Page 38 of The Cutting Edge
Although this situation offers an excellent and unprecedented opportunity to just stare at his hunkiness with no social filters of any kind, I instead take the opportunity to freshen up before he wakes. If he’s still asleep, I can always stare at him to my heart’s content after I tame the rat’s nest I’m calling a hairstyle these days, and do something about what I’m sure is threat-level red morning breath.
I can't believe we fell asleep watching the airport show. The last thing I remember was some pretty heavy flirting going back-and-forth, and a lot of hoping on my part for a repeat of that amazing kiss from last night. No luck there.
I slide quietly out of bed and tiptoe into the bathroom.
Aside from the fact that I am now on day two of wearing the same hospital gown, I am pretty sure that some elves (or maybe Nurse Steven) snuck in here last night and put teeny tiny little furry socks on every single one of my teeth.
Five feet away is arguably the best-looking man I have ever seen in real life. And here I am, with my three-day-old bandage, a tiny clump of blood still in my hair, which despite my best efforts, is determined not to let go without a hot shower, which I am forbidden from taking until the gash in my head heals.
Marissa brought me some dry shampoo yesterday, and for the most part, it works pretty well. Except, of course, I can’t use it in the spot I need it most — the blood-clumped, greasy mess I’ve got hiding under a mostly clean, but still kind of gross, bandage.
Vanity prevails, and I try wearing the floral head wrap Marissa brought in my care package from the girls at work, but the pressure of the spandex makes my head throb and I opt to go without it. I’m in the hospital, I decide it’s perfectly acceptable for me to look like an injured person.
I do, however, brush my teeth and give myself a quickie birdbath with a washcloth in the sink. Blessedly, when Nurse Barb brought me clean towels yesterday afternoon she also left me a fresh hospital gown. I speedily shave my legs and armpits, wash my face, and change into clean panties (my last pair, so the doctor is definitely going to have to let me go home today) and the clean gown.
Big improvement.
Just as I'm trying to stealthily climb back into bed, it makes a loud creaking sound. Logan startles, seeming disoriented at first, and then turns to me with a grin.
“So, that happened.”
“Yeah,” I laugh. “I’m so sorry, I don’t remember anything once we started watching the airport show.”
“Ah, well, basically you passed out about two minutes after we started watching and I thought, wow, Coco’s in the hospital and she clearly needs her rest so I’d better go, and then I woke up in this very uncomfortable chair. You look pretty freaking adorable in the morning, by the way.”
I feel myself blush at the compliment, “Thanks. You too.”
He runs his fingers back and forth through his dark hair like he’s trying to convince his scalp to wake up.
“Breakfast,” announces an orderly as he enters the room, sliding a tray with a covered plate and various liquids onto the tray table.
“I should probably go,” says Logan, checking the time on his phone. “Yikes, I’ve got to call Rosie.”
“Are you going home today?” asks the orderly, “I don’t have you on the schedule for dinner.”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “I thought I was going home yesterday, but the doctor didn’t make it in to see me.”
“I just saw your attending down the hall,” he says.
“That’s awesome,” says Logan. “Tell you what… how about I take off, go home, grab a shower, and get changed. I’ve got a team meeting at four, and then I’ll swing by and drive you home once they let you out of this joint. If they let you out earlier, just text me, and I’ll get over here asap.”
Wow, he wants to drive me home? That’s pretty nice of him, and also a huge surprise. I’m trying to remember the condition I left my apartment in when I left for work three days ago. It’s probably fine. Maybe he won’t come in. I mean, it’s not like we’re conducting science experiments on the leftovers in the fridge or anything. But I do tend to be a bit of a tornado when I’m getting ready to leave for work in the morning, so it’s entirely possible that my place is not famous athlete first date ready. Just saying.
“Sure, thanks,” I say. “But you really don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he says earnestly, kissing me sweetly on top of my head on the opposite side of my injury.
Is this actually happening? Or am I in the middle of some concussion fever dream?
Chapter fifteen
Coco
Youknowhowyouwake up sometimes and you feel like everything is going your way, "Walking on Sunshine" is playing inside your brain, and you just know the second you step outside, random strangers will give you flowers plucked from a nearby bouquet and smile at you everywhere you go?
Well, today is not that day. I mean, that’s how it started, but that’s not how it’s going now.
I haven’t slept well in days because every time I start to drift off either a nurse walks in and needs to change my IV, or check some beeping machine, or I've accidentally turned over on my left side, sending searing pain from my head wound radiating through my entire body.
