CHAPTER 2

ELLIE

I’M AN OLD SOUL WHEN it comes to music. I blame my mother. One of my earliest memories is of her singing me to sleep with a Led Zeppelin lullaby—“All of My Love.” When she baked in the kitchen of my family’s coffee shop that’s named after her, Amelia’s, her boom-box would be bumping. Sometimes she’d mix it up, but more often than not, it was the throaty, soul-stirring, high-octane tunes of female artists that spilled from

the speakers into my and my big sister’s ears. It left an impression.

I mean, once you hear Janis Joplin go full-out Bobby McGee, you don’t go back.

This morning, just after four a.m., I’ve chosen “Gloria” by Laura Branigan. It pounds against my eardrums—upbeat and peppy. And today, I could use some pep.

Olivia left for Wessco yesterday and I’m so happy for her—really, genuinely, screechingly happy. She deserves this—to be waited on hand and foot, to be pampered and adored by a gorgeous, filthy-souled, golden- hearted prince. Liv deserves the whole world, even if it’s only for three months.

But, I’m going to miss the hell out of her.

There’s also the small detail that . . . I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours. Not a blink. And if past is prologue, there are going to be a lot of sleepless nights in my future. I’m a high school senior—I have exams to study for, projects to complete, extracurricular activities to activitize, lifelong memories to make—and now I have a business to run.

Who the fuck has time for sleep?

I jack up the volume on my phone and scoop a tablespoon of instant coffee grounds into my mouth—washing the bitter, spiky granules down with a gulp of black, cold coffee. We don’t serve instant for the coffee shop. Instant coffee is disgusting.

But it serves a purpose. It’s effective—efficient. I love caffeine. Love it.

The high, the rush, the feeling that I’m Wonder Woman’s long-lost cousin and there ain’t shit I can’t do.

I would mainline it, if that were actually a thing.

I would probably become a meth-head if it weren’t for the rotting-teeth, ruined-life, most-likely-dying-by-overdose elements of it all. I’m a high school senior, not an asshole.

After swallowing my nasty liquid-of-life, I get back into the song— shaking my hips and shoulders, flipping my mermaid multicolor-streaked blond hair back and forth. I spin on my toes, I twerk and shimmy, I may even leap like a ballerina—though I’ll deny it—all while filling the pie

dishes on the counter with ooey-gooey, yummy, freshly sliced fruit and rolling out the balls of floured dough for the top layer of the two dozen pies I need to make before we open.

My mother’s pies—her recipes—they’re what Amelia’s is known for and the only reason we didn’t go under years ago. We used to need only a dozen, but when news of my sister’s romance with the Crown Prince of Wessco hit, the fangirls, royal-watchers, mildly interested passersby and psycho-stalkers came out of the woodwork . . . and right to our door.

Business is booming, which is a double-edged sword. Money’s a little less tight, but the workload has doubled, and with my sister gone, the

workforce just got cut in half. More than half, actually—more like a third, because Olivia really ran the show. Up until recently, I was a total slacker. That’s why I was adamant she go to Wessco—why I swore I could rise to the occasion and handle things while she was gone.

I owed her and I knew it.

And if I’m going to actually keep up my end of the deal, I really need to move my ass with these pies.

I sprinkle some flour on the dough and roll it out with the heavy, wooden rolling pin. Once it’s the perfect size and thickness, I flip the rolling pin around and sing into the handle—American Idol style.

“Calling Gloriaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . .” And then I turn around.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Without thinking, I bend my arm and throw the rolling pin like a tomahawk . . . straight at the head of the guy who’s standing just inside the kitchen door.

The guy I didn’t hear come in.

The guy who catches the hurling rolling pin without flinching—one- handed and cool as a gorgeous cucumber—just an inch from his perfect face.

He tilts his head to the left, looking around the rolling pin to meet my eyes with his soulful brown ones. “Nice toss.”

Logan St. James.

Bodyguard. Totally badass. Sexiest guy I have ever seen—and that includes books, movies and TV, foreign and domestic. He’s the perfect

combo of boyishly could-go-to-my-school kind of handsome, mixed with dangerously hot and tantalizingly mysterious. If comic-book Superman,

James Dean, Jason Bourne and some guy with the smoothest, most perfectly pitched, British-Scottish-esque, Wessconian-accented voice all melded together into one person, they would make Logan fucking St.

