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The fuck?
“Are you planning to walk?” he asked, glancing at her ankle.
“Don’t be stupid, Logan. I’ve booked an Uber,” Emma snapped, then turned and walked down the stairs.
Goddamn her.
He pulled on a pair of sweats and a hoodie and grabbed his wallet off the tallboy. When he got downstairs, she was opening the door. He pushed it closed.
“What are—”
“Get in the car. I’m not letting you do this on your own,” he growled. When she went to argue with him, he added, “Emma, get in the fucking car!”
She glared at him, but he didn’t wait to argue with her. Logan marched outside and handed the Uber driver a crisp hundred-dollar bill.
Then he headed to the garage.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, Logan turned on the engine and listened to its roar. They both sat in silence as the door behind them rolled open.
“Emma, I want to apologize for my reaction last night. I was unfair.”
“You think?” she said without staring at him.
“I fucked up. I should have controlled myself,” Logan added.
Her head shot around. “You treated me like I was some slut trying to get knocked-up. I was in a fucking plane crash. Sorry if my birth control isn’t working. We both let it happen.”
“I don’t think you’re trying to have my baby.” Logan frowned. “None of us want a child.”
Her brows shot up as he reversed out of the drive. His head flicked from the road to her, and she glared at him further.
“Is that right? Logan Dufort, you haveno ideawhat I want. You’ve never asked me. This has just been about sex for you from the start. I never should have come to Philly. Fuck it.”
“Emma, that’s not fair.”
“All that talk at the hospital. It was guilt, wasn’t it?” she accused.
Was it?
Was Emma correct? Had he felt responsible for her leaving the Hamptons and getting on the plane that inevitably crashed?
Partly, yes.
Except that wasn’t why she was here.
It wasn’t why he tried to wake each day before her so he could lie there, watching her sleep for a few minutes.
It wasn’t what put him into the most peaceful sleep he’d had in years.
And it most certainly had nothing to do with him cooking again—something he hadn’t done in a long time.
Or sing when he drove into the office the other day.
Nothing to do with him lying awake last night as she lay in his arms, wondering what their child might look like if they did get pregnant.
“Well, you’ve done your nursing job. I’m ready to go home. Really fucking ready,” Emma snapped.
Logan kicked the car into drive and floored it.
