“What happened to the honeymoon suite?” Logan asks dryly.
Maybelle cuts him a look. “Honeymooners aren’t too picky about where they sleep, now are they? Usually, a horizontal surface all that’s required.” She pauses. “Maybe you don’t know nothing about that though.”
I laugh. Logan rolls his eyes and steps up to the desk, sliding his credit card across before I can think to reach for mine. At least I have my wallet with me. She hands us keys on little wooden keychains shaped like wagon wheels, same as the sign out front, then leads us around the building—apparently there are four more rooms on the other side, it’s bigger than it looks from the front. Hopefully, Prince Logan isn’t expecting a mint on his pillow. Or a mud spa. Or room service.
“Honey, you’re bleeding,” Maybelle says, eyeing my forehead.
“Oh.” I touch my cut, and my fingers come away red. “Sorry. That’s from the crash.”
“Crash?”
“She’s fine,” Logan tells her, effectively shutting off conversation. Great. Now Maybelle’s going to think the cut is his fault.
I turn back to her with what I hope is a reassuring smile. “I’m fine, really. We’ll check in with you in the morning.”
Maybelle slides her suspicious gaze to Logan before turning and walking away. I feel a petty little flicker of pleasure at that. But when I glance over at him, he isn’t looking at her. He’s looking at my forehead, jaw tight.
I get my key in the lock. “Okay, so I’ll just—” He pushes into my room behind me, then closes the door. “What are you doing?”
He tosses his bag on the bed and procures the first-aid kit from the plane, then slips into the bathroom. I hear the water run, and he returns with wet hands. “The sanitary conditions are atrocious.”
“You’re such a fucking snob,” I sigh, even though I’m a little flattered he was thoughtful enough to grab the first-aid kit for me.
He says nothing, and I somehow end up sitting on the edge of the bed with him beside me. Logan’s full attention is a lot. He wipes an alcohol pad on my forehead.
“It’s closing on its own, so I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but you need to leave it alone or it’ll keep opening.” He gently presses his fingers around the cut. The headache behind my eyes is lessening. His thumb grazes my temple. Stays there a beat too long, and I go still.
“There will be some bruising,” he says, quieter than before.
I pull back. “So, how are we getting out of here?”
His hand drops to his side, and he walks back into the bathroom to wash his hands again, calling out over his shoulder, “Rental, most likely.”
“Right,” I say. With Logan, there was a fifty-fifty chance he actually had someone on payroll to personally drive down here and pick us up.
“We’re about an hour and a half from the nearest city. Should be here later today, but I’m still waiting to hear back. We’ll drive to the airport in the morning, then you can take the car to Georgia—I’ll get on another plane and fly the rest of the way. I’d rather be there by tonight and get this fucking vacation over with.”
I don’t know why that lands so hard. It’s not that we’re parting ways. That’s a good thing. I don’t want to spend any more time with him than I have to. It’s just—after what we went through, he’d still rather get on a plane than sit in a car with me for a day.
“Fine. Sounds good.” My throat feels tight.
Logan leaves the first-aid kit behind, then turns and walks out, pulling the door shut behind him.
Chapter 4: Logan
Seated at the edge of the bed, on a mattress that makes way more noise than it should considering I’m barely on it, I stare down at my phone in frustration. As Maybelle predicted, the rental won’t get dropped off until morning. The room smells of stale carpet and cigarettes. A ceiling fan ticks overhead, one blade slightly warped, clicking on every rotation. Turn it up higher, the clicking gets louder. Turn it off completely, and the smell gets worse. This whole goddamn trip is one nightmare after another, and it’s barely begun.
We really are stuck out in the middle of nowhere.
I could throw money at this, pull some strings to get us out of here by tonight, but it’s already getting late, and I’m too exhausted to bother. I took a shower, made some calls. Told my father what happened—the actual truth, since Henry would have, and I didn’t want him to worry. He did anyway, but promised to soften the details before telling my mother. Her anxiety gets the better of her sometimes.
A forced landing. Sounds better than a plane crash. Thank God Henry was flying. He saved our lives with his quick thinking, and I didn’t thank him properly before we left. My body was full of adrenaline, and Rose was walking away, andmy brain couldn’t process more than that, and I found myself running after her.
Pearl texts and asks for another update. I debate calling to put her mind at ease, but end up silencing my notifications and heading next door to update Rose instead.
I knock.
“Rose?” I knock again. No answer. Maybe she’s sleeping—I don’t think she has a concussion, miraculously, but she hit her head pretty hard. The cut hadn’t looked deep, but it’s still a head wound. We’re so fucking lucky that was the worst of it.
