Hypothetical Heart (Farewell Fairwood #2)

Chapter 32

32

Flashback: 9 months ago

“ A re you sure you’re okay?” Logan asks once Genevieve leaves the room.

The two of us lying in the same bed is doing something to my conscience, probably affecting my brain more than the fever we are both suffering from.

Logan is shirtless, only wearing plaid pajama pants, and his bare chest almost brushes against me when he rolls to face me.

I’m wearing the smallest pajamas that I could find in my suitcase: a matching set of shorts and a tank top, white with pink flowers.

We both wear such little clothing because of how bad we’re sweating, but that only induces our shivering.

“I’m fine.” My teeth are practically chattering, but I try not to focus too much on that. “Are you?”

“You’re my only concern,” he says quietly, reaching out to place a hand on my bare arm, “because no offense Win, but you look like shit.”

Another shiver racks through my body, making me groan. “I’m aware.”

“It’s okay, it’s because you’re sick. I probably look equally as horrible.” Except he doesn’t, at least not to me.

"I’m sorry for getting you sick,” I say, knowing it’s my fault that he’s feeling like this.

I was the first person to come down with whatever sickness we had, and Logan came to my room to keep me company while the rest of our friends were skiing, thus getting himself sick.

“Hey, I did this to myself.” He laughs, pulling the covers up over the both of us further.

“Well, you shouldn’t have.” My eyes drift close, my body begging for sleep

Lying next to Logan makes falling asleep a nearly impossible task. I’m not sure we’ve ever been this close to each other in such a vulnerable state. It makes me nervous thinking about sleeping next to Logan, and yet, here I am, quarantined in a hotel room with him.

He's probably too sick to be worrying about the idea of us sleeping in the same bed, yet it’s all I can think about.

“I would still be here whether you wanted me to be or not.” He sighs, coughing into his arm. “It’s not that big of a deal, I’d rather be here than have you sick by yourself.”

I smile, opening my eyes again. “You’re such a liar.”

A slight grin lays on his lips as he covers my eyes with his hand. “Go to sleep, Win.”

Submerged in darkness, I feel my uneasiness begin to fade as the serene feeling of sleep washes over me.

“ W innie? Logan?” I wake to the sound of Genevieve’s voice as she slowly opens the door. “Are you okay?”

I feel Logan shuffle, and that’s when I notice the position that the two of us are in.

Our legs are tangled beneath the covers, and one of his arms is draped over me. He sits up and looks towards the door where Genevieve and Jameson are standing.

“We were just coming to check on you, but it seems everything is fine.” Jameson smirks, and I know they must have seen how we were lying when they first walked in.

“Yup,” Logan exhales slowly, falling back on the bed. I don’t bother sitting up at all, knowing the type of look Genevieve will give me if I do.

“Well, we’re going back to our room now,” Genevieve says.

“Yeah, I have a few more rounds of chess to win.” Jameson smiles, backing out of the door.

I hear Genevieve begin bickering with him as the door shuts, making me laugh.

“I think the two of them rooming together will be good for them, don’t you think?” Logan asks.

I nod. “Maybe if they don’t kill each other.”

I’m wondering if Logan’s going to bring up the way we woke up intertwined with one another, and part of me hopes he does, only because I don’t want anything to be awkward between us.

But when Logan clears his throat, scooting closer to the edge of the mattress, I fear he may already be feeling the embarrassment.

“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.”

A dmittedly, 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.

Of course, he does. “Come here.” He lifts the blanket and opens his arms.

My pride is nonexistent—the chills racking through my body are likely shaking it out of me—which makes it easy for me to fall into his embrace.

“Can we both agree I was right?” He smirks into my hair.

I nod. “Going out was a stupid idea. I’m sorry.”

“ Don’t be, ” he emphasizes. “I’m just glad we didn’t get any further than the lobby.” We both laugh.

And that’s the last thing either of us says for the rest of the night as we slowly drift to sleep to the sound of one another breathing.