Just as she was about to step into the stall, she remembered to grab her toiletry bag and she saw the uneven scar in a full-sized mirror for the first time. The bag slipped from her fingers and all the cosmetics and bottles scattered across the floor.
She’d known it was there—felt the itch and the pain daily. She’d even looked down at it a few times, but this mirror wouldn’t allow her to look away like she usually did. It was all there in its Technicolor glory.
The door burst open. “Are you—” Logan broke off, worry melted into wide-eyed fury.
She rushed for the towel off the rack and he stopped her.
“No.” He cupped her face. “I’m just angry that it happened. That she—” His jaw clenched so hard she could actually see the throb in his temple and muscle jump in his cheek. He dropped to his knees in front of her. “Don’t cover it up.” With shaking fingers, he traced the wide bloom of garish yellow and blue skin that shaded her ribs.
There were deep purple bruises along the gash where the glass had torn into her. And the red scar that itched all damn day. There were dissolvable stitches crisscrossing down her side from her bra-line to her hip that would last a few more weeks.
Even with the horror show stamped on her side, her nipples tightened at his gentle caress. How could he keep touching her when she looked like that?
He pressed a butterfly-soft kiss against her hip at the end of the stitches and stood up. His eyes were red with emotion and his lip trembled once before he kissed her forehead.
He scooped up her toiletries from the floor and dumped them in her bag, setting it on the small stand near the shower. He moved to the door and cleared his throat, his voice so deep it practically vibrated. “Shout if you need me—or something.”
She nodded and turned away from her reflection to get into the shower stall. She tipped her head back to get a full-on spray and let a few tears fall before she started the painstaking process of washing around stitches and burns.
When she was finally bundled into a robe, she found the bedroom empty and Logan out on the deck. A bottle of Breckenridge bourbon open on the coffee table with two inches missing.
The glass was empty on the railing and his head was bowed.
Watching his face and the emotions wash over him in the bathroom had dislodged something inside of her. She’d been drowning in her own grief for days, but she hadn’t allowed herself to really see what Logan was going through.
That he’d almost lost her.
That maybe he really wasn’t that sure and steady as he seemed.
She went out to the deck.
“I’ll be just a minute.” His voice was like sandpaper and alcohol on an open wound.
Fiona bounced to her feet from her perch beside Logan and leaned against Bella. She stroked the dog then stepped up behind him. She pressed her forehead to his back, dragging in his familiar scent.
Sandalwood and vanilla with a hint of clean air from the cool breeze off the water. She hooked her finger around his pinkie and stood there with him for a little while.
He didn’t speak, didn’t push her for more than she was giving.
When the cold deck seeped into her feet and bones, she finally let him go and went back inside. She tugged on yoga pants and pawed through the sweatshirts he’d put in the drawers. A familiar blue Henley was at the bottom of the pile. Her palm itched to get a hold of it, to tug it on and find the comfort that once infused the cotton. Instead she clutched a long sleeve cotton shirt. She put a layer of lotion on her hands and coated her entire upper body, paying special attention to her shoulders and the healing skin around her wrists and forearms before pulling the shirt over her head. She turned out all the lights and slid into bed, moving to the side closest to the sloped ceiling.
Fiona jumped on the bed and Bella curled around her, letting sleep find her.
Sometime later Logan came in. She heard him moving around, zippers opening and closing then the shower turning on. She dozed until he sat on his side of the bed.
Part of her wanted to banish him.
Part of her wanted to back into him and ask him to hold her.
But she stayed where she was and he stretched out on his back, with his arm tucked under his head.
A two-foot island between them.
∞♦ ∞
When Logan woke, she was gone. Her side of the bed was made, the pillow cool to the touch. He jumped out of bed and looked in the bathroom then over the railing of the loft bedroom to the living space below.
Both Fiona and Izzy were gone. He rushed back inside to get dressed when he heard Fiona’s bark. He went to the sliding doors to the deck and dragged in a gulp of air.
They were on the dock by the river, Isabella sitting in an Adirondack chair, looking out on the water with Fiona running around her chair, trying to get her to play.
He curled his fingers over the sun-warmed pine. He hadn’t even heard her or felt her move. The cabin itself had eased the constant terror he’d been living with for weeks now. Knowing Aimee couldn’t get to them had allowed him to lower his guard enough to sleep. Evidently he’d needed it.
Seeing the extent of her scars had stolen the last of his reserves last night.
He’d known about them.
He’d seen the nurses treating her daily, but he’d never gotten a true look at them. Not the burns on her shoulders, or the gash that had almost killed her.
He closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest. No, he definitely hadn’t been prepared for that. And she’d looked at him so impassively. Like he was a stranger touching her.
Christ. It was time to put that away. She needed time, and he just had to get a grip about it. He took one more long look at her. Dark hair loose around her shoulders, familiar bulky cable-knit sweater that she loved wrapped around her, but she was sitting up. And she was strong enough to get herself down there.
For this morning, that was enough.
