When I arrive back on the top floor, Logan is still there, leaning in the door frame, and he still has thatisn’t-this-all-a-bit-sillylook on his face. His cheeks are rosy.
“You think I was going to stand in the door and let you bleed out in front of me?” I ask, raising my brow.
The corner of his mouth comes up into a tired half-smile, and even that feels like a small win to get out of him.
“Bleed out,from a cut on my finger?Dramatic,” he says in a lilting voice.
“Yep. I am dramatic. Get used to it. Now let me inside.”
He exhales, moving to the side and holding out his arm, letting me into the suite. Inside, he has the lights dimmed low, and only one of the fireplaces on. There’s at least triple the amount of paperwork on the living room coffee table than was there earlier. Some of the stacks look like movie scripts but some have a more legal appearance, probably contracts.
I go for the dining table instead.
I pull out two chairs and motion for him to sit.
“It wasn’t hush money, Chase,” he says.
I wave my hand through the air. “We can talk about that in a minute. First, explain why you’re bleeding.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Itdoes,” I tell him firmly.
He looks off toward the tall windows, his expression far away as he gazes out at the park. “Have you ever considered that I don’t want to talk about it?”
“You’ve made it clear you don’t want to talk about it, or talk to me about anything at all. But I’m tired of beating around the bush, so if you want me to fuck off, you’re going to have to say it to my face?—”
“Don’t fuck off,” he murmurs. “Please, please don’t fuck off.”
I grab the antiseptic wipes and bring his hand up. “Why are you bleeding?”
He doesn’t respond, and I hate the silence. He doesn’t even wince when I put the wipe onto his scraped up hand.
We stand up afterward and he stretches out his hand and arm, seeming very lethargic.
“Did you crack into a bottle of wine?” I ask him.
“No. Haven’t had a drop,” he says. “I’m just very sleep deprived lately.”
It takes a moment before he meets my eyes again. He gives me a long look, his eyes like two grey clouds, and something in him looks fucking broken.
I don’t understand him.
But it’s painfully obvious he needs a hug.
He can be distant all he wants, but I’m not blind. I step closer and wrap my arms around him tightly. I breathe in his scent as he stays rigid for a moment, not expecting the gesture.
But finally, he relents and lets his body melt against mine.
“Logan,” I tell him, my voice coming out a little raspy.
He leans back a little, and when I catch his eyes, it looks like something’s finally clearer in them. “I don’t know how to act around you.”
I’m not sure if that should break my heart or make me proud.
I bring my palm to his chest and grip his shirt there, balling the fabric up a little in my fist.
“I need to ask you a question,” I tell him, “and I need you to tell me the truth when you answer.”
