He shakes his head. “This is nice.”
I cough so hard I nearly choke on the cider. He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth pulling up. “Need some water?”
“No,” I laugh, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “No. Sorry.” I set the bottle down, narrowing my eyes on him suspiciously. “Thisisnice.”
His eyes stay fixed on me until a ruckus breaks out at the far edge of the room. Two guys, big as Easton, are going at it over a game of darts. Not the kind of argument that ends in blood, but there’s a lot of gesturing and finger-jabbing. One of them shouts, “My bro, you cheated!” and I start giggling.
Logan smirks. “I can’t remember the last time I did this.”
“Watched two grown men cry over darts?”
He laughs, his finger slowly tracing the rim of his glass. “No. Relaxed, I mean. Had a drink at a bar.” He glances around the room, pausing on the couple swaying near the empty stage.
I think about that. “You’re pretty busy, I guess. With your job. Your career,” I emphasize, putting a little weight on the word after all the shit he gave me yesterday about my lack of ambition.
He grimaces, sets the glass down. “Tell me about yours. Pearl said—”
“I don’t want to talk about Pearl.”
“Fair enough. Me either. I just… want to know more about you. I’m beginning to wonder…”
What’s true, and what’s false? He doesn’t finish the thought, but I feel it land, anyway. It isn’t enough, though. I wish he’d give me the benefit of the doubt and assume everything he thinks he knows about me is a lie.
The problem is, I don’t actually know what Pearl has told him. Logan and I have never really talked, not like this. I always knew she talked shit, but not to the degree I’m starting to suspect. Avoiding topics she’s potentially poisoned against me makes conversation complicated, because I don’t want to spend the night weeding out the rot. I’m enjoying myself, and this is too nice to ruin with the real world.
I aim for something neutral. “Have you really ever been to that topless diner near the hospital?”
He barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “No. I haven’t.” He tilts his glass, watching me over the rim. “I’d go if you worked there, though.”
Something ignites low in my belly at his words, making my core clench. The easy look on his face tells me he’s either jokingor just picking up where we left off last night, before our fight. I hold his gaze a beat longer than I should before I look away.
“You’d have to pay me a lot more than waffles to see my tits.”
His eyes blaze, dark and dangerous. “A five-thousand dollar room wasn’t enough?”
“Oh, come on. You own a private jet. That’s nothing.”
“If that’s nothing, then how come every time I pay for your sandwich or coffee, you mentally tally everything and keep reminding me you’ll pay me back. It’s peanuts, I don’t care about the money. You don’t have to pay me back a dime.” He pauses, the mood between us suddenly shifting. “In fact, I wish you wouldn’t. But what’s the difference?”
“Seriously? What’s the difference between you paying for everything for me, and the rooms for all those people in need?”
He adjusts in his seat, and something in his expression closes off. His arms flex in his t-shirt, forearms thick and corded where they rest on the table. I knew surgeons had to be in really good shape to withstand long surgeries, but this is just gratuitous.
I lick my lips and drag my eyes back up before remembering he said something stupid. “I’m not a charity case. I can afford my own coffee and lunch.” Mostly.
“I never said you couldn’t.”
“Then why do you keep insisting on paying for everything?” I argue back.
His lips purse. Then he says, “And that woman in the motel? She was charity?”
“No, she wasn’t charity either. You act like it’s some sort of contrition.”
“I do not,” he grunts, shifting back in his chair.
“You had the money to solve the problem—everyone’s problem—but we weren’t the ones who needed it most. That woman with the kids never asked for a thing, and she was the most in need in that room. The available room should have beenhers. She just couldn’t throw a thousand dollars at it.” I scratch at the label on the bottle. “That kind of money doesn’t even register to you. But to her? It’s notpeanuts. It’s life-changing.”
Quieter, he says, “You always do this. You make me out to sound like such a piece of shit, just because I have money. I can’t help who I was born to, what I was raised with. What would make you happy? If I gave everything away?”
