Logan puts the lid on the toilet and flushes before he pulls me into his strong arms. He places me in his lap as he sits on the bathroom floor with his legs slightly bent in front of him because of the cramped space, his back resting on the glass wall of the walk-in shower. “Shh, I got you, baby,” he says softly as he kisses the top of my head, and his calloused fingers wipe the tears that fall from my eyes.
I don’t know how long we sit on the bathroom floor with me enveloped entirely by Logan’s big body. After some time, the tears stop and I’m no longer shaking like a leaf, but Logan doesn’t let me go. He keeps me wrapped in his big arms, and I’ve never felt safer in my entire life. It’s inexplicably like finally arriving home after a hard day. Like finding something that I’ve been searching for my whole life. Like mending a broken part of my soul. His woodsy cologne sails over me in calming waves, and the steady beat of his heart lulls me until my eyes shut on their own accord, and tiredness pulls me under.
14
Ava
Iwake with a start and squint my eyes at the bright light slanting through the window. Blinking a few times, I realize I’m in bed, and I furrow my eyebrows, confused about how I got here. Then I remember losing my shit and Logan pulling me into his arms and holding me there until I calmed down. I fell asleep while he held me, didn’t I?
Fuck me.
He saw me puking, and he stayed there in the bathroom with me while I sobbed and used him like my own personal comfort pillow. He probably thinks I’m batshit crazy, aside from being the clumsiest person on Earth. Because my brain hates me, it sends me a flashback of how I spilled the beer in his lap a week ago, and I want to die inside.
Groaning, I push myself into a sitting position, but I freeze when the sound of someone breathing from the direction of the couch fills the air. Did Logan stay? Oh my God, he did stay. My heart constricts in my chest when I see his big body slumped on top of the couch through the paneled glass separating my bedroom from the rest of the studio apartment.
As I get up from the bed, I notice I’m halfway naked. He took off my jeans when he tucked me in, probably to make me more comfortable, and I cringe hard because I’m wearing the rattiest panties I own, the grandma skivvies I typically use only on my period. I didn’t have time to do laundry, and the period panties were my only clean underwear.
Perfect…just perfect.
I take a pair of shorts and a tee from my dresser and tip-toe to the bathroom, but I can’t help stopping in my tracks to look at Logan. He barely fits on the couch, and the bottom half of his legs hang in the air on the L portion, almost touching the TV. His head is tilted to the side with a hand thrown over his forehead, his features relaxed in slumber, and his lips parted slightly. The sun shining through the window casts his deep amber skin in a golden hue that makes him look like a sexy angel.
I realize I’ve been standing there like a creep for way too long, so I turn around and get into the bathroom, closing the door behind me carefully. I almost scream when I catch a glance of my reflection in the mirror. Last night’s makeup is caked on my face, and streaks of black mascara are smudged around my cheeks. I honestly wonder how the fuck Logan didn’t run for the hills when I look like I just stepped out of a horror movie.
Bringing my hand to my throat, I run the pads of my fingers over the bandage Logan placed over the cut and peel it off; the wound doesn’t look half as bad as my makeup. I don’t understand how I could sleep so deeply that I didn’t feel him tending to my wound and tucking me in bed. My finger trailsdown to where the scar from my heart transplant surgery should be. It’s so thin and faded that it doesn’t even look like I had surgery.
My new doctor, the one who performed the transplant, said that there’s nothing to worry about, even when I asked him if he was one hundred percent sure it’s normal. I read online that the scar will never completely fade, so naturally, I had questions. He simply told me to stop doing my own research and that I should only believe him because he is my doctor. Well, what do I know? He’s the one who went to med school. Shrugging, I just add that to the pile of weird things happening to me since receiving a new heart and take off my clothes.
I make quick work of washing myself, happy to scrub the bar smell off me. I let out a sharp curse when I start massaging the shampoo into my still sensitive scalp. Stepping out of the shower, I towel dry my hair, not wanting to wake up Logan, and then brush my teeth and wash last night’s makeup off.
When I get out of the bathroom, Logan is still sleeping, and I don’t know what to do with myself. My stomach grumbles so loudly I’m afraid I’ll wake him up. Usually, Sunday is the day I bake something, do laundry, and veg out for hours on the couch watching a show or some reruns. I was planning on making some chocolate croissants from scratch today, but I don’t have the time now, so I take out from the cupboard everything I need to make blueberry muffins, whisk all the ingredients, pour the batter in the tray and pop it into the oven.
Then I start whisking eggs in a bowl and take out another pan to fry bacon in it. It looks like I’m preparing a feast for six people, but with how much I’ve been eating lately, I will probably end up eating half of what I’m making, including the muffins.
“Mmm, it smells delicious,” Logan’s sleepy, gravelly voice pulls my attention toward him, and I turn around. I almost drop the pan at the image before my eyes. He’s stretching, his Henleyriding up with the movement, allowing me a perfect view of his delicious-looking abs and the flawlessly etched V that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. Is that a ten-pack? Does that even exist? Why does it feel like I put my face into the oven all of a sudden? I realize too late he just asked me something while I was busy ogling his magnificent body and say, “Huh?”
The corner of his lips lifts in a smirk. Ugh, I want to hit myself in the face with the pan for being so blatantly obvious. He stands up and ambles toward me, stopping near the breakfast bar, which is close enough to me that I can see a day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks and a messy cloud of curls on his head. He’s positively—seductively?—sleep rumpled. My hand itches with the need to sink my fingers in his hair. “How are you feeling?”
I place the pan back on the stove and turn around to answer Logan. “Better, I, um…”Holy shit, Ava! Pull yourself together!“Thank you for last night. I’m sorry about crying all over you…I don’t know what came over me.”
A serious look passes over his face. “You have nothing to worry about. It’s a normal response to trauma. Plus, I got to hold a beautiful woman in my arms, so you won’t hear me complain.” He gives me a rueful grin that makes my heart flutter.
Heat crawls up my neck all the way to my cheeks. “I made breakfast,” I say, stating the obvious and pointing like a weirdo to the pans. Not that he didn’t see them already.
Ugh. Shoot me now!
He only smiles at my awkwardness. “Can I step into the bathroom real quick?”
“Yeah, sure.”
As Logan makes a beeline for the bathroom, the oven’s timer pings, letting me know the muffins are ready. I take out the tray and let them chill for a bit as I set plates and cutlery on the breakfast bar. Then I place a few muffins on a platter and bringit with me as I sit on one of the bar stools, waiting for Logan.
It might just be convenient timing, or perhaps it’s my heart lurching every time it sees him, but the exact moment he comes out of the bathroom is when I remember I haven’t taken my immunosuppressants and the other army of medications the doctor prescribed me. So, I stand and go to the entryway table to search for my pill organizer in my purse. Logan watches me closely as I swallow the five pills one after another without water. It’s something I had to get used to. At first, it was a real struggle taking so many pills—I almost invariably choked them all up as soon as I swallowed—but now it’s part of my daily routine.
“I don’t mean to pry, but why are you taking so many pills?” he asks as he takes a seat at the breakfast bar, his forehead crinkled in concern.
I plop down on the bar stool beside him and dump some scrambled eggs onto my plate, then pass them to Logan. “I had a heart transplant almost four months ago.”
“You had a heart transplant?” he asks incredulously while piling bacon on top of the eggs. “How old are you?”
