Page 62 of The Lost and the Found

Hayden

I wokeup to the harsh glare of the sun. I knew it wasn’t late, but it was probably later than I was used to.

I never felt more well rested than I did then. And even though I slept without a shirt on all night, I wasn’t cold. Logan’s apartment was warm. There was nothing wrong with his heater, and even if there was, with the way Logan was wrapped around me all night, it wouldn’t have been a problem.

His arms were still around me, as if he’d never moved from this position, his large hand still on my chest.

I turned to face him only to jump a little when I found his eyes wide open and on me. From the looks of it, he had been awake for a while. He smiled and my heart skipped a beat.

Would this always be the case? Would he always have this effect on me? I didn’t know if that was what I wanted or not.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice a little gruff.

I cleared my throat. “Morning.”

“Did you sleep well?”

I nodded. More than well. I couldn’t remember a time I had woken up without feeling tired. “Yes, thank you. And you?”

“Very good,” he said, his arms tightening around me a fraction.

God, this politeness was killing me. Especially when I thought back to what Logan had done to me the night before—I was still naked under the sheets and Logan was shirtless.

I loved the way he looked.

He didn’t look so guarded or put together, and I thought I might like this look better than his usual.

I liked it a lot.

I liked that he could be this perfect man most of the time, but I could still find things about him that were fundamentally flawed—though from what I could see now, he was as flawed physically as I was emotionally.

Under the bright light of the room, I could see each one of his scars—and there were many. Without thinking, I reached out and ran my hands over his torso.

Goosebumps rose beneath my touch and he stilled under my palms, his eyes intently on me.

What happened to you?

It wasn’t normal for anyone to have scars like this. These were fighting scars. And I wasn’t an expert, but they looked like scars caused by weapons. A small sharp knife here, on his right rib cage, a scattering of small skin indents all over that looked like they was from a small blunt object, and three small scars on his pecs that looked a hell of a lot like cigarette burns.

I looked up at him and my eyes started to well up.

He had lived a hard life.

He cupped my cheeks, his hazel eyes softening under my gaze. “Ah, baby. Don’t be like this. Don’t cry over something that happened a long time ago.”

I shook my head, looking away so he couldn’t see the emotions in my eyes. I was not an emotional person. The last time I cried was at my mom’s funeral.

I didn’t cry when a lady from the state came and informed me that I was going to live with another family. I didn’t cry when I met that family and the dad had leered at me. I didn’t cry when I ran away, or even when I lived in shelters with at least two dozen other women in the same sad situation I was in.

And here I was crying over Logan scars, and I couldn’t help myself. I tried to stop, but it was no use. I cared for him. Maybe more than I could admit to myself at this point.

I wasn’t sure when that happened, but it did, and I didn’t want to see him hurt, be it in his past, present, or future.

“What happened?” I asked, running my index finger over the cigarette burns.

He was quiet, and when I looked back at him, his eyes were emotionless, masking what he was feeling. I ran my palm across his jawline and waited until he looked at me.

“It doesn’t matter.”

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