Page 34 of Unspoken

"You're on, Muscle."

There are no tables here and virtually nowhere to sit, so we get back to the Navigator and climb back in our seats, balancing our plates on our laps.

"That’s going to get messy," I say, inspecting the plate and trying to understand how to begin without dirtying the car or my clothes.

Logan shoves me some napkins and I accept them.

"Just dig in," he instructs, already chewing on a slice of meat he’s dipped, rather generously, into some red sauce the bearded block gave him. "I want my hundred bucks."

I brave myself and pluck a piece from my plate and send it into my mouth. The first bite is an epiphany, smoky and tender and slathered in tangy marinade. Immediately, I groan appreciatively. "Bloody hell," I mumble around a mouthful. "This is brilliant."

Logan smirks, triumphant. "Told ya. Pay up, Your Highness."

Rolling my eyes, I dig in my pocket and slap a hundred-dollar bill into his waiting palm. "Worth it," I declare, going in for another mouthful.

We eat in companionable silence for a while, just enjoying the food and the atmosphere. But as the noise of the crowd fades into the background, my thoughts drift to Logan's mum. After the ER incident, he's mentioned her a few times, but always with a touch of sadness in his voice.

"How's your mum doing, by the way?" I venture, keeping my tone casual. "You said she was on a new round of chemo?"

Logan's face falls, his shoulders sagging. "Yeah. It's... it's been rough. She was doing better for a while, but this time..." He trails off, poking at his brisket.

"This time?" I prompt gently.

He sighs, dragging a clean hand over his buzzed hair. "She had cancer before. A few years back. But she was younger then, stronger. Now..." He shakes his head. "It's just harder on her. On all of us."

My heart clenches at the pain in his voice. I want to reach out, to offer some sort of comfort. But I hesitate, unsure if it would be welcome. We are after all an employer and an employee.

"I'm sorry, mate," I say instead, injecting as much sincerity as I can into the words. "That's rubbish luck. I hope things turn around for her soon."

Logan nods, his jaw tight. "Thanks. Me too." He takes a deep breath, then forces a smile. "Anyway. How's the grub?"

I recognize the deflection for what it is, but I let it slide. "Top notch." I hold up my near-empty plate. "You've converted me. I'm a barbecue man now."

That earns me a genuine chuckle. "Guess there's hope for you yet, London boy."

A few days later, it's my turn to pick a place for an outing. Of course, as an artsy nut, I choose a gallery. Logan and I are wandering through the space, looking at paintings. It's another excuse to get out of the house and clear my head. Forget about Alfie and about the nightmares that have been haunting me lately.

But looking at Logan now, I'm starting to regret it.

He seems about as comfortable as a vegan at a steakhouse, his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. I sidle up to him, bumping his arm with mine.

"We can leave if you want," I offer quietly. "Go see a…UFC fight or something instead. No need to suffer on my account."

Logan's brow furrows, his gaze flicking to me. "What? Nah, it's fine." He straightens, squaring his shoulders. "Just because I'm a muscle for hire doesn't mean I can't appreciate some art. I've got layers, you know."

I hide a smile at his bravado. "Of course. My mistake."

We continue our circuit of the gallery, pausing every now and then to study a piece. Logan maintains his air of nonchalance, but I catch him squinting at the canvases, his head tilted in concentration.

It's oddly endearing.

As we round a corner, we come face to face with a massive abstract painting. It's a riot of colors, haphazard splatters and swirls that make my head spin. I stop short, blinking.

"Well, then," I say, fighting back a laugh. "This is certainly... something."

Logan steps closer, his eyes narrowed. "It's, uh... it's very..." He gestures vaguely at the canvas, clearly grasping for something profound to say. "Very conceptual," he finally blurts out.

I can't help it. I have to cover my mouth with my fist and pretend that I’m coughing. "Logan, give it up," I whisper. "This looks like a baby threw up a crayon box."

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