James.

And I just tried to clock him with a baking tool—while wearing my Rick and Morty pajama short-shorts, a Winnie-the-Pooh T-shirt I’ve had since I was eight and my SpongeBob SquarePants slippers.

And no bra.

Not that I have a whole lot going on upstairs, but still . . .

“Christ on a saltine!” I grasp at my chest like an old woman with a pacemaker.

Logan’s brow wrinkles. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

Oh fuck—did he see me dancing? Did he see me leap? God, let me die now.

I yank on my earbuds’ cord, popping them from my ears. “What the hell, dude?! Make some noise when you walk in—let a girl know she’s not alone. You could’ve given me a heart attack. And I could’ve killed you with my awesome ninja skills.”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “No, you couldn’t.” He sets the rolling pin down on the counter.

“I knocked on the kitchen door so I wouldn’t frighten you, but you were busy with your . . . performance.”

Blood and heat rush to my face. And I want to melt into the floor and then all the way down to the Earth’s core.

Logan points toward the front of the coffee shop. “The door wasn’t bolted. I thought Marty was going to replace the broken lock?”

Relieved to have a reason not to look at him, I turn around and get the lock set out of the drawer—still in the packaging. “He bought it, but we got swamped the other day and he didn’t have time to install it.”

Logan picks it up and turns it over in his hands. “I’ll take care of it.” “Do you need a screwdriver?”

“No, I have tools in the car.”

I lean my elbow against the counter, looking up at him. Logan’s really tall. And not just because I’m a minute five foot one. He’s like, tall-tall.

Long—like a sexy tree. And solid—broad across the chest in his black dress shirt. Strapping.

“You’re like a Boy Scout, huh?”

It’s my attempt at flirting—probably only slightly less effective than

Dirty Dancing’s “I carried a watermelon.” He does the mouth-quirk thing again. “Not even close.”

There’s a bad-boy edge in the way he says it—a heavy hint of the forbidden—that gets my heart pounding and my jaw eager to drop.

To cover my reaction, I nod vigorously. “Right, me neither . . . Never been a—” Too vigorously.

So vigorously that my elbow slips in the flour on the counter and I almost knock myself unconscious. But Logan’s not only big and brawny— he’s quick. Fast enough to catch me by the arm and waist to steady me

before I bash the side of my head against the butcher block. “Are you all right, Ellie?”

He leans down, looking at me intently—a look I’ll see in my dreams tonight . . . assuming I can sleep. And, wow, Logan has great eyelashes. Thick and lengthy and midnight black. I bet they’re not the only part of him that’s thick and lengthy.

My gaze darts down to his promised land, where his pants are just tight enough to confirm my suspicions—this bodyguard may have a service revolver in his pocket, but he’s got a magnum in his pants.

Yum.

“Yeah, I’m good.” I sigh. “Just . . . you know . . . tired. But I’m cool . . . totally cool.”

And I shake it off, like I actually am.

He nods and steps away. “I’ll fix the lock now. And I’ll give you the key afterward. Keep it with you; don’t lose it. From now on, you lock the door behind you when you leave, and you keep it locked when you’re home by yourself. Understand?”

I nod again. Livvy must’ve been talking to him. It’s not my fault keys abandon me. I put them in a specific spot, so I’ll know where they are for later—and I swear to God, they sprout legs and run away.

Slippery, little Houdini bastards.

After I take the last pie out of the oven and set it on the cooling rack, I fly

upstairs to get dressed for school. I don’t have the time or the wardrobe that some of the girls at my school have, but I make the most of what I’ve got: dark jeans, a sheer pale-pink short-sleeved top with a white tank underneath, black flats and a black leather jacket I found at the consignment shop last year.

I like jewelry, I like to jingle when I walk—like a human music box. So, it’s cheap rings on every finger, cheaper bangle bracelets on my wrists and a long silver dangly necklace.

