Chapter 3 Rose #2
I reach into my bag for my phone—and then stop.
I was drafting a text to Easton, bitching about Pearl and Logan when the plane went down.
I wasn’t thinking about my phone when we hit the ground.
I wasn’t thinking about anything. My hands shake as I sift through my bag, shoving clothes and toiletries aside, knowing it’s not there but hoping by some miracle my addled brain thought to find it off the floor of the plane before we left.
“Fuck. I don’t have my phone,” I panic. “It’s still on the plane.”
“We’re not going back there.” I glare at him, but all he does is shrug. “We can’t. We have no ride. Once we get back to civilization, you can buy a new one.”
I scoff. “Of course. And the old one, in perfect condition, will just end up in a landfill,” I snap.
I really can’t afford a new phone right now, either.
I’ve had a few odd jobs here and there, and some of Easton’s teammates I’ve taken on as private clients, but I’ve been dragging my feet the last couple of months. God dammit. Not to mention—
“Have you talked to my father? Does he know what happened?”
“I was just updating him and Pearl.”
“Oh yeah? How’d she take it?”
Logan winces, then tucks his phone into his pocket. “I told them there were some mechanical issues, and we were grounded. I kept it vague.”
Kept it vague. Of course he did. Pearl couldn’t handle the truth, anyway. “That’s probably for the best.”
He grunts in agreement when an ancient green Toyota Corolla rattles into the dusty lot, trailing a faint cloud of exhaust. The woman who climbs out is somewhere in her sixties, small and wiry below the waist—tiger-striped leggings tucked into rhinestone-studded sneakers—and generously proportioned above it, her hot pink shirt straining at the chest. A pair of oversized sunglasses sit pushed up into a cloud of copper-dyed hair.
“Well, howdy, kids,” she says with enthusiasm.
“Ma’am,” Logan greets stiffly. I elbow him.
“Hi, are you Maybelle?” I rise, reaching out to shake hands.
“Sure am. You need a room?” She glances around the empty lot, noting the absence of our vehicle. “I got the honeymoon suite—”
“Two rooms,” I say at the same time Logan grunts, “God, no.”
“Two rooms, if you have them,” I say again, stepping slightly in front of Logan. “We just need somewhere to clean up while we sort out a ride.”
She narrows her eyes, so I add, “Car trouble. We got stranded. We’re just waiting on a rental.”
“Expecting a rental all the way out here, it’ll be at least a day. I can give you a room for the night, and you can let me know in the morning if you need longer.”
“That’s perfect,” I tell her while she eyes Logan, then unlocks the office door.
She flicks on the lights and steps behind a desk buried under tchotchkes and jars crammed with pens, paperclips, and miscellaneous office debris.
She flips open a notebook, licks the tip of her pen, and looks up at me expectantly.
“Oh,” I clear my throat. “Rose Lopes. Any room is fine.”
She smirks. “They’re all the same, honey.”
“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.