But now she needs me, and I’m coming like some kind of hero. Only I’m no hero. Finn is right though, I am a do-gooder…because I’m trying to fix all the shit I’ve destroyed in this world when I couldn’t keep my lips off a bottle of booze. Maybe helping Chloe will ease the guilt I’ve been living with for five years. Nothing has worked yet, but I’m not going to stop trying.
4
Chloe
“Mrs. Hale, I do not advise—”
“Are you going to hold me against my will?” I say, swinging my legs over the side of the bed in the emergency room and glaring at her…well not directly at her since I have blurred vision, which I didn’t tell her about. Even when she asked the question point-blank.
“No but…”
“Then thank you for stitching me up, I’ll be going now,” I say and reach for my coat, which the nurse draped on the plastic chair in the corner. It’s clearly way closer than I think it is because my hand bashes into the back of the chair when I thought I was still over a foot away from it. Fuck.
“Mrs. Hale…” says the nurse who asked for my emergency contact and insurance information when the ambulance brought me in.
“Ms.” I snap and instantly feel bad because she’s been very nice to me. I pause to get my frustration under control and swallow down the vomit that is slowly crawling up my throat. “Sorry. I just can’t spend the night. I appreciate the concern and your professional opinions, but I just can’t.”
“Can I ask why?” The voice comes from behind the nurse and doctor. It’s deep and calm and definitely male.
I look up and see Logan Hawkins. Actually I see two Logan Hawkins. Well, one and a half. Damn blurry vision. I take a long, slow breath and open my mouth to answer but I don’t. I don’t want to explain to my tenant or the staff here that I can’t pay the medical debt I already have let alone incur more. I already have an ambulance bill to pay from tonight. I don’t need any more.
“Hey Liz. Dr. Kainth,” I watch them turn to face him. “Can you give us a minute?”
Dr. Kainth and the nurse both nod. I am having trouble seeing but not hearing, so when Liz leans closer to him and whispers, “Good luck with this one, Logan,” I don’t miss it. I also don’t blame her. I’ve been terse and uncooperative since I arrived in the ambulance.
When the staff is gone, Logan walks to the end of the bed and grabs the electronic tablet that’s clipped into the holder there. It’s my chart. He scans it.
“Sorry about bothering you. I know I must seem like a psycho.”
“I don’t use that term lightly.” He is wearing an unreadable expression—all one-and-a-half of him. The silence is starting to freak me out but then he says, “I’m your ‘In Case of Emergency’?”
“No,” I reply firmly. “I don’t have one.”
“Apparently, you do. And it’s me,” he says back and I think he raises an eyebrow but I can’t be sure.
I blink very slowly and decide when the blurriness is actually worse to just keep my eyes closed. “I don’t have any family in the area, and I don’t want to bother the few friends I have, so when she asked, for some dumb reason, I said your name. I had your number in my phone and obviously I know your address.”
“Okay,” he says simply. I want to see how he is reacting to this, but this double-vision isn’t going to let me even if I open my eyes. Is he looking at me like I’m some kind of nutty, stalker type? I know it was ridiculous to give his information. I know. But what the hell else could I do?
“I didn’t know she would make you come down here,” I say and run a hand through my hair. It’s damp and tangled and when I look at my fingers they seem pink. Probably blood still in my hair. Awesome. I wipe them on my jeans because I think if I stand up to look for a tissue or paper towel, I’ll tip over. Or throw up. God I really want to barf.
“She didn’t make me,” he replies calmly and clips the tablet back in the holder. “With head injury patients that insist on being discharged, someone has to take them home. It’s too dangerous to let you go home alone.”
“I was planning on taking a cab.”
“They won’t let you do that,” he leans on the edge of the bed. “Has to be a friend or family member. Or loved one.”
“Or tenant?” I ask hopefully. There’s nothing but silence. “Okay now it feels officially awkward.”
