Protecting His Baby

by Nikki Chase

  With some difficulty, I pull my key card out of my jacket pocket and swipe it through the reader. It takes several tries sometimes, so I breathe a sigh of relief when the thing immediately beeps, and the door opens with a click.

  As the door closes behind me, I savor the feeling of having my privacy back.

  But as soon as I reach the bed, I realize I have a problem. Harper’s clothes are soaked wet.

  I’m going to have to take them off.

  It won’t be the first time I see a naked body, of course. As a physician, I’ve seen my share of nudity.

  The problem is, I have no idea if I can stay professional. In fact, I don’t think I can. Hell, I got a hard-on just from kissing this girl.

  I’ll think about that later. I’m a smart guy. I graduated from medical school. I can solve this problem.

  I gently put Harper down on the side of the bed where I slept.

  I’ve already pulled down the covers before going to sleep and housekeeping hasn’t been here because I hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign before leaving for the funeral this morning.

  I take a deep breath. I can do this.

  First, take off her jacket.

  I should’ve done this when I was in the car.

  One by one, I undo Harper’s buttons. I peel off her jacket and huff a relieved sigh when I see a dry, black top underneath.

  At least I won’t have to take it off, too.

  Those jeans, though . . .

  They’re so wet they’ve probably turned a couple shades darker from their original color.

  I’ll try my hardest not to look.

  My heart races as I unbutton her jeans. When I unzip them, the sound fills the hotel room and floods my system with adrenaline.

  I can do this.

  With care, I grab the waist of Harper’s jeans and pull them down.

  “Fuck,” I curse whoever invented skinny jeans when her panties slide down, too.

  It’s only a fraction of a second, but I catch a glimpse of red curls underneath the black lace of her panties, and my throat goes instantly dry.

  I swallow before I continue this delicate operation.

  With one hand, I hold her panties up while my other hand pulls her jeans down, all the while forcing my eyes to focus on the painting over the headboard.

  When the jeans are finally peeled off Harper’s body, I pull the covers up to conceal her long, shapely legs. If I catch another peek of her sexy body, I don’t know what I’d do to her.

  I take a seat on the couch at the corner of the room. This is what’s great about these swanky hotels. They always have too much furniture.

  I rest my elbows on my thighs and stare at Harper’s sleeping form. Her chest underneath the covers rises up and down with her breaths.

  This has been a strange day. I expected it to be strong. But contrary to what I thought this morning, Pam’s funeral wasn’t the strangest thing about it.

  This girl. Harper.

  Who is she?

  Most people would dismiss her as some nutcase. But I can’t do that. And not just because she’s hot as hell.

  There’s something about her. As cheesy as it sounds, when those green eyes look into mine, it’s like she’s staring right into my soul.

  It feels like she knows me. And, I know her, too. It felt wrong when I didn’t recognize her because something about her called out to something deep inside me.

  Jesus, what am I thinking?

  I’ve never been one to buy that kind of hokey, new-age shit.

  I sit up straight and run my fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp to hopefully get rid of my illogical thoughts.

  Just a few hours with this girl, and already I’m questioning my beliefs.

  Whoever she is, I don’t have time for her shit. She’s not my problem, and I don’t have to figure out what’s wrong with her.

  Maybe down the line, she’ll learn what’s wrong with herself and pay an overpriced shrink to fix her brain. But that has nothing to do with me.

  I’ll wait until she’s well enough to go home on her own, and that’s it.

  I couldn’t possibly leave her unconscious in a cemetery on her own. If something were to happen to her, if I were to flip open a newspaper at the hotel breakfast tomorrow morning and read an article about her, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.

  But I’m a physician. I have no obligation beyond making sure she’s physically okay.

  No matter how hot or crazy she is, she doesn’t look like someone who belongs in my world. Where I go, she can’t follow. Even if she intrigues me like nothing ever has.

  Harper

  I had the weirdest dream.

  It wasn’t the first dream I ever had about meeting Mark again, of course. And it probably won’t be the last. But it was different.

  It doesn’t matter, though. It never does. Weird or not weird, it was just a dream. In reality, I’ll never see him again.

  I let out a big sigh as I open my eyes.

  White walls. White sheets.

  Where am I?

  Am I . . . wearing a bra? I don’t usually wear a bra to bed.

  I blink a few times, forcing myself awake. My heart starts to beat faster.

  Framed paintings hang on the wall. I never bothered to decorate my apartment.

  Why should I care about interior décor when my whole life has crumbled? My apartment is barren, just like my soul.

  I prop myself up on my elbows.

  “Hello,” says a painfully familiar voice.

  I turn my head to find . . . Mark. Sitting on a navy-blue couch in the corner of this strange room.

  He puts his phone on the side table next to him and leans back in his chair. He interlaces his fingers and rests his hands on his lap. Then, he watches me.

  Am I still dreaming? If I am, I never want to wake up.

  My eyes fill with water. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. I don’t get to see him much. I don’t want my view to be clouded by tears.

  His voice. Deep and soothing. I’ve almost forgotten what he sounded like. I don’t often get such vivid details in my dreams.