I don’t contour my face or fill in my blond eyebrows with dark brown pencil like Kylie Jenner—I’d end up looking like that freaky female serial killer if I tried. But I do use under-eye concealer—practically a whole tube of it—plus a little mascara and light pink lip gloss.

When I hop down the back steps a few minutes before six a.m., Logan is done with the lock and talking to our waiter Marty in the kitchen.

Marty McFly Ginsberg isn’t just our employee—he’s my and Livvy’s big brother from another mother. If our mother were black, Jewish, gay and cool as shit. Marty’s the bomb-dot-com.

“Hey, Chicklet.” He hugs me. And the man doesn’t scrimp on his hugs. “How are you doing? Did you hear from Liv?”

I nod. “Did she send you the pic of her room?”

Marty sighs. “Like she died and went to Nate Berkus heaven.” He

brushes a green-tipped strand of my hair away. “How were things around here last night?”

“Fine.” I yawn. “I haven’t slept yet, but that’s not news.”

Marty grinds the coffee beans, fills two filters and starts brewing the first of many pots of coffee. “How’s your dad holding up?”

“Fine, I guess. He didn’t come home.”

It’s not a frequent thing, but it’s happened often enough that it’s not a big deal. At least not to me.

Logan slowly turns my way. “What do you mean?”

I shrug. “He’s still not home. He was probably upset about Liv leaving, got tanked and passed out on Mulligan’s bar or one of the benches between here and there. It happens sometimes.”

The bodyguard’s eyes seem to spark—like a fire’s been lit inside him. “Are you telling me you spent the night in the flat upstairs, all by yourself, with an unlocked fucking door on the ground floor?”

“Yeah. But I had Bosco with me.”

Bosco is our shih-tzu-Chihuahua mix. He’s not exactly guard dog

material—unless his plan is to startle intruders to death with his so-hideous- he’s-cute face. And if a burglar happens to try stealing hot dogs from the fridge, he’ll never make it out alive. Bosco would rip a throat out for a hot dog.

“It’s not a big deal, Logan.”

Logan looks at Marty and a secret, He-Man-Boy’s-Club look passes between them. When he turns back to me, his face and voice are hard.

Definitely pissed off.

“We’ll take shifts—me and the lads. We can stay down here in the diner if you’re uncomfortable having us in the flat, but someone will be here with you, round the clock, from now on. You won’t be alone again. Yeah?”

I nod slowly, feeling warm fuzzies in my veins, like my blood is carbonated.

“Okay.”

So this is what it’s like to have someone to watch over me.

Don’t get me wrong—my sister would take a bullet for me and still manage to beat the shit out of the person who fired the shot. But this is totally different.

Hotter. More Tarzan-y. More comforting. I’m this tough, handsome guy’s priority. He’ll care about me, protect me . . . like it’s his motherfucking job.

Because—it is.

I know from Liv that Nicholas finds the constant protection stifling. But to me, it just feels . . . really nice.

A truck rumbles up the back alley.

“That’s the Danish delivery,” Marty says. “If he tries pushing squashed- to-shit pastries on us again, I’m going to have to bust some skulls.” He

cracks his knuckles. “I’ll be back.”

As he goes out the back door, my friend Marlow slips through it, into the kitchen.

“Hey, bitch. You ready to go?” “Yeah, five minutes.”

Marlow’s from a wealthy family. Her dad’s a hedge-fund manager and kind of a dick. Her mom is very beautiful and very sad, and I’ve never seen her without a glass of Pinot Grigio. They don’t send Mar to a private school, even though they can afford it, because they want her to have “grit.” Street smarts.

I don’t know if it’s the result of the public school system or if it just comes natural to her, but if I were to bet on the girl most likely to run the world? I’d put my money on Marlow.

“The front door is locked—what’s up with that?” “Logan fixed the lock,” I tell her.

Her bright red, heart-shaped mouth smiles. “Good job, Kevin Costner.

You should staple the key to Ellie’s forehead, though, or she’ll lose it.” She has names for the other guys too and when her favorite guard,

Tommy Sullivan, walks in a few minutes later, Marlow uses his. “Hello, Delicious.” She twirls her honey-colored, bouncy hair around her finger, cocking her hip and tilting her head like a vintage pinup girl.

