Chapter 7
brIDGET
The next morning, I drag myself up the stairs, carefully lifting my feet over each step. I leave Mia sound asleep, tucked under an afghan hand-crocheted by my mom, on the couch. I’d set the alarm to go off early but ended up waking up before it even went off…again.
I check my phone while the coffee brews, giddy when I see a text from my knight in the gray sweatpants.
Logan: You awake? In pain?
Me: Yes and yeah. I’m making myself some coffee and will take something to help. My eyebrow feels like I went a couple rounds in a boxing ring. The black eye I have really fits the look.
Logan: Eat a few bites of food too. You don’t want the pain pills sitting in an empty stomach.
Me: I’ll choke something down.
Logan: Good. Be there in a bit.
I kind of want to say that I’m looking forward to it, but that feels…inappropriate, maybe? Yeah, Logan is hot, kind, and funny, but he’s basically a stranger. For all I know, he could be a serial killer, a tax evader—or, like my dad, an asshole with a whole family on the side.
I resist overthinking the whole thing. I turn on the shower, assessing every ache and pain one by one.
Sore face, yes. My eyebrow throbs a bit.
I’m dizzy, but nothing bad, and the stinging behind my eyes is fatigue, but nothing like yesterday.
The aura and shimmering behind my eyes are gone.
I may have a mild concussion, but none of the signs of an impending migraine are there.
I check the water temperature and move slowly, putting a clean towel and my robe close to the bathtub so that once I climb in, all I have to do is stand under the water. I’ll be careful. I’m steady enough to shower and not fall.
Once I’m in the shower, the impulse to scrub my hair and shave my legs overtakes me, but when I bend to grab the shaving gel, a nice throb in my eyebrow reminds me I’m only here to do essential cleaning.
Nothing extra. Under the hot spray, I can’t help but close my eyes and replay the events of yesterday. No, that’s not entirely honest.
I can’t help but think about Logan.
I wonder who this mystery man really is.
Why wasn’t he at work yesterday? Why he doesn’t have a wife or family—although, I suppose he could.
It’s not as if we talked about anything real yesterday.
There’s no reason I should be thinking this way about a total stranger, and yet, there’s no reason not to.
He’s coming back this morning to look at the stairs, and no matter why I’m looking forward to it, I’m going to count my blessings and leave any expectations, worries, even hopes at the door. I’m keeping this simple. That’s all my life will allow.
I step slowly and carefully out of the shower and see my phone light up with another text. I am feeling well enough to wrap the towel around my hair today, so I slide into my robe and check the message.
Logan: I’m leaving my place now. ETA 15 mins. Need me to pick anything up on the way? I’m bringing all the tools I’ll need for the job.
I wipe a trickle of water from my face and message him back.
Me: No, thanks. I’ll make breakfast. But be warned, I’m a terrible cook.
There’s no response as I’m getting dressed and brushing out my wet hair, until finally, as I’m brushing my teeth, I see his response.
Logan: Breakfast would be great. Believe it or not, no matter how bad, I’m sure I’ve eaten worse.
I have a hard time believing he’s eaten worse.
My inability to assemble edible food was always a joke between my mother and me.
She was a fantastic cook. She could look in the fridge, grab a carrot, leftover chicken, and some spices, and before I knew it, she’d whipped up something that had no name, no “recipe,” but somehow tasted delicious.
If I threw the same things in a pan and just let my cooking muse guide me, someone would likely end up with food poisoning, or just plain go hungry.
I’m thinking through what I have in the fridge and decide some frozen breakfast sandwiches are the way to go.
I don’t want to get Logan sick while he’s here doing a good deed.
With my hair still wet, I head downstairs, fully dressed and craving some coffee. I look over the checklist they gave me at the hospital and groan.
As I pour my first cup of coffee, Mia wakes up and wanders into the kitchen. She looks super sleepy, but once she sees me moving around, she perks up.
“Am I staying home from school again?” she asks.
Ah shit. I need to call her out again. I didn’t manage to do that yesterday, and while I have a couple of missed calls on my phone, I haven’t taken the time to check my messages. First call goes to the school. Then I’ll deal with work.
I’m just hanging up with the secretary at Mia’s school when there’s a knock at the door. Mia barrels down the stairs, Gavin in her hand.
“Mia,” I call out. “Let Mama see first.”
A smile spreads across my face as I peer through the peephole. When I confirm it’s Logan, I nod. “Go ahead,” I tell her.
