“So when will I be released?” I ask hopefully. And while Dr. Ahmari doesn’t tell me the answer I want to hear, which is right now, she does make me happy when she says tomorrow.

Ronnie’s hairdresser shows up about noon that day and does a remarkably good job. I end up with a short pixie cut somewhere along the lines of the classic Audrey Hepburn look, but I’m no Audrey. Given what she had to work with, I’ve decided she’s a genius. I look normal, facial swelling, bruising, and abrasions notwithstanding. But it is unarguably the first time in a few days I’ve felt some semblance of normalcy. If I can just stay away from a mirror!

Every time the door opens, I expect to see Logan come in, and I’m both ridiculously nervous and eager to see him. I know it will only reignite my pain for him, and it will hurt all the more when he returns to Colorado, but after the last few days I just want him near me—even if only for a minute. I know I’ll regret it later, but I just need one more minute of his time now. But he doesn’t show, and come evening when the Harringtons finally go home for the first time in a long time, I give up thinking I’ll see him. I know I could ask, but of course I can’t do that without sounding too overly interested in him.

A nurse comes in shortly later and takes my vitals. She starts going through all the things I need to accomplish before I can be discharged. Apparently you have to graduate from patient to normal person in order to get out of a hospital. And apparently that means I have to go poop on command like a dog, which I don’t want to do. I also have to walk to the end of the hall without assistance, which I again don’t want to do. I’ve been out of bed since that morning, taking myself to the bathroom to pee, but the end of the hall is a long way away … I think. I haven’t actually been out of my room since waking up in it two days before, but still, I bet it’s a long ways away. And then going to the bathroom… It just doesn’t sound like a whole lot of fun right now, so I think I’ll take a pass. But the nurse isn’t buying it.

She insists that I have to have a bowel movement before they’ll let me leave. Pooping on command has never really been my thing, and the idea of using my tummy muscles, or any muscle in my torso at all right now, is very unpleasant. The few times I’ve had to cough have been agony, and I can’t imagine going to the bathroom is any better. But short of busting myself out of this joint, I’m going to have to break down and make this happen. I think I hate nurses. And by the end of the night, I’ve dubbed mine the poop nurse. She’s incessant. She wants me to go home. I get it. And I’m sure it’s all for my own good, blah blah blah. But I hate her all the same. After much soul searching, a laxative, and a malicious silent curse at my poop nurse, I’m finally a good little hospital patient, and she signs off on my discharge requirements, but I still hate her. We’re not going to be friends. But I get to go home tomorrow, or more accurately, to the Harringtons’.

They’ve asked me to stay at their home for a couple of weeks while I recover so Ronnie can keep an eye on me. I’m relieved. Not that Sara would make a bad caretaker, but I’ve avoided spending more time than I have to at Logan’s apartment. I live there, but it is so filled with memories of him, and I escape as often as I can. Fortunately for me, I’ve been working lots of hours and have kept somewhat busy with Sara. But being laid up in bed for the next week or so at his apartment would be hard.

I drift off to sleep that night wondering what it will be like to see Logan again. It is the most confusing feeling in the world. I want to see him so much that I ache for him, but at the same time I know it will bring me nothing but pain. Who knows, maybe he’s had to return to Denver already and isn’t coming back to Grand Rapids. I have no way to know, and I’m frenzied just thinking about him.

Chapter 28

I sit silently in the chair, waiting for her to wake. I’ve been anxious to see her again for the many days that I’ve been in Detroit, and I’ve been craving this moment like no other in my life. Restraint will be difficult, impossible perhaps, but I have to be near her now.

I arrived back from Detroit just this morning, and Rowan has been at my parents for two days now. They have Rowan in Sara’s old bedroom, and she is sleeping soundly on the bed. Sara and my mother are out shopping, and my father is at the office. I assured Mom that I’d look out for Rowan while they were away, and I couldn’t disguise the frenzied, anxious look on my face as they left. My mother’s leer tells me she’s noticed my odd behavior, but I’ve given up caring about that anymore.