He smiles. Even through the double vision I can see how much more handsome it makes him. I never see him smile at home. I mean, not that I see him a lot. I try not to see him. I’m not being unfriendly. I’m trying to be professional. Give him his space, which he pays for. Anyway, on the odd occasion I’ve glanced out the window and seen him with Chewie in the yard or walking to and from his SUV, he looks tortured. His brow is always furrowed, his shoulders tight, his expression grim. It’s really weird.
So now, when I see the smile, I almost want to smile back, but I’m too busy losing this battle against the barf. I dart up, almost tip over, and grab the wall. The bathroom is too far so I drop to my knees so hard I want to yelp as they smash into the linoleum, and I barf into the small trash bin.
I can hear him moving around the room but I don’t lift my head. I’m embarrassed and humiliated and honestly not sure I’m done. Suddenly his hands are in my long hair, pulling it away from my face. I appreciate the gesture, but it only makes me feel worse about myself. Ugh. When the contents of my stomach are finally done joining the outside world, Logan is still there, now with a tissue. Too spent to stand up, I lean against the wall, push the trash bin away, and wipe my mouth.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. That’s what serious concussions do. They make you vomit,” he says calmly. “And I’m betting you also have double or blurry vision. Or both.”
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, arms folded across his wide chest. He’s wearing the jeans, charcoal sweater, and brown boots I saw him leave the house in earlier. I mean, not that I was staring or taking inventory or anything. He was coming home from walking Chewie when I pulled in from the grocery store. Hard to miss a man walking a horse-sized dog…especially one so good-looking. Okay, so maybe I was staring.
“Dr. Kainth asked me that and I told her no.”
Even with the blurry vision I’m certain he is smirking at me. “That’s a very good non-answer, telling me what you told her, not what is actually happening. Which means you have blurry vision or double vision. Or both.”
“Sort of,” I mumble back because I am too screwed up to beat him at his own game right now.
“Chloe, you have a fairly severe concussion if you have vomiting and blurry vision,” he says and his voice changes. He’s calm but authoritative. “You’re going to experience more vomiting as well as sleepiness, headaches, and dizziness for about twenty-four hours. It’s best if you spend the night so they can monitor you.”
“No,” I say flatly.
“Why not?”
“I won’t do it,” I reply and try to pull myself up off the floor. He is off the bed and hooking me under the elbow in a flash. His other arm slips around my waist when I start to tilt to the left. He guides me toward the bed, but I dig in the heels of my winter boots and refuse to move.
“Chloe, look, I don’t know what the fuck is going on here,” he says and his tone is definitely more concern than judgment. “Talk to me so I can help you.”
God I still feel like barfing. How is that possible? There has got to be nothing left in my stomach. “Unless you can tell me without a doubt that I will drop dead if I walk out those doors, then I am not staying the night in here. And honestly, even if you say I will drop dead, it’ll be hard to convince me to stay.”
My voice quivers—hard—on that last part, which was kind of a joke. Kind of.
He is just standing there, inches from me, holding me up and staring at me. “Does this have to do with your limp?”
He noticed I limp sometimes. That makes me irrationally angry. “Why would it have to do with that?”
“Bec
ause you limp like someone who has had a severe pelvic or hip fracture. The kind that’s had surgical intervention and also means hospital stays and rehabilitation.”
“They teach you to read limps in paramedic school?” I snark, still irrationally upset.
“Yeah, well I did two years of med school and was hoping to be an orthopedic surgeon,” he replies with a shrug. “I notice more than your average paramedic.”
Okay, that is an unexpected plot twist. Hot tenant-slash-fisherman-slash-paramedic was almost a Hot Doctor? So many questions…
“So is your anger because I’m right? Did you break your hip?”
“Yes. When I shattered my pelvis and cracked a vertebrae and broke my right femur.”