She opens the door, holding Gavin in front of her face. She talks in a funny voice that I assume she means to be Gavin.
“Hi, Logan.”
“Gavin.” He addresses the toy first, but he looks me in the eye quickly, the hint of a smile on his handsome face. “I’ve got a question for you, buddy.”
He kneels down so he’s face-to-face with Gav.
“Do you know what a giraffe’s favorite fruit is?”
I can see my daughter grinning as she thinks about the answer. “I don’t know. What?” She forgets for a moment to use the Gavin voice, and she’s fully beaming at Logan.
“Neck-tarines.” Logan waits for her to get the joke, and when she does, her reaction doesn’t disappoint.
Mia starts cackling so hard, she drops Gav on the floor. Logan grabs him and, again, brushes off the toy and hands him back to Mia.
“That’s a great one,” Mia says, then she skips off into the kitchen.
Once we’re alone, although not really alone since Mia’s just a few feet away digging in the fridge, Logan grabs a bag of tools and steps inside.
“Good morning.” His voice is thick and rich, rolling over my skin like the crashing of a wave against the sand. His dark eyes flash, and he presses his lips together and nods. He looks me over from tip to toe, setting my skin ablaze with warmth.
I shiver and cross my arms over my chest, my still-damp hair feeling very wet and cold against the back of my T-shirt. That’s what it is. Not him that is having this effect on me. “Good morning to you,” I say. “Great joke.”
He steps close to me and admits in a low voice, “I Googled that one. I only had one good giraffe joke, and I used it yesterday.”
I smirk. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
He locks the door and drops his bag of tools by the front door. “How are you?” he asks.
The question feels…personal. Searching and intimate, not a cordial greeting from my friendly neighborhood contractor.
But instead of pulling away, I’m drawn in.
Closer. It’s as if there’s a magnetic pull between the two of us that wasn’t there yesterday.
Or maybe it was, but I was too distracted and sick to notice.
“Logan,” I say, feeling a little unsure on my feet. But today, it’s not from a headache.
He steps closer and brushes his fingertips, featherlight, against my eyebrow. “That looks good,” he says.
“Good?” I chuckle. “You have kind eyes,” I say. “I mean, come on. I look like I took a two-by-four to the forehead.”
“No.” His voice smolders in my ears. “I’m serious. You’re healing up good. Wound is clean. Even the bruising isn’t as bad as I expected.”
“Are you a nurse too?” I ask softly.
He’s dressed in work clothes today, a long-sleeved black T-shirt with the sleeves shoved almost to his elbows.
I can make out the intricate details of the artwork on his forearms, the light hairs that give his arms a masculine, outdoorsy look.
I trace the contours of his body with my eyes—the work jeans that look crisp, almost new.
Steel-toe boots, or so I assume, based on the very sturdy-looking design and thick soles.
But it’s Logan’s face that I can’t look away from.
Just inches away from me, the crisp scents of citrus and cedarwood left over from soap or maybe aftershave, fill my senses.
I’m so grateful I don’t have a headache because the fragrance smells good to me, like a long-lost cabin I’ve been wanting to return to.
My lips part as I sweep my eyes over his chin, still scruffy with another day’s growth of stubble.
The long waves of his black hair are brushed back away from his face.
He’s staring into my eyes, and it’s as if I can see right through to the genuine concern he’s feeling. Concern he’s feeling for me.
I don’t know why he should care, why he should seem so intensely connected to how I’m doing. But his eyes are honest. I can tell that. I feel his emotions pouring off him, and I take a reflexive step back.
“I—I made coffee,” I say, turning my back to him. “Come on in.”
If he feels the same energy, he hides it, instead ducking his head. He looks uncertain as he glances down at his feet. “My boots… Mind if I leave them on? It’ll be safer working with them. I didn’t think to bring any shoe covers.”
“Of course. It’s no problem. Go ahead.” I toss a smile back at him, but I scurry into the kitchen, anxious to clear my nose of the mesmerizing scent of his skin.
I’m imagining what his stubble would feel like under my fingers.
I don’t know what the hell’s gotten into me.
That’s a ridiculous, if not dangerous, thought.
I turn on the toaster oven to warm it and pour Logan a cup of coffee. “How do you take it?” I call.
I open the cabinets and pull out plates and flatware, being mindful of how quickly I move. Mia and Logan sit down together at the kitchen table like they’ve done this a million times before.