by Robin Kaye
Patrice shook her head. “Why did you drink so much?”
“Hey. You’re the ones who said it was a three-drink confersation.” She reached for her glass to take another sip, but Rocki took it from her.
“Have you eaten?”
“No. Like I can eat with this thing with Logan hangin’ over my head. He’s there one minute—all there, like he can see into my soul kind of there. And then he’s gone the next, like a cyborg or something. You know, like those guys who are great in bed but have no emotions. It’s as if he’s got an on/off switch—his shields come down.”
Patrice looked over at Rocki. “Oh God, Logan’s gonna kill us.”
* * *
Logan walked into Skye’s place with Francis and froze. Now he knew what kind of maniacal woman Francis was married to, and understood the I-pissed-her-off-once-but-I’ll-never-do-it-again shoulder slump Francis assumed when Patrice gave him a certain look.
He heard more than saw Skye. Then he noticed the empty magnum of champagne and three glasses.
Both Rocki and Patrice wore twin expressions of shock.
“Don’t worry,” Skye muttered. “I snuck out of the kitchen. I told Logan it was over. I can’t afford to lose my job just because he’s Mr. Irresistabuble. I’m gonna miss him, though—his tongue and his…well, he’s a talented man and just between you and you and me, when he went all caveman and took me to bed—I kinda liked it.”
Rocki smiled right at him. “Wow, who’d have thought Logan had it in him? I guess there’s some truth to the whole ‘still waters run deep’ thing. It’s always the quiet ones who go alpha on us.”
He stepped closer and saw the top of Skye’s head leaning against the side of the chair, and she was shaking it, as if she was confused.
Skye giggled. “God, Patrice, you look like you just got caught with your skirt tucked into the back of your panty hose and discovered you’re wearing a toilet paper train.” She laughed so hard, she snorted.
Francis slammed the door. “Patrice. My God, girl, what have you and Rocki done to her?”
Logan stepped forward.
Skye jumped and whipped around. Her eyes widened as they met his. She teetered on the edge of the chair and went over.
He scrambled and caught her head in his hand just before it hit the corner of the coffee table.
She lay splayed between the chair and the table. Pepperoni jumped off the couch and onto her and licked her face.
“Logan?”
“Yeah, baby. It’s me.” He pushed the dog off and knelt beside her, still holding her head in his throbbing hand. If her head had hit that table, it would have cracked it open. As it was, she was going to have a hell of a bruise. He glared at Rocki and Patrice.
Skye gazed up at him. “The cyborg Logan or the real Logan?”
“What?” When he looked back at the coconspirators, wondering what the hell Skye was talking about, they’d already headed for the door, looking at everything but him. Dammit. They were no help.
“It’s the real me. Come on, sugar. Let’s get you on the couch.” He lifted her into his arms and wasn’t about to let go of her just yet. He sat with her in his lap and she snuggled closer, her head fitted in the crook of his neck. His heart hammered as if he’d just sprinted ten miles, and an adrenaline rush punched through his system. “Are you hurt?”
“Me? I’m just fine. I’m damn skippy. I’m gonna miss you, though.”
“No, you’re not. I’m not going anywhere.” He kissed the top of her head and heard the door close. “What were you doing with Patrice and Rocki?”
“Having a three—no, make that forve-drink minimum confersation.”
“I see. Did you eat anything today?”
“Nah, can’t eat. I’m too worried about getting fired.”
“You’re not going to get fired.” He kissed her and lifted her off his lap. “I’m going to get you something to eat.”
“Oh, no. No food. I don’t feel so good.”
“Shit.” He picked her up and ran to the bathroom.
CHAPTER 12
It isn’t every day a man figures out he’s in love—and Logan doubted many men realized it while holding their girlfriend’s head over the toilet. Once he figured out it was love, and not the result of temporary insanity, he felt so sick, he had half a mind to join her.
