sometimes. That makes me irrationally angry. “Why would it have to do with that?”
“Because you limp like someone who has had a severe pelvic or hip fracture. The kind that’s had surgical intervention and also means hospital stays and rehabilitation.”
“They teach you to read limps in paramedic school?” I snark, still irrationally upset.
“Yeah, well I did two years of med school and was hoping to be an orthopedic surgeon,” he replies with a shrug. “I notice more than your average paramedic.”
Okay, that is an unexpected plot twist. Hot tenant-slash-fisherman-slash-paramedic was almost a Hot Doctor? So many questions…
“So is your anger because I’m right? Did you break your hip?”
“Yes. When I shattered my pelvis and cracked a vertebrae and broke my right femur.”
“How the hell did all that happen?” He is stunned. Typical reaction, and when I give the reason why, the reaction gets worse because the shock mixes with pity and disbelief, and I don’t need that from him tonight. Or ever.
“Car crash. You were almost a doctor, so I think you know how billing works, right?” I think he nods but I’m not sure, so I just keep talking anyway. “Run the tab for all those pesky injuries through your mental calculator and when it explodes, then you know why I can’t stay. Also, why I have a tenant.”
There’s silence and I’m feeling unbelievably nauseous again so I close my eyes.
“Oh. Okay. You have medical bills,” he says calmly. “I get that can be stressful.”
“Soul-sucking is the term I tend to use, and I can’t afford any more,” I sigh and try to lean toward my jacket, but I feel his gentle hands on my shoulders. It’s probably for the best. “Unless I sell the house. And then we’re both homeless.”
“Please just lean against the wall and don’t move. I’ll get your jacket,” he says.
“So you’ll take me home so I can vomit without the billion-dollar surcharge?” I say right before I barf again - on his brown boots.
Oh God, I am the worst landlord in the history of the universe. He should have asked me for a damage deposit and not the other way around.
It’s a quick, violent burst because luckily there’s not a lot left in my stomach. And Logan doesn’t even blink. He just stands there, trying to keep the ends of my hair from falling forward again, and lets me violate his lovely leather footwear and then hands me a tissue just like last time.
“I am so sorry. I’ll replace those.”
“They’re five years old, and I bought them secondhand to begin with. Don’t worry about it,” he replies calmly.
“I’m worried about it. I’m worried about everything,” I say and inhale a deep, shaky breath.
“If I take you home, you have to agree to some conditions,” he says with trepidation in his low voice.
“Okay. I agree.”
“You don’t know what they are.”
“If it means I’m out of here right now, I agree.”
