Page 47 of Obeying

Thursday. A whole day with Kristen Portland away from the hospital. Away from the residents, the gossip, the investigation, and every reason we're supposed to keep our distance. Just two people in a room, building a case, preparing for a fight.

That's all it is. Strategy. Preparation. Work.

This is either going to be a really good idea.

Or a really bad one.

15

KRISTEN

I'm ready twenty minutes early, which is ridiculous. I'm standing in my living room in jeans and a jacket, bag packed, and I've already checked my hair twice and changed my top once, and now I'm pacing between the kitchen and the front window like I'm waiting for a prom date.

I stop myself. There is no reason to be nervous. This is not a date. I am not going on a date with Logan Maxwell. I am going somewhere private with him to prepare for the hearing. A focused, professional work session in a quiet location where we can concentrate without the hospital watching our every move.

We'll just be alone. Together. For the whole day.

I start pacing again.

I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror, and I laugh at myself. Get it together, Kristen. You're in your thirties, not a teenager. You've performed surgery on people. You can spend a day in a room with a man without losing your mind.

Probably.

My phone buzzes.

Logan

Outside.

I grab my bag, lock the door, and walk out.

His car smells like leather and coffee and something clean and subtle that I've started associating with him.

"Where are we going?" I ask as he pulls onto the highway heading out of the city.

"My second place."

"Your second place?"

"Where I go when I need to not be at the hospital."

"Logan Maxwell voluntarily leaves the hospital?" I look at him. "I thought they bolted you to the floor."

"Funny."

"I'm serious. I half expected to find out you sleep in your office."

"I do sometimes. There's even a cot."

"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."

"It's efficient."

"It's sad."

He glances at me sideways, and there's a pull at the corner of his mouth that he's trying to hide. I look out the window so he doesn't see that I noticed.

We drive for about forty-five minutes. The city thins out, and the buildings give way to trees. The air coming through the cracked window is cooler than it should be in summer. The knot between my shoulders loosens with every mile we put between us and the hospital, between us and Miguel, or the hearing and every set of eyes that's been watching me for weeks.