He’d held her head, changed her out of clothes covered with regurgitated champagne, and forced aspirin and water down her throat. He’d cleaned the bathroom, washed her clothes, and heated up the soup he’d found in the refrigerator. There was nothing left to do to keep his mind off his dilemma. He was in love with Skye Sinclair and didn’t know the first thing about how to handle it. Especially since he didn’t think the feelings were reciprocated. Man, he should have run when he’d had the chance.
Logan sat back against the headboard of the bed watching Skye sleep curled around him. The puppy was snoring on his other side—out for the count too. The sight of Skye falling into the coffee table played on a continuous loop. If he’d been a split second slower, she’d be at the emergency room right now.
He shook his head, still not able to wrap his brain around being in love. For a guy who never felt much when it came to women, he was making it up in spades when it came to what he felt about Skye.
There was always something different about her—he knew that from the first moment he saw her. He confirmed it at their first touch. He kept waiting for it to go away, or at least recede, but it had only gotten stronger. His dad was right—he’d figure it out soon enough…he hoped. He just wasn’t sure how long it would take to come to grips with it. It had been a couple hours and he still felt a little sick.
He brushed his hand over Skye’s hair, picked up Pepperoni, and left the bedroom. The dog’s feet were running through the air before Logan ever set her on the floor. He watched Pepperoni run circles around the apartment, pulled out his phone, and called home. “Pop?” He shut the door to the newly cleaned bathroom to keep Pepperoni from going after the toilet paper—there were ribbons of the stuff draped around the bedroom. “I’m going to be a while. Skye’s sick.”
“Shit. What’s the matter? Don’t tell me it’s food poisoning.”
“No. Alcohol poisoning, maybe. From the sounds of it, Rocki and Patrice were trying to loosen her tongue—she drank too much champagne on an empty stomach. She was upset—she told me it was over between us and thought she was about to get fired.”
“Fired? Why would I fire her? She’s the best chef I’ve ever had.”
“Because you’re against the food tour, and you and everyone at the restaurant won’t leave our relationship alone—that’s why. She thinks that dating me is going to harm her career.”
“So she pounded champagne? What the hell were Rocki and Patrice thinking? Skye’s just a little bit of a thing.”
“I don’t think they took her size into consideration. She’s sick as D.O.G. after he ate that whole bag of marshmallows—bag and all. I can’t leave her like this, Pop. I want to make sure she’s okay before I go. Can you put Nicki to bed for me? Tell her Skye’s not feeling well and I want to keep an eye on her.”
“Will do. Just be home to walk Nicki to school, okay?”
“I will.”
“Do you want me to send over some soup or something?”
“No, Skye’s got a stocked refrigerator, but I don’t think she’s going to be eating anytime soon.”
“That bad?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“When she sobers up, be sure to tell her I’m not going to fire her. I’ll tell her myself as soon as I can.”
“Will do, Pop. Take care of Nicki, and I’ll stop by in a while with Pepperoni to take D.O.G. out.”
Logan paced the apartment for another hour and then peeked into the bedroom to check on Skye—she was still deathly pale, and out cold. “Time to wake up, sugar.” He needed to get some more liquid in her. She was definitely going to be hungover—that was a given—but he didn’t want her to
be too hungover to work. She was already wigged-out enough. Having to call in sick might push her over the edge.
He sat on the bed and she rolled over onto him and cuddled close.
“Come on, Skye. You need to drink water and at least try to get some soup down.”
She mumbled something, opened her beautiful blue eyes, and took a few seconds to focus. “What are you doing here? And where are Rocki and Patrice?”
“I’m taking care of you. Your friends deserted you. Francis drove them home.”
She scooted to a sitting position and then grabbed her head, as if holding on to it would keep it from exploding. He knew exactly how she felt. “God, I think I have the flu or something.”
“Or something. Skye, you drank a ton of champagne. You don’t have the flu; you’re hungover.” He handed her the bottle of water from the bedside table. “Drink this—slowly.”
