Page 107 of The Mistake

I tuck my cell away and bite my lip, wishing I knew what was going on with him. Obviously it has something to do with his visit home last night, but what the hell had happened?

A burst of anger goes off inside me. I’m running out of sympathy for Logan’s father. I really am, and it’s making me question how good of a therapist I’m going to be. Granted, I don’t plan on specializing in addiction issues, but what does it say about me that I can’t feel any compassion for Logan’s alcoholic father?

Fuck, and now is not the time to be second-guessing my career path. I’m only equipped to deal with one crisis at a time.

The cab driver has to stop at the curb in front of Logan’s house because the driveway is full. Logan’s pickup and Garrett’s Jeep are side-by-side, with Dean’s sporty something-or-other and Hannah’s borrowed Toyota behind them.

When I ring the bell, it isn’t Logan who lets me in, but Tucker. A groove of dismay digs into his forehead as he closes the door behind me.

“Are you guys in a fight or something?” he asks in a low voice.

“No.” I suddenly feel cold. “Did he say we were?”

“No, but he’s been rude and bitchy all morning. Dean thought maybe the two of you were fighting.”

“We’re not,” I say firmly. Then an unnerving thought occurs to me. “Has he been drinking?”

“Of course not. It’s one-thirty in the afternoon.” Tucker sounds confused. “He’s upstairs. Last I checked, he was working on his marketing midterm.”

His answer relieves me, but I’m not sure why. Logan hastold me on numerous occasions that he doesn’t drink when he’s upset. I know he’s afraid he might have inherited his father’s addictive tendencies, and suddenly I feel like a jerk for asking Tucker that question in the first place.

“I’ll go up and talk to him. Maybe he’ll tell me what’s bugging him.”

I leave Tucker in the front hall and head up to Logan’s room, where I experience another rush of relief.

Helooksokay. Short dark hair looks the same. Blue eyes are alert. Sexy muscles rippling beneath his sweats and T-shirt. There are no outward signs of injury, but when our gazes lock, there’s a world of pain in his expression.

“Hey,” I say softly, walking over to give him a kiss. “What’s going on?”

His lips brush mine, but the kiss lacks his usual warmth. “Your dad called you, huh?” he says wryly.

“Yep.”

A shadow crosses his eyes. “What’d he say?”

“Hardly anything. He told me you stopped by last night, that he got the sense you were upset, and that I should check on you.” I search his face. “What happened in Munsen?”

“Nothing.”

“Logan.”

“It was nothing, babe.” He lets out a tired breath. “Or at least, nothing out of the ordinary.”

I take his hand. God, it’s like ice. Whatever went down last night, he’s still exhibiting the effects of it.

“Sit down.” I have to forcibly tug his powerful body beside me on the bed, but even after he submits, he stares straight ahead instead of meeting my eyes. “Will you please tell me what happened?”

“Jesus. What does it matter?”

“Because itmatters, John.” I start to feel aggravated. “Clearly you’re upset about it, and I think it’ll help if you talk about it.”

His bitter laughter echoes between us. “Talking about it won’t achieve a damn thing. But fine. You want to know what happened last night? I saw my future, that’s what happened.”

I flinch at the sharpness of his tone. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I saw my fucking future. I traveled forward intime, I got a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Future—how else do you want me to phrase it, Grace?”

My spine stiffens. “You don’t have to be sarcastic. I get it.”

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