  “Say something again,” I say, my voice soft and trembling. I’m terrified if I talk more loudly the whole illusion will shatter.

  “How do you feel?” he asks.

  “I . . .” My voice cracks as tears pour out of my soul. I get out from under the white covers and stand up, facing him.

  The soreness in my chest from the underwire of my bra digging into my flesh. The soft, plush carpet under my bare feet.

  This feels too real to be a dream.

  Was it real? The whole thing? I wasn’t hallucinating when I saw Mark at the office? And I wasn’t dreaming when I saw him again at the cemetery?

  I kissed him . . .

  I swallow as my eyes focus on the man sitting in front of me, looking like he’s completely relaxed.

  He’s wearing a black leather jacket, just like Mark’s favorite. His sharp, unyielding eyes seem as confident and determined as Mark’s used to be.

  But there’s something cold in those eyes.

  And, when we kissed . . . He felt different. But not in a bad way.

  God, just admitting that makes me feel guilty. Disloyal.

  I’ve never enjoyed physical contact with any other guy after Mark. Except for this guy. This . . . lookalike.

  “Logan?” I ask, my heart pounding as I wish, against all hope, that he’d give me a negative answer and say a different name.

  “That’s me.”

  “I . . .” What was his question again? “I feel . . . okay, I guess.”

  I stand awkwardly by the bed, the back of my thighs pressing against the soft bedsheets. No doubt the linens have a high thread count.

  “Do you remember what happened?” he asks, getting up from his seat.

  Should I just stand here? Should I step closer to him?

  The way he moves unsettles me.

  His movements look exactly like Mark’s did. But, t
here’s something about Logan that feels dangerous. Predatory.

  Suddenly, I become aware of the fact I’m no longer wearing my jeans. My legs are bared to him. Come to think of it, he was probably the one who took my jeans off.

  This is probably how a deer feels when she senses a lion hiding in the tall grass. Except, a part of me wants to be caught. Needs to be devoured.

  I glance over my shoulder. At least, if I fall, I’ll land on something soft and luxurious. Not a bad way to go, I guess.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” Logan asks again.

  “I . . . I was . . . at the cemetery. It started raining,” I say as my memory comes back to me.

  “Yeah. And you just stood there while it poured.”

  I stare at him. My instincts tell me to watch his eyes, to be careful of what he’s about to do to me. But instead, I let my gaze fall to his feet—the same size as Mark—his long legs, his big hands, and his dark hair.

  Sure, he feels different. And even though Mark had a closed casket funeral, I’m certain his family must’ve identified his body beforehand. They seemed like they were genuinely mourning.

  And yet, how can this man be anyone other than Mark?

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.

  I look back into his eyes. There’s not a shred of recognition for me in them.

  Something pops into my head. Something ridiculous. Something that doesn’t ring true. But I have to ask.

  “Have you ever had amnesia?” I sound dumb.

  “What?”

  “Amnesia,” I repeat, feeling even dumber.

  “Nope.” He stops a few inches away from me. “Have we met? Before the cemetery?”

  So, Mark didn’t get amnesia after the accident and acquire a new personality.

  Cloning? Could there be multiple copies of the same person? Probably not. But it doesn’t hurt to ask. I’ve already come this far.

  “Have you ever found yourself in some high-tech research facility?” I ask.

  This is probably the dumbest question I’ve asked so far, but I’m done feeling stupid. If I don’t eliminate all possibilities, I won’t stop wondering.

  Logan laughs. “What are you, some conspiracy nut?”

  Even his laughter sounds like Mark’s. Except, Mark would never say something that mean to me.

  Ignoring his question, I ask, “Do you have a twin?”

  Logan lets out an impatient sigh. “Look, lady, I suggest you make an appointment with a shrink as soon as you get home. Check with your insurance. It may be covered.”

  “I do have a therapist.”

  “Good.”

  Logan puts his palm on my forehead and instantly, I feel something crackle between us. Some kind of electricity. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.

  As he studies my face, I can clearly see the surprise on his. He feels it, too.

  He clears his throat and declares, “You don’t have a fever.”

  “Are you a doctor?” I ask.

  He may not be Mark, but he’s the closest thing I’ve ever come across. And this . . . pull I feel between us. I can’t deny it, even if guilt pangs in my chest.

  “Yeah.” He slides his hand down from my forehead to my cheek. His thumb caresses my skin as he stares into my eyes, a frown on his forehead.

  Obviously, he’s no longer trying to check my temperature. He’s got a less clinical question on his mind now. The same question that’s on my mind.

  What is this . . . thing?

  I look up to meet Logan’s gaze.

  When we touch, why does it feel like we must never part?

  And, if he’s not Mark, then who is he?

  As if he can read my thought, Logan asks, “Who is Mark?”

  I remain quiet. I haven’t talked about Mark to anybody in a long time, except for my therapist, of course. It feels strange—almost wrong—to start now.

  “Well?” he asks.

  I take a deep breath. “Mark . . . He . . .”

  “Hold on,” Logan says. He takes his hand off me to to pull a cell phone out of his jacket. He looks at the screen. “Fuck.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  He stares at me. Then, he takes three steps back as if I’m poison and he’d get violently harmed if we made physical contact.