“I don’t get hungover.” She took a tentative sip and watched him.
“Well, you do now. I guess there’s a first for everything.” Today was full of firsts. It was the first time he’d wanted to hurt two women—Rocki and Patrice—for what they had done to Skye, the first time he freaked at the thought of someone he cared about getting hurt, and it was the first time he’d really taken care of a woman—well, aside from in the sexual sense.
In the past when Payton had gotten sick, he’d called her family’s maid and asked her to stay. Heck, he’d even moved out of their bedroom one week when Payton had the flu, thinking she’d be more comfortable without him around. With Payton, it was the right thing to do, but that would never fly with Skye or him—not with the way he felt about her. No, if anyone was going to pick her up and run her to the john, it was going to be him. Sick and inexplicable, but true.
* * *
Skye closed her eyes because it hurt too much to look; then she must have fallen asleep again. When she opened her eyes the next time, she found Logan looking at her. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Maybe because even when you’re green, you’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
She laughed and her brain felt as if it were hemorrhaging. She pushed him away, or tried to. “God, don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
“Champagne hangovers are the worst. Are you ready to sip a little chicken soup? I found it in the fridge along with ginger ale.”
She rested her hand on her stomach and swallowed hard—not only no, but hell no. She might never eat again. “I’m not sure.”
He held up a finger and then left the room. She thought about following him but didn’t have the energy.
Logan returned a moment later with ginger ale. “Here—this might set better than the water. The more you drink, the better you’ll feel.”
She thought of all the champagne she drank. “It didn’t work before.”
He sat and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her to his chest, and she leaned against him—she was tired of holding herself up. “From the contents of your refrigerator, I wondered if you were a hangover aficionado. I had a friend who planned his hangovers. He made sure he was well stocked before he went out and got trashed. Sugar, you put that guy to shame.”
“I can’t imagine ever drinking again, no less planning to feel this way. I’ve never gotten drunk before.”
“Today was the first time? So you always keep soup and ginger ale in the fridge?”
“Doesn’t everyone? Chicken soup is comfort food and ginger ale goes with everything, it settles the stomach, and what can I say—I love bubbles.”
“I figured that out. When I brought you that magnum of champagne, I was hoping you’d share it with me, not drink it all by yourself.”
“I didn’t. Rocki and Patrice had it opened before I even got home.” Little snippets of drunken memories flashed through her mind. She couldn’t believe what she’d done, what she thought she might have said, the way she’d acted—
“What?”
She buried her face in his chest. “Oh God, I got drunk and I never get drunk.”
“Yeah, we’ve covered that.”
“But with Rocki and Patrice…you don’t understand—”
“Oh, sure, I do. They were on a fact-finding mission and got you trashed to get the goods. I heard all about it.”
“You did?” She’d been mortified just remembering it herself, but it was nothing compared with the way she felt now.
“Yes. You said something about how you like it when I go all caveman on you. You told them that right before you fell off the chair.” He lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him, and gave her a kiss and a sardonic smile. “Sugar, I’m glad you enjoy our sex life, but from now on, would you mind not sharing it with the dynamic duo? I’m never gonna live it down.”
“Did I say anything else?” She knew she had; she just didn’t know how much he’d heard.
“Something about a cyborg. Care to explain?”
“No.” She remembered talking about his tongue and his…“Oh God, shoot me now.” She swallowed and coughed. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. She still wasn’t positive she had. Maybe she just heard her own voice in her head.
Logan’s gaze snapped back to hers. Yes, she continued to suffer from verbal diarrhea. She wished she’d known before drinking almost an entire bottle of champagne that, under the influence, she had very little ability to filter her thoughts.
“Sorry, I can’t help you out there. The gun laws in the city are really strict. The only people who can get guns easily are criminals. I should know.”
“I would think so, since your dad was a cop.” She picked up a cracker from the sleeve he’d brought over and nibbled at the serrated edges—partly because it would keep her mouth too full to speak and partly because it tasted good right now.