“How the hell did all that happen?” He is stunned. Typical reaction, and when I give the reason why, the reaction gets worse because the shock mixes with pity and disbelief, and I don’t need that from him tonight. Or ever.
“Car crash. You were almost a doctor, so I think you know how billing works, right?” I think he nods but I’m not sure, so I just keep talking anyway. “Run the tab for all those pesky injuries through your mental calculator and when it explodes, then you know why I can’t stay. Also, why I have a tenant.”
There’s silence and I’m feeling unbelievably nauseous again so I close my eyes.
“Oh. Okay. You have medical bills,” he says calmly. “I get that can be stressful.”
“Soul-sucking is the term I tend to use, and I can’t afford any more,” I sigh and try to lean toward my jacket, but I feel his gentle hands on my shoulders. It’s probably for the best. “Unless I sell the house. And then we’re both homeless.”
“Please just lean against the wall and don’t move. I’ll get your jacket,” he says.
“So you’ll take me home so I can vomit without the billion-dollar surcharge?” I say right before I barf again - on his brown boots.
Oh God, I am the worst landlord in the history of the universe. He should have asked me for a damage deposit and not the other way around.
It’s a quick, violent burst because luckily there’s not a lot left in my stomach. And Logan doesn’t even blink. He just stands there, trying to keep the ends of my hair from falling forward again, and lets me violate his lovely leather footwear and then hands me a tissue just like last time.
“I am so sorry. I’ll replace those.”
“They’re five years old, and I bought them secondhand to begin with. Don’t worry about it,” he replies calmly.
“I’m worried about it. I’m worried about everything,” I say and inhale a deep, shaky breath.
“If I take you home, you have to agree to some conditions,” he says with trepidation in his low voice.
“Okay. I agree.”
“You don’t know what they are.”
“If it means I’m out of here right now, I agree.”
“I could say anything, make you do anything,” Logan’s voice is low, rough, and somehow, even through all the dizziness and nausea, I feel a spark of heat and life somewhere lower than my belly.
“I’ll do anything you want if you’ll just take me home.” My own voice is lower and rougher than I’ve ever heard.
He says nothing for so long that I start to panic he’s not going to get me out of here. But then he gives me a small smile and says, “Let’s go.”
5
Chloe
The snow is still tumbling out of the sky in big, chunky flakes so he keeps one hand around my waist and the other around my elbow. I have to lean into him because I’m still so dizzy, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He gets me into the passenger seat and as he leans across me to help me buckle my seatbelt, I can’t help but notice the faint smell of gin. My empty stomach clenches with the cold hand of fear. Has he been drinking? I can’t—won’t—get in a car with anyone who has had even one drink.
He closes my door and walks around the front of the Pathfinder. He hops into the driver’s seat, shuts his door, and turns to me. “So let’s talk about the conditions.”
“I told you I agree to them.”
He shakes his head. “I need to tell you what they are now so if you change your mind I can bring you back inside. If you don’t want me to wake you up every hour, someone else has to, and it should be the hospital.”
“You can wake me up every hour,” I say although I want to groan. I feel beyond exhausted and the idea of not getting a good night’s sleep is devastating.
“I’m going to stay on your couch so that I can hear you if you fall or call out or something,” he explains and starts the car.
“Are you okay to drive?” I ask flatly. “Because I’ll pay for a taxi or something if you’ve had a drink. And I mean even one drink. I don’t get in the car with people who drink.”
“I told you before I don’t drink,” Logan replies calmly but I can see the tension in his shoulders. “And I meant never. I’ve been stone cold sober for years.”
“Then why do you smell like gin?”
“Fuck,” he says under his breath and runs a hand through his hair before banging the back of his head gently into the head rest. “This is going to sound really bad, and it’s not what you think, but a woman threw a drink in my face.”
“Oh,” I blink. My vision clears for just a second and then blurs again. I close my eyes.
“She thought I was someone else,” he explains and I believe him even though it sounds like some ridiculously lame excuse.
