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Chapter Eight
Histories
Logan gestured toward the open door, changing the subject before I had time for further reaction. “The bedroom, bath.” He abruptly turned toward the kitchen, remembering we’d left our dinner uneaten at Southmont. “Hungry?”
I nodded numbly. “Sure. Thanks.”
He walked past me to the kitchen, brushing the arm that was braced into my jeans pocket. I swallowed hard, and turned to follow him.
Logan was at ease here, suddenly more casual than I’d seen him before. He rested an arm on the open pantry door, staring in as he decided on dinner. “There’s not much left,” he said, throwing an apologetic smile over his shoulder before reaching in for some canned vegetables. “I’ve not been here lately.”
He left the door open as he shifted to place a saucepan on the stove, and I peered into the cabinet. Logan noticed my slow smile. “What is it?”
I stared at the clear plastic jars with bright red lids. “Peanut butter.”
He watched my smile for a heartbeat longer than was probably socially acceptable, and it faltered as that nervous thrill resurfaced. Logan returned his attention to the saucepan.
I ran a finger over the dark granite counter top. “Is there something I can do?”
He pursed his lips. “Actually, you could stir this while I go change.”
“Sure,” I said, and watched in mock outrage as he turned down the burner. “You don’t trust me for five minutes?”
One brow raised, and in that simple gesture he reminded me that I’d just grinned goofily over peanut butter. I chuckled despite myself.
Logan was gone in an instant, leaving the bedroom door cracked as he washed up. I studied the pot in front of me, stirring mindlessly until I was once again on the verge of sleep. I stifled a yawn, and a hand on my waist startled me out of it.
Logan took the spoon and gestured for me to sit. He was wearing a soft gray T-shirt, a bulge in the fabric hinting at a pistol tucked into the back of his broken-in jeans. He ladled out two bowls and brought them to the table, sitting beside me without so much as a word. It was nice, being with him, being near him. And Emily was with Aern. He would protect her. He would do anything he could. Despite the constant warnings, it felt safe. Safer than it had in a long time.
“Brianna,” Logan said after I’d finished most of my soup. “You’re asleep on your feet.” He slid out of his chair. “Come on.”
I followed him to the bedroom door where he handed me my bag. “I’ll be right out here if you need anything,” he said, pointing toward the couch.
“Thanks,” I replied, clutching the pack too tight against my chest.
Logan pulled the door nearly closed behind him, leaving only a narrow strip of the living room visible from where I stood. He disappeared from view as he moved toward the kitchen to clean up dinner, so I walked slowly across the smooth, dark wood floors for the bath. I sat the bag on the sink, pulling my hair back to splash my face with cool water. When I reached for a towel, I noticed Logan’s shirt draped over the rack, which abruptly reminded me that I was in his house. Alone with him. I pressed the towel hard against my face, trying to blot out the remembered vision of our not-yet-happened kiss.
It didn’t work.
I ran a hand through my hair, pulling out the band as I made a face at my train of thought in the mirror. I needed to go to sleep. That was all.
I unzipped the pack, reaching in to find that I had neglected to pack pajamas. A whispered curse slipped through my lips at the two sweatshirts and jeans. I really did need sleep. I glanced down at the shirt I’d been wearing, the one I’d have to wear tomorrow beneath my sweatshirt, and frowned. My gaze trailed slowly to Logan’s shirt, then back to my own. It felt wrong, somehow, but I managed to convince myself I was being ridiculous. I tugged off my own clothes to place across the rack, and drew Logan’s too-big shirt over my head. It hung loose, draping me to about mid-thigh, and it smelled like him. A hand came up to bring the material closer to my face, but I stopped it, glaring at myself in the mirror as I clicked off the light. Ridiculous.
I crossed the bedroom in the dim light from a small lamp on the table, leaving it on as I crawled beneath the charcoal gray comforter. The blankets were soft and warm, and the scent of Logan was everywhere. I lay still, listening for some sign of him in the front room, but there was nothing except the empty hum of silence. I tried counting. Reciting Latin. I even practiced breathing. But nothing worked. Eventually, I gave up, folding the blankets back to walk barefoot through the room.
My eyes had adjusted to the light, and I followed the perimeter, trailing a finger over the edge of his dresser, across the top of a low side table, stopping midway to pick up a small metal sculpture. It was dull silver, like pewter, but heavier, with a rounded top that fit neatly into the palm of my hand. I cradled it there for a moment before reaching to place it back on its stand. My hand hovered over the table as the words came to me, welding themselves firmly in my mind. Another warning. Another version of the future.
The words came less often than the visions, but they held more gravity. They hit with a force, and my hand trembled, fumbling the metal to thunk loosely on the table. I caught it before it had a chance to roll to the floor, setting it to rights just as the door swung open.
Logan stood, hand on the lever, freezing as the sight of me unharmed prevented whatever rescue he’d been planning.
“Sorry,” I whispered, indicating the sculpture with a vague hand motion as my apology trailed off.
He looked like he’d had the wind knocked out of him.
I met his eyes, concerned for a moment that my clumsiness had not been the cause of his reaction, but it was not fear that held him there. It was something else. And then I remembered I was wearing his shirt. Only his shirt.
In his bedroom.