Logan looked at everything in the room but at her. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not. He took a deep breath. “That’s not how I know. When I was a kid, I belonged to a gang—I was the youngest member of the Latin Kings. I had my first gun by the time I was in sixth grade. I never shot the damn thing—it scared the crap out of me. Guns were never my style. I specialized in building pipe bombs. If you’re smart about it, pipe bombs allow you to be far away when they go boom.”
“Boom?” Her stomach dipped just like the first and last time she’d gone on the Tower of Terror ride at Disney—only this was not a ride. Harrison had mentioned Logan’s past, but she had no idea he’d been right about it. Nor did she think Logan had been that young. “You were blowing things up when you were Nicki’s age? She’s not allowed to play with matches and you were making bombs? What were you? Some kind of Unabomber savant? Did you know this stuff instinctively like Good Will Hunting knew calculus?”
“No.” Logan wore that blasted fake smile—the same one she’d seen after the weirdness of their first time, the one that didn’t meet his eyes, the one that gave her chills because of the emptiness she saw in him. “I got the basics from a book in the library and a few afternoons on the Internet gave me the rest of the information I’d needed. It was amazing what I could learn when I applied myself.” He shook his head and stared into space, as if he were lost in the past. “I was a nerd back then, scrawny—a sitting duck. I learned quickly that knowledge was protection. I made sure I had a lot of knowledge the Latin Kings needed.”
He didn’t look at her, his gaze dropping to his feet. “Pop took me in when I was about twelve—after I was caught building bombs. He was my last chance before I ended up in juvie or jail.” He fisted his big hands and then stretched them open, repeating the process over and over. “I’d spent the nine years before that bouncing from one foster family to another. I’d been dumped at a police station or hospital when I was about three, so apparently I had bonding issues. I probably still do—I guess it comes with the territory.” He finally looked at her and in his eyes she saw fear, she saw embarrassment, and she saw hope.
When she’d met Logan, he’d looked no different from her brothers. Today she
saw a man with a past she’d never suspected, maybe never believed—not really. She saw a man who had beaten the odds and had overcome more in his thirty years than most did in a lifetime. She saw a man with so many sides, he reminded her of a perfectly cut diamond—a brilliant being who refracted all the light around him and created beauty just by his presence.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate this whole true-confessions thing. I just don’t understand what you’re going for.” She looked into shocked eyes—yeah, well, join the club. This wasn’t exactly what she’d been expecting either. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I care about you in ways I didn’t know I could. Skye, I might have some issues, but when it comes to you and me, they don’t seem to apply. I’ve been straight with you from the beginning and thought you deserved to know what you’re getting into with me.”
“But I’m not getting into anything with you. I told you why, and it has nothing to do with your past. We decided this afternoon that whatever this thing between us was is over, remember?”
“No, we haven’t decided anything.” Logan got that Cro-Magnon, alpha look in his deep-set eyes, the one that sent her heart racing, and had her thinking about running and squeezing her thighs together at the same time.
“Oh yes, we have.” Her brain and body were completely out of sync—her brain said run and her treacherous body said take me now. She didn’t know which was right. She was so disgusted with herself she felt like banging her head against a brick wall—she would have if her head hadn’t already felt as though the devil had used it for kickball practice.
He took her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. “You decided and you’re wrong. You’re not going to get fired. You’re the best chef the Crow’s Nest has ever had. Everyone cares about you—that’s why they’re sticking their noses into our lives. Things will calm down in a few days. Just give it a little time and we’ll be fine.”
She pushed against him to get some space, but his arms were locked around her like a vise. She opened her mouth to tell him she wanted to concentrate on her career. To tell him it had nothing to do with him, that it was her, and his kiss—a pleading, possessive, passionate, and mentally paralyzing kiss—anesthetized the space between her ears and sent shock waves through the rest of her body.