He padded into the bathroom to try and get back into a normal routine. After getting washed and dressed, he went downstairs and made coffee before heading outside. The air was cooler in Maine so the trees already had a tinge of yellow and orange to their leaves. He followed the well-worn path to the dock.
“Morning.”
Startled, she twisted in her seat.
“Sorry. I woke and you were gone.”
She put her hand on top of Fiona’s head. Inferring that she needed to take the dog out, he nodded and handed her a mug. She gave him an almost smile and cupped her hands around the warm ceramic, then settled back into her chair, her attention back on the water.
They both drank in companionable silence. When he finished his cup, he reached for hers that she’d set on the arm of the chair. “Do you want to go walk around? See where everything is?”
She nodded.
He transferred the mugs to one hand and held out his hand to help her, but she ignored it and struggled out of the deep chair on her own.
Fiona dropped a ball at his feet with a hopeful doggie smile. He bent down to pick it up and threw it up toward the path they’d walk. She barked, turned back to Isabella for permission, and took off after it.
“There’s a recreation lodge that we have access to.”
She nodded, tucked her hands into the huge sleeves of her sweater, and crossed her arms across her middle as they walked up the trail. Fiona kept bringing the ball back to them and running through the woods. She kept Isabella in her sights at all times.
It was only a three minute walk, but he could tell it was wearing on her. “Want to take a little break?” She gave a half shrug and sat at one of the picnic tables. “I’m just going to check out what they have.”
She averted her attention to Fiona without a word.
Of course.
Logan cracked his knuckles as he went inside. A pair of ancient pinball machines lined one wall, with a Pac Man video game console in the corner. But it was the full-sized pool table that called to him. He and Zeke would play for hours at
the dive bars they’d performed in during the first few rough years.
Transitioning from teen dream pop sensation to a hard rock lead singer with a band had been tough. Even more difficult when he was starting without a dime to his name. His father had cleaned out his bank accounts the week before he’d turned eighteen.
They’d fought for the last year about his career. Logan was tired of the fluff songs that he was playing and wanted to change his image, write his own music. And the closer he got to legal age, the more he pushed to take control of his career.
No matter what, he would have taken care of his father. Landon King hadn’t believed that in the end. Instead he’d taken thirty-seven million dollars and disappeared on the second to last night of Logan’s tour.
He spun the scarred cue ball into the middle of the felt. He’d come back from nothing. Trust and faith wasn’t a commodity he had in abundance, but he had it in Izzy. Getting her to believe in him again was a test he was afraid he’d fail.
He stood up straight, tired of his own thoughts. It was all he had lately since she wasn’t talking. He crossed to the half closed sliding door to the lodge, pushing it open to light up the far corner.
A sad piano sat in the corner with a busted bench and crumbling leg that left it lopsided. He lifted the cover and found a handful of keys missing. He pressed down the middle C and found only silence. He ran his hands down the worn ivories and found a few minor keys that were still wired.
The sad tones whispered out of the dust motes.
A cold nose at his wrist dragged him out of the sad melody. He smiled down and scrubbed Fiona’s head. “Time to go?”
She spun around once and he glanced back to see Isabella standing in the doorway. Another time, another piano, in a time that felt like a distant memory, she’d looked at him in almost the same way.
Then she blinked and backed out of the lodge, Fiona chasing after her.
Logan shut the cover and pulled the door shut, instinctively protecting the shattered piano.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Logan tossed out the bottle of Breckenridge. A tumbler shot’s worth each night was the only thing that was keeping him together. They’d been at the cabin for two weeks.
Thirteen days and nights of silence.
He’d mistakenly figured that if he let her have time to heal that she’d finally talk to him. Instead they were two fucking roommates. She took short walks every day down to the docks to sit in the Adirondack chair to read. Then she made him a list of things to buy for food.
That was the only highlight to his day. She wanted to go to the store with him. She had her list, but she’d deviate when they actually went into the market. A dessert sometimes, a magazine or a book on others.
Once they were home she made hearty fall meals in the crock pot that she’d unearthed. The problem with the damn crock pot was that the food could be eaten anytime. She specifically made sure to eat when he wasn’t around so they didn’t have to eat together. Not that she would talk to him anyway.
He was so damn bored he actually went down to the recreation lodge daily to play pool just so he wouldn’t break something. Sometimes Richard came in and played a game with him, sometimes a random renter.
Those were a little trickier. He was famous after all.
Of course with a full beard and his hair growing out, he didn’t really look like himself. Add in flannel shirts and jeans instead of his usual man in black routine and he was about as far removed from Logan King, famous musician, as possible.
And when someone did give him a quizzical look, he would laugh it off that he looked like a guy from a television show. That usually threw them off enough that they let it go.
He hounded Marcus every other day for an update on Bishop’s investigation. So far he’d been hired on at the marketing firm that DeSalvo worked in, but he’d yet to be put on a project with the executive.
He emailed with Zeke and lied his freaking ass off. That they were getting better and things were going great. One—because he couldn’t stand to hear anymore pep talks. Two—he couldn’t stand the thought of making them worry any more than they were.
