“Where the fuck have you been all morning? Where’s your phone?” he asks me tersely.

Uh… I stare from Logan’s mobile which is vibrating in his hand, back to the receiver before I finally put it down. “I’ve been here,” I tell him, puzzled by his words. “My phone’s at home. I forgot it this morning and couldn’t go back for it. Logan today has been a nightmare,” I say, getting to my feet and joining him on the other side of my desk. I’m about to hug him, but his next words stop me in my tracks.

“For you and me both,” he says, unable to hide his anger.

I stare at him in confusion. He then strides forward, takes me by the hand and pulls me into the nearby meeting room. It would remind me of last Monday if his mood weren’t so sour. I highly doubt that he’s come here now to seduce me.

Once we’re in the privacy of the room, he tries to release my hand but I hold onto it.

“What do you mean — you and me both? What are you doing here?” I ask again.

He stares down at me with serious eyes before they abruptly soften. He unexpectedly pulls me into a tight embrace, his arms firm and safe, his face buried into my hair, as he breathes me in. Confused as I am, I take a deep breath too and melt into his arms, and for a moment, just one brief moment, everything feels perfect.

And then Logan murmurs, “I’m so fucking mad right now.” Immediately his body changes, hardens, becomes less Logan-like.

“Yeah, I got that,” I mutter against his chest. I then push myself away from him. “Why?” I want to know. “I thought you were in Marseille all day?”

“Oh, I was in Marseille, until I thought you were dead…” he says dramatically.

I stare at him, dumbfounded. Did he come all of this way to play some strange trick on me?

“What?” I exclaim. Why on earth would he think that?

“Why the fuck didn’t you call me, Gemima?” Logan asks heatedly.

“I…I was just about to,” I mumble, quite possibly feeling more confused than at any other single point in my life before this.

“It’s too late now,” he says, his voice loud.

I narrow my eyes at him, my irritation growing exponentially. This is not the Logan that I’ve spent the morning longing to speak to. “Yes, you already said that,” I remind him, an edge to my voice. “What you haven’t explained is why.”

“Why?” he asks in disbelief, as though I’m purposefully acting clueless.

“Yes, why? Why are you here? Why would you think that I was dead? And why are you speaking to me like this?”

“Because you should have damn called me, Gemima!” Logan shouts.

“Why? Why should I have called you?” I shout back. Surely, that’s not such a hard fucking question to answer? “I told you that I would call you at lunchtime and I was just about to, so what is the fucking problem?”

Now Logan looks at me as though I’ve just slapped him across the face. “You’re being obtuse, and I don’t know why,” he says slowly.

I gape at him. “Excuse me?”

“No,” he growls angrily, “I won’t excuse you.”

What in the name of fuck is going on right now, I ask myself. Why’s he being like this? If he’s not going to tell me then maybe I can work it out for myself, my inner-sleuth thinks. He was in Marseille…but now he’s here…he’s angry that I didn’t call him…and he thought that I was dead?

I just can’t believe he’s being serious — that makes no sense! The only death today has been…

“You heard about the shooting,” I finally realise. Did he think I died? Why the fuck would he think that?

Logan rolls his eyes at me as though him hearing about the shooting was entirely obvious.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t speak petulance,” I shout at him. “You can either explain what you’re doing here, or you can get out,” I give him his options.

“I heard about the shooting,” he finally admits.

“OK, so?” I need more of an explanation than that, but unable to help myself, I tell him, “It obviously wasn’t me who got shot.” I hold my arms wide, showing him my bullet-free body.

“Don’t be so facetious,” he says, as though I’ve said something truly distasteful.

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. Big word, Logan.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Gemima?” he yells.

I put my face in my hands in an attempt to hold onto my sanity. I have no idea why he’s so mad. What am I missing? My patience for figuring out whatever it is, is waning fast.

Logan pulls my hands down so that I have to look at him, and says, “You really have no idea why I came back, do you?” he asks, somehow looking as bewildered as I feel. How have we managed to confound each other so completely? Why can’t he just answer my questions?

“No, I don’t,” I confess. “But as you just pointed out, I’m obtuse, so…” I shrug.

“Just think about it,” Logan says through gritted teeth.

I’m about to, honestly, I am. But then my inner-bitch steps forward and puts her foot down. “Logan, I’m exhausted,” I tell him. “Today has not been a good day. I was happy to see you only a few moments ago, but now I’m nothing but pissed off. I really don’t appreciate you coming to work for the apparent sole purpose of making me feel stupid. You’ve seen that I’m not dead,” I still don’t believe he’s serious about that, I think, “so if you’re not going to explain yourself, then I think you should go,” I say firmly. “The rest of your name-calling can wait until this evening,” I can’t stop myself from adding.

He stares at me incredulously, his chest rising and falling fast. He holds his stubbled jaw tensely, his lips pursed, his dimples nowhere in sight. His pale-green eyes look darker than they usually do, as if copying his mood. He’s never looked at me like this before, with anger instead of adoration, and his body language has never been so rigid and closed off around me; I don’t like it, not one part of it.

“Fine,” Logan says eventually. “I’ll see you later,” he tells me shortly as he walks out of the room.

Immediately I turn my back to the door, leaning into the table for support, my whole body feeling weak. My bottom lips begins to tremble and it doesn’t take long for tears to seep from my eyes. I just don’t understand, I wreck my brain for an answer as I stand, bawling. I’m not usually one to indulge in feeling sorry for myself, but right now I could throw myself one hell of a pity-party.

It’s only now that I realise that my heart is pounding, my hands are shaking, and that nauseous feeling is back. I need another cup of tea, or five, and some peace and quiet to try and figure out what’s just happened here. Surely the phrase WTF has never been more warranted?

Why would he be so cold? Or angry? Why would he jump to such ridiculous conclusions about my mortality and then refuse to explain himself? This is so not the way we should be with each other given that I’ve been wearing my engagement ring for less than one day. But how else should I have reacted? His words just didn’t make sense. I told him that I would call him at lunchtime, so why was he so insistent that I ring sooner? And, for fuck’s sake, why couldn’t he just explain himself instead of insulting my intelligence? It’s bizarre. He’s usually so articulate, but not today. And his words are almost always endearing or rousing in some fashion, but definitely not today.

Fuck, I scream in my mind for possibly the fiftieth time today.

Outside the meeting room I hear footsteps walking past. I pull myself together, pronto, sniffing my nose and drying my eyes and forbidding anymore tears to fall. Come on, Gem, function properly. I leave the room with my head down, purposefully avoiding contact with any other living thing as the mortifying thought occurs to me that Logan and I could have been overheard, given the open door. As if collapsing in a fit of tears and then holding the boss and the receptionist emotionally hostage for most of the morning isn’t enough to embarrass me for one day, Logan just had to start yelling at me too. Fan-fucking-tastic!