“My best friend Jake was already a firefighter, and he was loving life. I wanted to work in medicine. I wanted to help people but not incur a shit ton of debt,” he gives me a small, sad smile. “Med school is insanely expensive, and my rehab drained my finances and my family’s. They sent me to rehab out of state because it was the best one they could find, but it wasn’t covered by insurance.”
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and Chewie, as if sensing his person’s discomfort, walks over and leans his head against Logan’s knee. Logan scratches him behind the ears. “Paramedic training was cheaper and also got me into the workforce quicker so I could help people sooner than if I had finished med school. Pay isn’t as great as a doctor though, so I’m going to have to put buying a mansion by the sea on hold.”
I smile. “You really want a mansion by the sea?”
“No. I want a very modest cottage within walking distance to the sea.” His blue eyes glint around the room. “Even this place would be a little too big for me.”
“It’s way too big for me,” I confess and instantly regret it because it’s opening up the topic of my marriage again. “And I don’t want to be here forever, but I’m not ready to let it go. And if I can rent a room every now and then and keep a wonderful tenant in the apartment, I should be able to hold onto it a few more years.”
“It’s a beautiful home,” Logan says, a small smile still lingering from when I called him a wonderful tenant. “I get the feeling there’s a sentimental attachment?”
“I thought you were a paramedic not a psychiatrist,” I joke, trying to keep the conversation light.
“Did you own it with your ex?”
“Yup.”
Not a lie.
“So you got it in the divorce?”
“Something like that.” Ugh. That definitely is more of a red-hot lie than a white one. “Do you want another coffee? I think I’ll have another.”
I stand up and turn toward the coffee maker way too quickly, like my quick movements will help me avoid disclosing the truth. Of course it doesn’t. It just makes me remember I have a head injury because the stitched wound on my forehead starts to throb, and I get light-headed. I reach out for the countertop, but my hand lands on Logan’s abs instead because he’s suddenly right there in front of me.
He wraps a strong arm around my waist. “I’ve got you.”
He helps me put the coffee cup down on the counter and walks me out of the kitchen into the living room, depositing me on the chaise part of my couch. “Are you nauseous?”
“No. Just light-headed.”
“Lay back,” Logan says, so I do.
“I’m feeling better already. I swear. I just moved too quickly,” I promise and want to immediately sit up again, but he puts his hands gently on my shoulders to keep me in place.
His eyes narrow and he looks at the wound on my forehead. Then he commands in a doctorly voice, “Follow my finger with your eyes.”
He holds up a finger and moves it left and right, up and down. I follow it effortlessly. “I’m okay. I promise.”
He still doesn’t let me move and this time when his hands hit my shoulders and I tilt my head to meet his stare, everything seems to come to a screeching halt…except my pulse, which takes off at the speed of light. His hand moves to my neck and my pulse quickens even more. I lick my lips and he parts his. I can’t take my eyes off them—his lips—even after they get so close my vision blurs. And then…
The doorbell rings.
The room explodes in a cacophony of barking. All three dogs gallop to the front door. Logan is standing on his feet, out of kissing distance, before I can actually kiss him, which is exactly what I was about to do. Or maybe he was going to kiss me? Now we will never know.
I pull myself up off the couch with his help.
“Are you okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. I have no idea who that might be, though.”
I smooth my sweater and start walking slowly toward the door, trying to catch my breath, which I lost somewhere between almost fainting and almost kissing. Logan walks behind me, close enough to catch me if I get dizzy again, and commands the dogs to stop barking. Chewie listens, but Boss and Stevie ignore him completely.
I look through the peep hole and don’t recognize the guy standing on my porch in a charcoal gray dress coat with a brief case. I pull open the door just enough to pop my head into the crack and keep the dogs from charging out. “Hello?”
“I’m sorry to bother you but is this the home of Logan Hawkins?”
I glance over my shoulder. Logan has picked up both Stevie and Boss, holding them like two furry, angry footballs, one under each arm. I open the door wider. He takes one look at the guy standing there, and his face fills with recognition. “Manuel! Hey. Are you here for the visit?”