When her eyes open, and I see her beautiful gaze on mine, I melt. It has been far too long since I’ve seen her amazing round blue eyes. I’ve forgotten just how blue they are, and I instantly sigh as though I’ve been holding my breath for the last long months apart. She gasps as she registers my presence and tries to sit up quickly before she winces and drops her back to her pillow. The pain on her face has me up and moving to her side instantly, and I climb to the bed sitting next to her. I’m afraid to touch her, afraid to kiss her, afraid even to move, lest the mattress should shift and cause her more pain. She’s always been delicate to me, and now in her injured state she is like a crumbling fall leaf I’m so desperately trying to save.

She reaches over for my hand and clasps it as tears flood her eyes. I can’t tell if it’s happiness or sadness or full-on despair. And I’m instantly fighting back my own tears with a clenched jaw. After long moments of this struggle against my emotions, and when I finally feel like I’m in control enough to speak without crying, I ask the only question I can think to say, regretting its stupidity immediately. “Are you okay?” Duh.

“I am. I’m sorry. I’m just really emotional, and I … didn’t know if I’d see you before you went back to Denver, and I just … um … I’m sorry. I’ve just missed you.”

She’s practically stuttering in her unease, and I understand exactly how she feels. I lean gently to her mouth and kiss her warm lips, unsure if she’ll accept my mouth. But she doesn’t stop me, and as her lips part in acceptance of me I slip my tongue just slightly past her lips, tasting her mouth cautiously before withdrawing. The paleness of her skin shows her blushing cheeks all the more noticeably. I sit back, watching her, unsure how she’s feeling. Her eyes are wide, and I can’t get a grasp on what she’s feeling. She seems stunned, nervous even.

When she speaks again, she surprises me once more. “Do you regret me?”

I stare back shocked at her question while she waits as patiently as she can. It’s obvious by the look on her face my answer is a hinge in her mind that can tip her heart one direction or another. She has worried about the answer to this question for a long time, and she isn’t going to let the answer slip by her. Her vulnerability in this moment is painful to see, and I can make or break her with this one answer.

But this is easy. I tell her the truth. “Never.”

“Not even having sex with me? I know you didn’t want to…”

I smile gently at her. She’s so anxious, paranoid even, that I’m going to say something that will leave her heart wounded. I do my best to put her at ease, but I can see by the look in her eyes she’s wary. She has every right to be. “From nearly the first night you stayed with me, I wanted to … very much … constantly. But I also wanted to do what was right for you. I promise making love to you is not something I could ever regret. On the contrary, it was … amazing—more than amazing.”

I lean to her lips again, taking her cheeks gently in my hands. This time, I push my tongue further into her warm silken mouth. I kiss her long, but soft. I let her explore my mouth with her tongue, and the relief she feels floods back to me. My own relief is quite obvious; in my over-passionate and desperate response I’m practically attacking her lips, trying to go slow, trying not to be rough, but I’m failing in my want to be close to her.

I finally pull away, needing the separation to keep myself from consuming her. “Did I hurt you … when we made love? You left before we even had a chance to talk about this.”

I’ve been obsessing about what her first time was like for her since the moment I withdrew from her body. I know I left her body hurting, but not being able to talk to her, see her, touch her, has left this lingering concern in my mind. Of course she’s okay. It’s not as if I thought taking her virginity wouldn’t come with pain, but I’ve missed this—talking to her, hearing her reassurance, just seeing that she’s okay. I’ve needed this. And I don’t want to stop now that I have her. I want to talk. I want her to share every detail with me. If it makes her uncomfortable, to hell with it.

This conversation is so long overdue, and before she even has a chance to answer my question I move on to the next. “What was it like for you … making love for the first time?”

She looks to me in embarrassment, but curiosity at the same time. She finally answers. “It hurt.” She looks to me with shyness. “A lot. But … it was also incredible. Better than incredible. I can’t describe it.” Hesitation still laces through her words. “It just filled this void that was missing in me for a really long time with you.”

Her vulnerability terrifies her as much as I may love it. And her gaze flits away from me at her sudden exposure. She’s stuck lying on her back, fairly immobile, and while she takes her time avoiding my eyes, I let my gaze graze over her. I want to touch her hair… what’s left of it, at any rate. Who knew she could be so beautiful with a pixie. She’s like a brunette version of some pixie-sporting Hollywood actress, only completely and perfectly Rowan—petite, alabaster skin, big round eyes, slight but oh-so-feminine curves, and that incredibly tight pussy. She’s made for me.