I moved and set my plate on the nightstand so I could get out of the bed and I did it mumbling, “I’ll eat in the kitchen.”
A hand landed firm on my shoulder, pressing in, and I tipped my head back.
When I caught his eyes, he said, “I’ll get the fuckin’ tray. Where is it?”
Logan was going to get me a tray.
I stared up at him.
Apparently I did this too long because he straightened and turned, saying, “Whatever. I’ll find it.”
Then he walked out of my room.
Something came to me the instant he disappeared and I yelled, “Bring a coaster! They’re in the drawers of the coffee table in the living room!”
I heard a faraway, “Jesus,” then nothing.
It was then I had thoughts of climbing out the window.
I was in jammies, had wet hair, and my mind wasn’t all there, likely for more reasons than just that I was jet-lagged, so I didn’t think being in my jammies with wet hair on the run in the cold would be a good idea.
So instead, I reached for my coffee and sipped it.
After that, I stared at the breakfast and hoped he didn’t dawdle. It looked delicious and food like that was a lot more delicious when it was warm.
I didn’t think about the fact that he cooked it.
When we were together, Logan cooked, but not much. This was because I loved cooking and he loved letting me do what I loved. But part of loving it was doing something for my man, doing my bit to take care of him.
When he cooked, it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t great, though by the end he was really getting good at the grill and he could make any kind of potato fabulous.
He’d obviously gotten better, at least at eggs.
He came back with a tray that I’d bought with the idea of putting out hors d’oeuvres and serving fabulous cocktails on it during the parties that I eventually never gave.
It appeared there was more food on it, definitely another mug of coffee.
He came right to me, plopped the tray on my lap, took a coaster from it, and tossed it on my nightstand, then grabbed the plate of food and mug of coffee off it and moved away.
I watched apprehensively as he rounded the bed and put his coffee mug (not on a coaster) on my other nightstand. Then he climbed in bed with me, settled back to the headboard, legs stretched out, stocking feet crossed at the ankles, and he forked up some eggs.
I sat motionless, staring at him eating in my bed.
With me.
What was going on?
With mouth still full, he turned to me and asked, “Hand me the other coaster, would you, babe?”
My brain having stopped functioning altogether, I looked down at the tray, saw another coaster there, mutely picked it up, and handed it to him.
He took it, twisted, I was treated to his thermal stretching across his ribs and lateral muscles and doing this tight as he put his mug on the coaster. Then he sat back, his eyes sliding to me.
“Eat,” he ordered low.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“Eat,” he repeated.
I turned more fully to him. “What’s happening, High? Why are you here? Why are you making bacon? Why are you eating my food?”
“Dot stocked you up but she didn’t buy eggs and bacon, Millie. That’s from Chaos,” he told me. “Now this shit is fuckin’ good, so grab it before it gets cold and eat.”
It was from Chaos.
I turned and looked at my food like a woman who’d just been informed her meal was laced with arsenic.
From beside me came a warning, “Eat or I feed you, Millie.”
I wasn’t in the mood to test that.
Hell, I’d probably never be in the mood to test that.
So I didn’t test it.
I grabbed the plate, put it on my tray, slid the fork out from under the food, and stabbed at the eggs.
I put them in my mouth.
There was cheese, a sharp cheddar. There was garlic, not too much. Fresh ground pepper, which was nice. And something else savory and flavorful that I couldn’t put my finger on.
Then I did.
A hint of oregano providing a pleasant surprise.
Damn, Logan put oregano in his eggs.
God.
The food was still warm. The bacon crisped to perfection. The toast lightly and expertly toasted. And my coffee had a splash of creamer, no sugar, very strong, like I liked it.
Like I’d always liked it.
I forced down the food, enjoying it too much, but doing it telling myself I was not going to cry.
I was going to eat and pass out and wake up with my head clear and then I was going to find the words to communicate to Logan that our game had been played, he won, and I was leaving him to his life in Denver.
Logan cut into my thoughts. “How many of pairs of those jammies you got?”
“Several,” I muttered, biting into a slice of bacon, ignoring him using the word jammies again, or more accurately, how cute I thought it was.
“Mmm,” he murmured. It was rough and growly, which was not cute in the slightest, and I felt tingles hit my thighs.
I did not need tingles.
Ever.
I focused on my bacon, deciding to speed things up, so I took a bite and chewed fast.
“Dumped snow last night,” Logan stated. “Serious. Snowed all yesterday and all night and it’s still goin’. Two feet and we’re gonna get more. They say you don’t gotta go anywhere, don’t.”
Oh no.
Was I going to be shut in my house with Logan during a blizzard?
That could not happen.
I turned to him. “Then you need to eat and leave.”
He took a bite of toast and looked to me, speaking and chewing. “Say it one more time, babe. Not leavin’.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Why?” he asked back.
“Yes, High. Why?”
He tipped his head to the side, opened his mouth, and shut it.
He studied me and he did this for some time.
Then he looked back at the plate he was holding in front of him and said, “We’ll talk after we eat.”
“If it’s snowing that bad, you need to get going,” I pointed out.
He looked back to me and his voice was quiet when he replied, “Let that go. That fight you ain’t gonna win. We’ll talk after we eat but I’m not goin’ anywhere, Millie. And I mean that in a lotta ways, so you best start gettin’ used to it now.”