Page 110 of Hypothetical Heart
“What time is it?” I ask when I see him pick his phone up from the nightstand.
“Almost ten,” he replies, and judging by how dark it is outside, he means ten at night.
“Well, what is there to do at ten o’clock in New York City?” I ask, standing from the bed and walking toward the window.
“Not a lot when you’re sick,” Logan says. “We’re staying here.”
“Now, what kind of fun is that?” I smile, pulling open the curtain.
I don’t know about Logan, but all of last night and for most of the day today, I’m raring and ready to go. Normally, Logan’s prepared for any type of undertaking, so it would be shocking if he turned down an opportunity to do something fun after a lackluster few days we’ve had.
“You think you feel fine now, Winnie, but in an hour, when we’re in the middle of New York City, you might not feel so hot.”
“If that happens, we can worry about it then.” He still doesn’t look convinced. “C’mon, this is something fun, and we both are feeling better.”
Logan sighs, throwing the blanket off himself and standing. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” he says, and I have a feeling he’s lying. Knowing Logan, he knew that we’d be leaving the hotel from the moment I suggested it.
“I can!” I smile, unzipping my suitcase. “Get dressed, let’s go.”
Admittedly, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to try and go out in New York City when you’re barely starting to get over an illness.
By the time we make it to the lobby, I feel as if death has warmed over me, and Logan notices it the moment he turns back to look at me.
“We’re not going out, are we?” he asks, gripping my shoulder as I sway.
I shake my head, knowing if I tried to form words, they would come out in the form of my stomach contents.
“Let’s go back up to the room,” he says, turning me around and guiding me to the elevator.
The moment we breach the door of our room, I turn to the right, and my knees skid across the bathroom floor, landing me directly in front of the toilet as I spill my guts out.
Logan lays a comforting hand on my back, grabbing my hair out of my face. He even tugs down on the hem of my dress to avoid me flashing him.
“Thank you,” I sigh, resting my head against his palm instead of the toilet seat.
He leans over me, grabbing a washcloth from the sink and wetting it with cold water before placing it on my forehead.
Logan Callaghan is the word “nurturing” personified.
He’s sick himself—maybe not as sick as me, but still sick—and yet, he’s only worried about me.
I think he says something else, but I don’t catch what it is, and before I can ask, I’m being lifted off the ground and into his strong arms.
My head lands on his bicep as he carries me out of the bathroom and toward the bed. “You’re strong,” I tell him quietly.
“You’re light as a feather,” he replies, carefully laying me on my side with my head against a pillow.
I shiver at the loss of his body heat. “Lay down,” I demand, patting the bed next to me. Logan does as I say, and I turn to face him. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey.” He runs his hand through my hair, brushing it out of my face. “Don’t be sorry. We’re in this together.”
I laugh. “Well, I guess I have to be sorry for something else.”
“Don’t be sorry for anything,” he says sternly.
It’s his go-to response every time I feel the need to give a useless apology:Don’t be sorry. Ever.
I inch closer to him, hoping he doesn’t notice the way I long for his arms to wrap around me.
