Chapter Ten
Sawyer
There’s warmth on my face, and when I crack open one eye, I realize Nathaniel’s curtains are thrown wide open with no part of the oversized windows covered.
I must have forgotten to close them last night.
When I sit up, my head throbs, and I rub my face, my dry mouth a clue to how much I drank last night.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been drunk enough that I needed to stay with my brother… and then I glance down and notice the pretty patterned quilt on the bed, and I swear my mouth goes even drier, which I didn’t think was possible.
Shit. I close my eyes and try to center my chaotic thoughts and my pounding head. This isn’t Nathaniel’s apartment anymore, and the man who tucked me in wasn’t my brother.
Pushing back the covers, I realize I’m naked under an oversized California Crows jersey. At least Logan isn’t in here with me or I’m not in his bed. I cover my mouth with my hand when a vague memory of puking in the street resurfaces.
So classy.
He must think I’m an absolute disaster. Then I catch sight of the water, Gatorade, and aspirin on the side table, and I can’t help an audible sigh of relief. I toss the two pills into my mouth, and I chug the Gatorade.
The bed creaks as I ease back under the covers, drawing them over my head.
“You’re awake?” a gruff voice comes from somewhere much closer than I’d like.
I draw the quilt back down, hoping Logan isn’t as near as he sounded a second ago.
“Awake doesn’t seem like the right word,” I mutter.
When I can’t see him, I risk sitting up again, and I notice the bedroom door is wide open, and the oversized couch that used to be in the center of the living room is across the threshold of the door.
Logan is sprawled on it, looking too big to have slept there.
“Why are you on the couch? Please tell me I did not puke in your bed.”
“Rest easy. Only out the door of the car,” Logan says, and he shifts on the couch to face me.
“So, why are you on the couch?”
“Because someone is not looking after themselves.” He gives me a pointed stare.
I hold his gaze for a beat, trying to piece together what makes him believe that other than my inability to hold my liquor.
“A concussion mixed with too much alcohol? Ring any bells?”
“I don’t have a concussion.”
“The way I see it, the only reason you can say that is because you haven’t had anyone assess you. There’s a bump on the back of your head.”
Self-consciously, I run my hand over the spot that’s still tender sometimes, but I consider it phantom pain, not the real thing. My brain tries to remind me once in a while to be careful who I trust.
“What happened?” he asks.
“I drank too much.”
“Not last night.” He sits up, and the blanket that was covering him pools into his lap, revealing his bare chest. “To your head.”
“An accident.” Then I remember that Dalton was there last night, that Logan stepped between us, didn’t let Dalton take me home.
I don’t know if I would have had it in me to make a scene, to refuse Dalton’s “help,” even if I know it wouldn’t have been good for me to be alone with him.
“I’m sorry you had to look after me last night. That’s really unprofessional of me.”
“You’re allowed to be human, doc. I just want to know that you’re taking care of yourself. A concussion is no joke. Have you had one before?”
“I fell off a horse as a kid.” I don’t tell him that we were in Spain, and that Nathaniel had to convince my parents that my drowsy, erratic behavior probably meant I needed a doctor.
Our parents were never the attentive type—unless one of us was threatening the Tucker name with unacceptable behavior or relationships they considered beneath the family.
“More than one concussion.” He shakes out the blanket, and his phone falls out. “We’re getting you checked.”
“Logan…”
He’s scrolling through his phone, and he holds it up to his ear, making defiant eye contact with me while it rings. “Doctor Bennett? Sorry to call you on a weekend, but I need an emergency consult.”
“Logan! You can’t call the royal doctor as though he’s your own personal servant,” I whisper-shout, crawling off the bed toward him.
His gaze drags over me, and I see the flare of interest before he looks away, shuttering the expression. “No, it’s not me. But it is critical that she gets help today. She’s not good at looking after herself.”
“Oh my god,” I mutter, crossing my arms. Now that I’m off the bed, I’m very aware of what I’m wearing and what I’m not. While he talks, I scan the room for my clothes, but I don’t know where my dress has gone.
“Suspected concussion, yeah,” Logan says. “She says it was sustained a couple of weeks ago. You’ve got the correct diagnostics there?”
I can only hear his side of the conversation as I head to the closet to look for my dress. He’s overreacting, and if I was less hungover, I’d probably be pissed off. Right now, I just want to find my clothes.
“What are you doing?” he asks before I can open the closet doors.
I turn to find him standing in the doorway, the phone clutched in one hand while he stretches the other across the top of the doorjamb.
“I’m looking for my dress.”
“Just wear some of my sweats to the royal estate. The car’s on the way. Do you really want to go there in last night’s pink frilly outfit?”
