Kick The Candle (Knight Games) by Genevieve Jack

poured on the steam, hacking like a machinegun.
    I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, and I also heard there’s a welcome back party next Saturday night, that I wasn’t invited to.”
    As if he could explain everything if only he could survive the siege on his lungs, he waved a hand dismissively. I noticed the eruptions from his throat becoming more controlled, even forced. The jig was up. I swiped his hand out of the air and leaned forward until our noses almost touched. He gave one last pitiful cough as my eyes dug into his. “Just admit it, Logan. You’re better.”
    He dropped the charade. After checking over his shoulder to make sure none of the rehab staff were watching, he bounded from his chair and swept up his fallen cane before returning to his seat.
    I gasped theatrically. “You little weasel!”
    “Oh, please. You suspected as much all along. You’ve been playing the game as well as I have.”
    “What? Don’t try to turn this around on me.”
    “No? You’re innocent, eh? Just so you know, this energy shake tastes like ass.” He picked up the green juice and poked a finger in my direction. “This ain’t wheat grass, darlin’. You’ve been slipping me a potion against my will.”
    I pointed a finger back at him. “That was for your own good. And it wasn’t against your will. You chose to drink it.”
    “I didn’t know it was magic.”
    “Obviously you did, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
    “And obviously you suspected I was better because you’ve been pumping me up with healing juju the last six weeks. Jesus, I might never catch a cold again.”
    My jaw worked, opening and closing in a weak attempt to form a rebuttal. I composed myself, straightening up so I was looking down my nose at him. “You should be thanking me.”
    “Thanking you?”
    At that moment, Miss Physical Therapist America passed by and gave me a harsh look. Really, who has a waist that long and thin without plastic surgery?
    “Please, keep your voice down,” she reprimanded me sternly.
    Logan’s eyes darted in her direction and he flashed her an overly charming smile followed up by a short wave. His eyes twinkled. Was that a dimple in his chin?
    She smiled back. “Just a few more minutes, Mr. Valentine.”
    “No problem, Sally. And please, call me Logan.”
    “Okay, Logan. See you soon. I hope you’re ready to work.” With one last warm, flirtatious smile for him and a death stare for me, she continued on her way. I thought my eyes might roll out of my head.
    Logan leaned toward me and whispered, “Did it ever occur to you that I don’t want to be better yet? Huh?”
    “Why wouldn’t you want to get better?” I asked incredulously.
    He startled backward, lifting an eyebrow at me like I was insane. His wide eyes said it all. I was temporarily taken aback by the vulnerability I saw there. Michelle was right. He still had feelings for me.
    “You’re afraid… of losing me.” I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat. “That’s not going to happen, Logan. We’re still going to be friends, right?”
    “Sure.” With a sigh, he leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. He rubbed a toe on the floor.
    “But?”
    “It’s not going to be the same. We won’t have a reason.”
    “That’s just silly. We—” I had to stop midsentence. He was right. Without the excuse of helping him through rehab, I wouldn’t see him regularly. He’d be busy at the restaurant, and I’d have my nursing job and my responsibilities as the witch. Could we maintain a friendship? Probably. But I couldn’t promise our relationship wouldn’t change.
    “Okay, Logan, I’m ready for you.” Sally was back, her red curls bouncing over her perky shoulders.
    He reached for my hand and used it, along with his cane, to shakily stand. It was very convincing.
    “I’ll bring your drink,” I said, grabbing the sports bottle off the end table with my free hand. For the next hour, I needlessly assisted Logan through