“You too,” she whispers back as her eyes close.
I head back into the guest bedroom. I am not trying to snoop, but I can’t help but notice she doesn’t have a lot of personal pictures around. There’s a picture of a couple on her dresser by the door of her room that I think are probably her parents, but that’s it. The guest room across from the one I’m in has a painting of some seagulls over the ocean and a small collection of ceramic fairies on the dresser but nothing more.
When my alarm goes off an hour later, I almost don’t hear it over Chewie’s snoring. I get up and walk back into her room. She’s rolled over and is facing away from me now, curled up the other way. I lean over her and give her the same gentle shake as before.
“Chloe?”
“Jackson?” she murmurs, and I freeze.
“Who?” Her shoulder stiffens under my hand and her breath audibly catches. Her eyes open.
“Sorry,” she says but she doesn’t turn to face me. “Logan Hawkins. Paramedic and tenant extraordinaire. My favorite color is blush. I’m originally from Hawaii. It’s Saturday morning at this point, I’m sure.”
“Who is Jackson?” I ask even though it shouldn’t matter.
“I’m in Ocean Pines, Maine. My birthday is April fifteenth,” she says.
“I can’t verify that. I never asked you when your birthday was,” I tell her. It was on her chart but I didn’t notice.
“Yours is July fourth. You can verify that.”
“You know my birthday?”
She curls up into a tighter ball under the covers. “It was on your rental paperwork and July fourth is hard to forget. It’s like being born on Christmas or Valentine’s Day.”
She’s right there, and then the significance of her birthday dawns on me. “Or Tax Day.”
I see the corner of her mouth move in a sleepy smile and her shoulder relaxes under my grip. “You get fireworks, I get the IRS.”
I want to ask who Jackson is again, but it’s not medically necessary. I’m being nosy. I start to walk out of the room. “See you in an hour.”
“Mmm…hmm…”
I head back to my room. The dogs haven’t moved and are still snoring. I double check my alarm is set and drift off into a light, not at all restful, sleep.
7
Chloe
I wakeup with a very dull, persistent headache and some stiffness in my back from the fall. But as I sit up slowly, I’m thrilled to realize I’m not dizzy, have no double vision, and don’t feel nauseous. In fact, I’m famished. The house is silent except for the sound of some very loud snoring. Logan? Dear God he is cutting logs.
My little clock on the bedside table says it’s quarter to seven. Logan must have woken me up about forty-five minutes ago. I don’t really remember it, but I do remember when he woke me up sometime before that and I whispered Jackson’s name. Ugh. I’m an idiot. I was just so sleepy and out of it.
I throw back the covers, get out of bed, and slip my feet into my slippers. In the hall, the snoring is louder. I can’t help but sneak a peek through the open guest room door. Logan is asleep on his back, one arm thrown up over his head. The sheets are bunched around his hips. He’s in a t-shirt, but it’s gathered up around the middle of his rib cage, leaving his lower torso exposed. The snoring, I realize with a grin, isn’t coming from him. It’s coming from Chewie, who is parked on the throw rug by the side of the bed. And then my smile slips as my mouth falls open. Boss is curled up on the bed by Logan’s feet and Stevie is cuddled up by his pillow.
My dogs are snuggling my tenant. It’s like I don’t even know them. I tip toe across the room and scoop them up. I can’t help but notice some ink on Logan’s exposed left side. Words in a strong, thick script.The only way out is through.
I force myself not to stare at his uncovered skin very long. I already feel a bit like a creeper for coming into the room, but I know Stevie and her ancient bladder can’t wait much longer without a potty break. I don’t have the heart to wake Logan up since, even asleep, he looks exhausted.
After I’ve very carefully taken the dogs outside and almost lost them in the thick piles of snow in the backyard, I make my way into the kitchen. I decide maybe coffee will help the headache, and as it brews, I stare at the contents of my fridge. I’m starving but not sure what my first meal should be. I’m worried eating too much or the wrong thing will make me nauseous again. I wonder if Logan will be hungry. Will he remember the whole Jackson thing? I wonder if he regrets moving in here and if last night will make things permanently awkward between us or if it bonded us and now we’ll be friendlier to each other. My brain is spinning now, which isn’t helping this headache.
As I pour a cup of coffee, there’s a knock on the mostly open barn door that separates the kitchen from the living room. I turn and find him standing there, hair askew, Chewie by his side. Boss runs over and starts sniffing Chewie again while growling a little.
Logan smiles. “He’s literally all bark and no bite.”
I nod, smiling, and raise the coffee pot in his direction. “Cuppa Joe?”
“Yeah. Thanks. Just give me the whole pot,” he says and reaches for it. I laugh but keep it out of his reach as I turn to grab a mug from the vintage hutch where I keep them.