On the surface it seemed like Isabella was getting better. She was moving easier and she even played with Fiona on the paths near the house. But she never strayed far. He didn’t even have to tell her not to.
It was as if there was an invisible tether in her mind. As long as she could see the house, she was okay. And because that worked for him, he couldn’t complain.
No, he was more inclined to freak out about the fact that she wasn’t talking at all. Not even to the dog. Whatever was going on in her mind—she was keeping her own council.
With a sigh, he gathered up their laundry and filled the basket. He’d throw a load in and do a work out while he waited on it. He’d already played enough pool that he could hear the clacking of the balls in his head even when he wasn’t in the middle of a game.
The piano stared at him daily, but he hadn’t been able to open the cover since the first day. It was just a little too close to a mirror for his sanity.
He opened the sliding door to the deck and the crisp October air had a lingering hint of summer. The fresh air felt good. He shucked out of his jeans and flannel and tossed them in the basket just as she walked into the bedroom.
Her eyes widened and her gaze skittered over his chest and belly. He was bulking up again with her meals and the free weights that quieted his brain for forty minutes a day.
“I’m going to do a load and get a workout in. Do you want anything washed?”
She pressed her lips together and lifted her gaze to his face. She nodded and scooted by him to the chair where her huge gray cardigan lay. She wore it nearly every day. When he took it from her, she touched his arm briefly. She flipped over the cuff and made a spray gesture.
“Tell me what you want.”
She tilted her head and raised a brow.
“No. I’m not playing this game anymore. Do I look like I’m the guy that plays charades?”
She snatched the sweater and went over to their pail of products and sprayed the stain treater on it herself then tossed it in the pile.
He moved to the doorway, conscious of the fact that he was still in his boxer briefs and she was trying to get away from him. “You’re going to have to talk to me eventually. I understand you’re grieving for Nic.”
Her eyes went hot with anger.
“But you know what, I can’t bend over backwards anymore. I can’t watch you walk through this place like a ghost.” He took a paperback off the bedside table. “Picking up the same fucking books to read again and again.”
She snatched the book from him and put it back down on the table.
“I come up here to bed and you go downstairs. I go downstairs and you change your mind and come up here. I’m right here, goddammit. You can’t ignore me anymore.”
Isabella skirted around him, flinching when her arm brushed against his belly.
He caught her arm. “I miss you so goddamn much I can’t breathe around it. You may have wanted to die with Nic, but you didn’t. You’re still here with me. You survived. She wouldn’t want you to punish yourself about it.”
She swung around and pushed him back.
“C’mon. Yell at me. Scream at me.” He stepped closer to her until he was less than an inch from her. “If you had died…” His voice broke and he cleared his throat. “If you had died and Nic had lived, would you expect her to do this? Would you expect her to cut off Adam?”
She fisted her hands and the healing pink of her flesh crinkled a bit, but held. She was healing on the outside. He was so glad to see that part. But he knew under the skin were more scars and open wounds than ever.
“Would Adam have survived this?”
Her eyes swam as she stumbled back. He let her go this time. She flew down the stairs and out the front door.
He fisted his fingers in his hair then jerked his running clothes out of his bottom drawer. He p
ulled them on and unearthed his running shoes. When he got down the stairs, Fiona was pawing at the door and pacing.
“Easy, girl.”
She barked at him until he opened the door and then she took off like bullet down the incline to the docks. Logan followed the dog to make sure that Izzy was safe. She was hugging herself tight looking out at the water.
The urge to run, to leave everything behind, crawled up his spine, but he forced himself to do the bare minimum in stretches and took off at a jog. The rocky running paths made him keep his pacing slow, which was probably a good thing. It had been awhile since he’d actually run on uneven ground. He could do five miles on the treadmill in his sleep, but the rugged terrain of the woods was a bit harder to navigate.
It was tough on his knees and shins, but he breathed through the pain. When he got down to the turnoff for the main access road, he turned around and headed back. Sweat dripped off his legs, his arms, hell, even his knees were dripping.
His shirt was molded to his chest and his shorts were going to need to be wrung out, but his brain was blissfully empty. At least for a moment. Maybe he could get her to listen to him for a few minutes so he could apologize.
His anger got the better of him. Stewing in frustration day in and day out was fucking his head up. Patience was a virtue for a goddamn reason. He slowed to a walk as he climbed the incline to the house.
She was pacing the length of the kitchen when he walked in. Tears tracked her cheeks and her hands were shaking as she came at him. Logan took a step back, then forward as he saw that it was fear in her eyes, not anger.
“Hey.” He brushed his thumbs over her cheeks and cupped her face.
She twisted her fingers into his shirt.
“I’m sweaty as hell, not sure you—” He cut off as she curled her arms around him and plastered herself to his chest.
“Don’t go.”
His heart stuttered and he went stone still. He was afraid to breathe. Was it his imagination, or had she finally spoken?
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