a bottle that cost a thousand dollars and one that cost ten. He used to buy high-end booze anyway, pretending that he knew the difference. Well, he had no one to pretend for anymore.
He returned to his hotel room and got smashingly drunk.
At least this time no one was there to judge him.
The memory of dark eyes looking at him disapprovingly flashed to the forefront of his mind, and he was hit with a wave of unbearable, crushing longing. Normally he pushed these thoughts—these feelings—away, tried to squash them down, but he was too drunk for that now.
He reached for his phone and opened Chrome with unsteady fingers.
In his defense, looking Logan up was laughably easy. Information about him was in every article about their miraculous survival.
Logan McCall. Thirty-four years old. An owner of a rather popular hotel chain.
Andrew’s lips curled into a faint smile. He’d suspected that Logan wasn’t a simple owner of a hotel when his family had sent a goddamn private jet for him, but this was kind of funny. Way to downplay one’s business.
Apparently, Logan’s family lived near Boston, but he lived by himself in NYC. His address and phone number obviously weren’t listed anywhere, but it wouldn’t be hard to find out. All he had to do was go to one of Logan’s hotels and talk the manager into giving him Logan’s number. After all, everyone and their dog now knew that he had been Logan’s fellow plane crash survivor. The manager was unlikely to refuse to give Logan’s number to the person he had spent nine months living—surviving—with.
After looking up the nearest hotel that belonged to Logan, Andrew grabbed his unpacked suitcase, tossed in the few things he’d bothered to pull out of it, and called a cab.
As he stood in front of Logan’s hotel, a sliver of doubt crept into his alcohol-addled mind. He shook it off and went inside.
“I’d like a room,” he said at reception. He was pretty proud of himself for not slurring.
“Of course, sir. Your ID please,” the woman said with a polite smile that didn’t quite mask the curious look in her eyes. So she had recognized him. Considering how often his face had been plastered next to her boss’s, it probably shouldn’t have been surprising. Oh, well. Maybe it was for the best.
Giving her his ID, Andrew said quietly, “I have another request. I need Logan McCall’s phone number.”
The woman’s eyes widened slightly. “I’ll have to ask the manager,” she said, her voice hesitant. “We don’t give Mr. McCall’s private information to anyone, but… I’ll ask.” She added softly, “And I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Reyes.”
The sincere sympathy in her voice made his chest hurt.
“Thanks,” Andrew said, clearing his throat a little. He didn’t like that his private life had become so public, but it was what it was.
After being given the key card, he headed to his room, already wondering if he’d made a mistake. He had a feeling his sober self wasn’t going to appreciate this tomorrow.
The room was nice and tastefully decorated, but Andrew kept fixating on the fact that it was Logan’s hotel. It was probably fucked up and ridiculous, but the mere thought that all of this belonged to Logan made him feel oddly comfortable here. Yeah, it was beyond ridiculous.
He undressed and fell into the bed.
The mattress felt like a soft cloud. The sheets smelled clean and pleasant. He was tired. So, so tired. But sleep still refused to come to him. It was a problem he’d had for weeks, ever since… his return. He’d say he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a full night’s sleep, but that would be a lie. He knew.
Andrew didn’t know how long he’d lain like that, his face buried in the pillow and his mind drifting on the edge of sleep when the phone by the bed went off.
Reaching out, he answered it. “Hello?”
“Why are you in my hotel?”
Andrew’s eyes flew open, his heart jumping into his throat.
It was stupid, but he hadn’t actually thought about what he was going to say when he called Logan. He hadn’t expected Logan to call him. Logan was calling him. Logan wanted to talk to him.
Andrew found himself smiling stupidly into his pillow. Hey, he was drunk. Drunk people could smile for no reason, right?
“Why do people go to a hotel?” he mumbled evasively. “I needed a place to stay at.”
“Are you drunk?”
Andrew wasn’t sure what it said about him that he’d missed that judgmental