“I don’t want to go there at all, actually.” I cross my arms again, and the shirt rides up at the action.
“Your toothbrush is in the bathroom. I found a new hairbrush in one of the drawers, so I put that in there too. ETA is ten minutes on the driver.” He shoves the couch out of the way, and I follow behind him.
“Logan, you don’t need to take me to the royal doctor.”
“If I had the driver take you home, would you go get yourself looked after?”
I can’t say that I would because obviously I haven’t up to this point.
Any symptoms I had at first are almost gone.
Even if Doctor Bennett diagnoses a concussion, I probably won’t do anything differently.
A reasonable amount of rest. Limiting electronics.
Being conscious of the types of lighting I spend a lot of time in.
I know what I’m supposed to do, but I can’t, hand on heart, say I’ve been following any of it consistently.
“If the accident was something stupid or embarrassing, I’m not judging. My guy friends have done all sorts of idiotic things over the years. If this is your second concussion, you need to know. Three or more can lead to long-term consequences. I take this shit very seriously, and so should you.”
“It’s not likely to happen again.” Or at least that set of circumstances isn’t. I hope. My heart sinks at the idea I could ever be in that situation again. God knows I never anticipated being in it in the first place.
“That’s why we call it an accident. You don’t do this to yourself on purpose. Something goes wrong. You make a mistake. Nothing to be ashamed of, but you do need a diagnosis. That’s important.”
“I just… I don’t think…” I rub my face because my head isn’t cooperating as I try to gather my thoughts. There’s a reason I never went to the doctor, even though I was pretty sure I had a low-grade concussion.
“Humor me,” he says. “Ease my mind. Next time you want me to do something I don’t want to do, remind me about today, and I’ll do whatever it is.”
That’s appealing. Logan seems like the type to dig in his heels, and having a get out of jail free card in my back pocket would be handy.
“I can’t believe Alex gave you access to his doctor. That’s basically unheard of. He tends to the royal family and no one else.”
“And the star player of their newest franchise.” The slightest hint of a smile appears. “I demanded the best as part of the move—I got him, and I got you.”
The urge to downplay the claim sits on the tip of my tongue, but I find that I don’t want to release a denial into the world. I am the best on the island at what I do, even if I haven’t felt that way in a while.
“I want my star player working at full strength,” he says.
“You’re not even sure you want to keep me,” I say.
His gaze heats, and he peruses me from head to toe. “Oh, I definitely want to keep you. I just need to make sure you’re good for me.”
“You’ve got some sweatpants I can borrow?” His double meaning feels both clear and impossible. It’s easier to change the subject than wade into any attraction I’m positive I don’t want to face, even if it’s palpable in the room this morning.
My brain is scrambled, and I’m not making good decisions. Maybe he’s right that I need an official assessment and diagnosis.
Logan comes to the doorway of the primary suite with a pair of gray sweatpants in his hand. “They’ll probably be too big, but better than the dress.”
“Where is my dress?”
“I sent it off with my stuff to the cleaning service last night after you passed out.” He goes to the front door and opens it. Hanging next to the door on a hook I’ve never noticed before is a dry-cleaning bag. “And voila—it’s already done.”
“You’ve hardly been here long enough to know this perk exists,” I say.
“The first things I learn in any place are the tools that make my life easier and more organized. Laundry is always at the top of that list. I fucking hate it.”
“That was a very passionate proclamation,” I say with a little laugh. “What did laundry ever do to you?”
“It never ends. You never get a break from it. The minute I take these shorts off, I’ve got laundry.” He plucks at them with his fingertips, and I’m suddenly very aware of his chiseled, bare chest.
To distract myself, I grab the hanger with my dress from the hook, and his jersey rides up the back of my legs before I’m able to get the hanger down.
When I glance at him over my shoulder, he’s tracking the rise and fall of my hemline like he does a puck.
If he was anyone else, I’d ask him if he likes what he sees, but we are one hundred percent not going there.
This job as his trainer and physiotherapist is a fresh start for me, and I’m not screwing it up by developing an unhealthy attraction to my client. Because that’s what he is—a client, and I’ve never had trouble keeping that line bold and bright in the past.
His phone beeps, and he drags it out of his pocket. “The driver’s here.”
“I’ll just be a minute.” I slip past him back into the apartment and to the spare bedroom. I shut the door tight, and I lean against it, the dress and his sweatpants in one hand.
Somehow, I need to reestablish firm boundaries. Right after this doctor’s appointment—where I will be literally wearing his clothes—I’m taking a giant step back from whatever is brewing and bubbling between us.