  Fair enough, I guess, considering I’ve already caused Mark’s death.

  “I have to go,” he says distractedly.

  “Now?” I ask. I was just about to figure out what’s going on.

  “Yeah. Now.” Logan runs his fingers through his thick, dark hair.

  Then, he walks away. Disengages. It’s like I’m not even here.

  He grabs a black duffel bag from the table. Apparently, he has already packed up his things. He walks toward the door and grabs the handle.

  “Hey, wait,” I say. I can’t let him just walk away like that.

  No explanation. No goodbyes. No phone number. No way to contact him. How am I supposed to solve this puzzle?

  I know if I just let him walk out that door, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. I’ll forever wonder about who he is and why he makes me feel the way he does.

  Logan stops and turns to look at me, his hand resting on the door handle. “What?”

  “That’s it? You’re just going to leave?”

  He frowns. “Well, yeah.”

  “You’re not going to . . . We were having a conversation.”

  “And now we’re not. See how that works?” he asks.

  “There’s no need to be rude.”

  “Rude?” Logan chuckles. “Look, Harper—yes, I checked your ID—most people would thank me for doing what I did for you. I carried you from the cemetery to a place that’s safe and warm. I made sure you’re okay. And now, I’m done being a good Samaritan. I’ve got shit to do.”

  “We’re not done talking.”

  “Yeah? Says who?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

  I glare at him. I can’t believe not too long ago, I thought he was Mark.

  “Look, you can stay here until tomorrow morning,” Logan says as he glances at his watch. “I’ve paid for the room until tomorrow morning. If I remember correctly, check-out is at eleven. You can call front desk and ask them to make sure. I think there’s breakfast in the morning, too.”

  Logan pulls the door open without waiting for my response.

  “Wait,” I demand.

  “Like I said, I’ve got shit to do. Enjoy your stay.”

  I rush toward the door and grab his arm. I can feel his muscles underneath the leather of his jacket. I can’t physically keep him from leaving. Obviously, he’s much stronger than me.

  “Harper, I’ve done enough for you,” Logan says. Every time he says my name in that voice, my heart skips a beat. “Most people would just be grateful I’ve done this much. For free, no less. Now, stay here and rest like a good girl.”

  Logan pulls his arm free and walks out into the hallway.

  I almost jump out after him. But then, I remember I’m not wearing any pants.

  Damn it!

  I watch helplessly as he reaches the row of elevator doors and presses a button.

  He’s left me with no other option. Reluctantly, I take my gaze off him and get back inside, letting the door shut on its own behind me.

  I find my jeans carelessly thrown on the floor and put them on.

  Ugh. They’re still damp and cold.

  But, I have no choice.

  I throw on my jacket and dash out of the room.

  Screw a night at some upscale hotel. Screw free breakfast.

  Like hell I’m going to just stay here and rest while Logan gets away from me, never to be found again.

  He’s no longer standing in the hallway when I get out.

  But there’s no way I’m leaving him alone. I’ll find him again and get my answers if it’s the last thing I do.

  Logan

  Fuck.

  I never should’ve even talked to Rosa. That
girl is fucking trouble.

  I only did it to be polite.

  At the party, I was introduced as an honorary member of old man Foster’s family. I thought being friendly to everyone would be the respectful thing to do, after all he’s done for me.

  But if I knew Rosa would go on to become such a pain in the ass, I would’ve ignored her when she approached me. I should’ve excused myself to smoke outside on the balcony and disappeared for the rest of the night.

  Instead, I listened to her yap on about her trips abroad and her vapid friends. I thought I was doing old man Foster a favor, but obviously that was the wrong move.

  Later that night, she pulled the hem of her dress up to show off her thigh tattoo.

  “Touch it,” she said. “I just got it done a couple of days ago, so it’s still kind of raised.”

  I laughed nervously and politely declined. I’d had some wine because there was an open bar, but I wasn’t so out of it that I’d think groping the daughter of a mobster would be a good idea.

  As it turned out, refusing to grope her wasn’t such a good idea either. How was I supposed to know, though?

  Rosa kept touching my arm and pressing her tits against me. The hall was pretty full, but it wasn’t that crowded.

  At some point, she straight up grabbed my head and pulled me into a kiss, at which point I stopped her and said, “Sorry, I can’t do this.”

  “Why not?” she pouted.

  “I’m not the kind of guy you want. Trust me.”

  “Let me decide that for myself,” she said like a truly spoiled princess. “Is it because of my dad?”

  “That’s part of it.” I’m not normally into casual hook-ups anyway, but her dad being the leader of a notorious mafia family definitely didn’t make it seem more appealing.

  “Don’t worry about him. I promise you, you can do anything you want to me tonight, and he won’t touch you,” she said. She was persistent.

  I checked my watch. In an attempt to save her face, I said, “I have an early morning tomorrow. I should go to bed. It’s been a pleasure to—”

  “If you walk away from me, I can’t promise you my dad won’t touch you,” she threatened, her face contorted into an angry, ugly mask.