“Okay.”
“Really?” he questions, shocked. “Because even I think it sounds like a lie. It’s not though, I promise.”
“You seem intelligent and clever enough to come up with a better story than that if you wanted to lie, so I believe you,” I say and take a slow, deep breath. “Can we go, please?”
“Yes,” I hear the gear shift slip into what I am hoping is drive. “If you feel sick again, try to let me know so I can pull over. My car is older than my shoes, but it’s harder to replace, so it needs to stay a vomit-free zone if at all possible.”
“I will.”
The drive from the hospital to Ocean Pines takes twenty minutes on a good night and tonight is not one of those. The snow has created white-out conditions with almost zero visibility and slick, mostly unplowed roads. Logan handles them like a champ though, but we’re going much slower than normal. In a way it’s good because the reduced pace seems to ease my nausea, but it’s also torture because I just want to get home.
I keep my eyes closed and try not to nod off, which Logan helps with by saying my name every few minutes to make sure I’m still awake. When he finally pulls into the driveway, I’m so relieved I could cry. I start to unclasp my seatbelt but he puts a hand over mine. “Wait here for a minute. I want to clear the stairs to make sure we can get you up them easily.”
“Okay. The shovel I was using is still out there somewhere.”
Logan hops out of the car and marches toward the steps. You can’t even tell I’d actually managed to shovel half of them before I slipped, they’re all covered in several inches of heavy, white snow. He looks around for the shovel, grabs it gloveless, and gets to work. Watching him, I realize he must be in incredible shape because he is shoveling the snow like a boss, hurling heavy shovelfuls over his shoulder with ease and lightning speed. He’s done all the stairs in a quarter of the time it took me to get through only half of them before I face-planted. He plants the shovel in the snowbank and strides back over to the car. He opens my door and helps me out. “How’s the vision?”
“Better. A little. You’re less blurry,” I explain.
“And the barfing?”
“I think that’s done.”
He smiles sympathetically. “Maybe. But probably not.”
“Argh,” I groan and his smile deepens.
“It’s fine. You’ll get through it, and you have your own personal paramedic to make sure of it.” He wraps his strong hand around my elbow and helps me out of the car.
“Chloe! Sugar boo
ger! How are you?” The voice and the annoying nickname make me cringe harder than the nausea did. Logan turns his head and looks behind us.
“Mrs. Green?” He says her name with a sharp, disapproving edge so I know he’s met her before.
“She lives across the street,” I whisper.
“Now I know the real reason the rent is so low,” Logan mutters back.
I don’t have time to answer him before she’s crossed the snowy street and is halfway up my driveway. “Hi, Mrs. Green.”
“I didn’t expect to see you home tonight,” Mrs. Green tells me. She’s wrapped in a three-quarter length bright orange faux fur coat with the hood up. She looks like a fuzzy pylon. “When the paramedics whisked you away, I assumed you’d be gone at least a day. I saw you go down. Your forehead hit the step so hard I swear it literally bounced like a tennis ball,” she says and by the time she reaches us, she’s panting, even though the driveway is not that long. Her pale green eyes take a good, long, nosy look at Logan. “Logan, were you on the call? My son Ronan is off tonight, and I thought you two were on the same day shifts this week.”
“Logan is my new tenant,” I say. “I’m sure you’ve noticed him coming and going.”
“I’ve been on vacation, honey, remember? I told you I was going to Mexico for a week with my daughter Cassidy,” she says, her tone a little tight. She remembers everyone else’s business so I guess she’s annoyed I don’t remember hers. “I had no idea you had a roommate and that it was a Hawkins.”
“Tenant. I turned the garage and storage room into a self-contained apartment, Mrs. Green,” I tell her. I thought she’d probably figured that out with all the construction workers I had in and out a few months ago.
The Winter We Collided: A Small Town Single Dad Romance (Ocean Pines Series Book 2) Page 4