I kept ignoring things when I saw that Logan had thoughtfully brought all my luggage from the back door and set it in the walk-in closet in the bathroom.
I busted open my luggage, dug out what I needed, made a decision that was based on what was happening with my head and the strange, nagging but not alarming nausea I was feeling, and selected my apparel for the day.
I then took a long, hot shower, shampooed, conditioned, exfoliated (face and body), shaved, and got out to towel off, lotion, gunk up my hair, tone and moisturize my face, then put on my undies and pajamas. The pj’s were a soft gray-green, no lace, long tight sleeves, a fair amount of chest (if not cleavage) bared, and lounge-y, loose-fitting pants.
Unfortunately, through this, I learned that the healing powers of a shower didn’t extend to jet lag.
In other words, it was time to crash again, snooze away the fuzziness in my head, the weird feeling in my belly, and wake up, hopefully to Logan having consumed his bacon and being the hell out of my house.
I unlocked the door, opened it, and stopped dead.
This was because Logan was standing there, arm up high, hand to the jamb, leaning his weight into it. His ankles were crossed, his other hand was fisted and to his hip, and, until I opened the door, his head was bent to contemplate his socks.
But when I opened the door, his eyes came to mine.
They were warm. They were concerned.
They were Logan.
“Hey, baby,” he said softly.
I thought I was dead inside.
Gone.
Faded away.
So how could he keep killing me?
I didn’t respond to him. I skirted him and went directly to the bed.
I climbed in, pulled the covers up to my ears, and closed my eyes.
He wasn’t there.
This wasn’t happening.
Yesterday didn’t happen.
I was experiencing a very weird, long, crazy dream.
The bed moved and I knew he’d sat on it.
Shit.
He was there.
I gritted my teeth and fought back screaming in frustration.
“You still tired?” he asked.
“Go away,” I answered.
He said nothing to that but the bed moved again as he shifted to pull the covers down to my shoulder; then he locked them in place when he leaned over me, putting his weight into the covers by my chest.
“Think it’s best you’re awake when it’s day here, Millie. You need to get used to bein’ back on Denver time. And you gotta get some food in you.”
I needed to get used to being back on Denver time?
How did he know I wasn’t on Denver time?
I didn’t ask that because I didn’t care about his answer (I told myself).
“I’ll do all that when you go away,” I audibly told the insides of my eyelids.
“Not goin’ away, beautiful,” he said gently.
Why?
Then again, these days, why did Logan do anything?
“Of course not,” I sighed.
“Sit up,” he ordered. “I’ll bring you some food.”
Weirdly, even though I felt kind of queasy, I also felt hungry.
And there obviously was bacon.
That decided it.
I pushed back, avoiding his body that was sitting on the bed behind me, and sat up.
“Be right back,” he muttered.
I didn’t say anything. I arranged the covers precisely folded over my lap.
It took him longer to get back to me with food than it did for me to arrange the covers but at least in that time I was able to come up with a strategy.
I was tired. I was nauseous. I was jet-lagged. I’d had a massive drama the day before. I had a lot of reasons to be quiet that he’d likely get and therefore not question and thus I’d eat. Then, if I didn’t actually pass out, I’d pretend to pass out.
While I was pretending (or actually unconscious), I’d hope Logan would go away.
If he didn’t, I’d use that time to come up with a strategy to make him go away.
With this plan in place, I felt better when he got back, carrying a plate in one hand, a coffee mug in the other.
No tray.
“You didn’t bring a tray,” I blurted.
He was eyes to me as he walked my way and he didn’t falter a single step when he asked, “A tray?”
“If I have breakfast in bed, it should be on a tray.”
He stopped by the side of the bed and stared down at me.
God, he was tall.
And his shoulders were really broad.
And he’d made the perfect winter fashion selection, even if it was singular with the only variety being color and the nuance of fade to his jeans. Snug-fitting thermal Henleys were perfect on him. Including the wine-colored one he was currently wearing.
“Never brought breakfast to anyone in bed, didn’t know the protocol,” he muttered.
My eyes went from his thermal at his chest to his face to see his lips curved up.
That was perfect too.
“I could get bacon grease on my sheets,” I informed him haughtily.
“They’ll wash,” he returned, bending to put my coffee cup on my nightstand (without a coaster!) at the same time offering me a plate that had four slices of bacon, a huge pile of fluffy eggs, and two slices of bread liberally slathered with butter and grape jelly.
More disasters waiting to happen to my sheets.
I took it from him automatically, telling him, “Bacon grease isn’t easy to get out. And what if it gets on the duvet cover? That could be cataclysmic.”
He raised his brows.
Also perfect.
Why oh why when it felt like I was fading away I...?just...?didn’t?
“Grease on your sheets is cataclysmic?” he asked.
“Have you ever tried to get grease out of anything?” I asked back.
His lips curved up again on his, “No.”
“Then you don’t understand. Further, this bed set is seasons old. And it’s perfect. If something happened, I’d never be able to replace it.”
“Fuck, you’re right,” he stated. “That is cataclysmic.”
I felt my chest depress.
He was being sweet, gentle, thoughtful, and teasing.
In other words, speaking to him was totally fucking with my strategy of eating then fake-passing out and coming up with a new strategy to get him gone.
So I had to stop speaking to him.