Page 8 of Until You Found Me

“Hey, have you checked this place out yet?”

She looks up with a creased brow. “I didn’t think I could leave the room.”

“You’re not a prisoner, you can walk around. Come on, I’ll show you where the good food is in the cafeteria, so you don’t starve on bleach pudding.”

She should be wary. A nagging scratch in the back of her brain warns against trusting men, but she’s already expending her energy on more pressing worries. He saved her life. He is the only person she feels the slightest amount of manufactured trust toward. Her whole world has narrowed down to the last two days and she may as well have imprinted on him like a baby duckling.

If he wanted to hurt her, he had plenty of chance to do so. If he wanted to take advantage of her, he could have while she was passed out and half dead. So, she agrees to go on a tour, with him as her guide.

Tessa’s been given scrubs instead of the hospital gown she woke up in and grabs for the bathrobe too, shrugging it on to fend off the cold before following Logan into the hall as if she’s breaking the law. There’s a thrill of excitement at her first taste of freedom. She remembers that accident at her grandmother’s house as if watching it on TV. Knows it’s a memory, but it’s not tangible anymore, and walkingdown these white halls with him in search of proper food is definitely tangible.

The space is smaller than the sprawling hospital she expected. There’s only a handful of patient rooms down a quiet hallway before Logan leads her into a buffet-style cafeteria with no staff. It’s like one of those hotel snack areas, she thinks, pausing to wonder when she was last in a hotel.

“This thing right here is where it’s at.” He taps the handle of a waffle maker before grabbing a jug of batter to pour inside. “It’s a pre-made mix, so it doesn’t taste weird like everything else.”

He makes her a waffle and hands her the syrup bottle to pour herself. Her mouth waters and she wrinkles her nose with a barely there grin.

“What?” he asks. “Shoulda asked what you wanted. There’s other stuff if you don’t feel like waffles.”

“No, it’s not that. My mother made me waffles like this. Big and fluffy. She’d put whip cream and syrup on it and I’d end up in a sugar coma. I remember that. I remember how they tasted and how it was a Sunday morning ritual.” Her smile at being able to grasp something turns into a frown. “And then she’s gone, and all I have is this useless memory about fucking waffles. Nothing that means anything.”

“Hey, cut yourself some slack, okay? It’s only been one day.”

“Are you gonna eat with me?” she asks hopefully.

“Oh, that one’s mine.” He deadpans.

She isn’t quick on the uptake today and she hands him back the plate, only to get a shake of the head in return.

“I’m joking. It’s yours. Sorry, I’m shit at this.” He runs a hand through his dark hair, holding up the batter jug before pouring his own waffle. “I don’t spend a lotta time aroundpeople.”

There’s an awkward sort of innocence to him that she decides she likes, if only because it levels the playing field enough that she doesn’t feel completely hopeless. She can fully believe he isn’t the type to be social and yet somehow he’s attempting to be for her. Then she reminds herself that he’s likely feeling obligated to be here even after she offered him an out. Too bad she’s greedy enough for any amount of connection or distraction that delays her from ending up on that bathroom floor again.

They take their food to one of two tables in the corner and the taste of maple syrup on her tongue has her humming her approval. “How do you know all these tricks?”

He shrugs. “Work related injuries.”

“Fishing is dangerous?”

“Can be. I sail out to deeper waters and haul in nets. All sorts of ways to lose a finger or a toe or worse.” Her attention darts down to his hands, and he holds both up. “Still got ‘em all for now.”

“Do you enjoy it? Fishing?”

“No. Not even a little bit, but it pays the bills most days.”

“What would you rather be doing?” She cringes. “Sorry, I’m grilling you about your life like we’re playing twenty questions. You don’t need to answer all this.”

He moves his half-remaining waffle around the plate, considering the question she shouldn’t have asked. “Dunno really. Never had a chance to think about it. I like hunting in the woods. Got a few contracts with the butchers, might wanna do more of that. You got nineteen left. Can ask the next one tomorrow.”

Her brows raise. “So we are playing twenty questions? Whydo I have to wait? I already have the next one ready.”

“Nope. Gotta stretch it out, so it takes you longer to realize I’m not that interesting.”

She shakes her head at his dry, self-deprecating tone, but then the desire to ask one specific thing that’s scratched at her mind since she woke up takes over and her words turn careful and brittle. “Just…just one more?”

He nods.

“Did I say anything to you when you found me? I can’t remember exactly what happened. I only remember you were there.”

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