Tommy, the fun-loving super-flirt, winks. “Hello, pretty, underage lass.” Then he nods to Logan and smiles at me. “Lo . . . Good morning, Miss

Ellie.”

“Hey, Tommy.”

Marlow struts forward. “Three months, Tommy. Three months until I’m a legal adult—then I’m going to use you, abuse you and throw you away.”

The dark-haired devil grins. “That’s my idea of a good date.” Then he gestures toward the back door. “Now, are we ready for a fun day of

learning?”

One of the security guys has been walking me to school ever since the public and press lost their minds over Nicholas and Olivia’s still- technically-unconfirmed relationship. They make sure no one messes with me and they drive me in the tinted, bulletproof SUV when it rains—it’s a pretty sweet deal.

I grab my ten-thousand-pound messenger bag from the corner.

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. Elle—you should have a huge banger here tonight!” says Marlow.

Tommy and Logan couldn’t have synced up better if they’d practiced: “No fucking way.”

Marlow holds up her hands, palms out. “Did I say banger?” “Huge banger,” Tommy corrects.

“No—no fucking way. I meant, we should have a few friends over to . .

. hang out. Very few. Very mature. Like . . . almost a study group.”

I toy with my necklace and say, “That actually sounds like a good idea.”

Throwing a party when your parents are away is a rite-of-high-school passage. And after this summer, Liv will most likely never be away again. It’s now or never.

“It’s a terrible idea.” Logan scowls.

He looks kinda scary when he scowls. But still hot. Possibly, hotter.

Marlow steps forward, her brass balls hanging out and proud. “You can’t stop her—that’s not your job. It’s like when the Bush twins got busted in that bar with fake IDs or Malia was snapped smoking pot at Coachella.

Secret Service couldn’t stop them; they just had to make sure they didn’t get killed.”

Tommy slips his hands in his pockets, laid back even when he’s being a hardass. “We could call her sister. Even from an ocean away, I’d bet she’d stop her.”

“No!” I jump a little. “No, don’t bother Liv. I don’t want her worrying.” “We could board up the fucking doors and windows,” Logan suggests. ’Cause that’s not overkill or anything.

I move in front of the two security guards and plead my case. “I get why you’re concerned, okay? But I have this thing—it’s like my motto. I want to suck the lemon.”

Tommy’s eyes bulge. “Suck what?”

I laugh, shaking my head. Boys are stupid.

“You know that saying, ‘When life gives you lemons, make lemonade’?

—well, I want to suck the lemon dry.”

Neither of them seems particularly impressed.

“I want to live every bit of life, experience everything it has to offer, good and bad.” I lift my jeans to show my ankle—and the little lemon I’ve drawn there. “See? When I’m eighteen, I’m going to get this tattooed on for real. As a reminder to live as much and as hard and as awesome as I can— to not take anything for granted. And having my friends over tonight is part of that.”

I look back and forth between them. Tommy’s weakening—I can feel it.

Logan’s still a brick wall.

“It’ll be small. And quiet—I swear. Totally controlled. And besides, you guys will be here with me. What could go wrong?”

Everything.

Everything goes fucking wrong.

By ten thirty the dining room of the coffee shop is wall-to-wall people standing shoulder-to-shoulder. And I don’t know any of them. There are empty beer bottles and liquor bottles all over the tables and the kitchen

smells like a weed dispensary.

How do I get myself into these situations? Why does this happen to me?

And where the hell is Marlow?

A sailor pushes past me.

Yes, an actual fucking sailor—like Popeye—in full dress whites. And it’s not even Fleet Week!

“Do you see him too?” I stutter to Logan, who’s glowering so hard

beside me, his face may actually freeze in place. And he’d still be sexy as hell.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Logan growls. I stomp my foot.

Because I am a grown-up. Almost.

“You’re not supposed to say that! You’re not supposed to say, ‘I told you so’—it’s rude!”

“I don’t give a fuck what’s rude; you need to listen to me. Do what I say from this point on, understand?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask what he’ll do if I don’t. Spank me?

Tie me up? Handcuff me to his side? If those are the consequences for disobeying Special Agent Sexy-Face, I’m about to become a very naughty girl.

Before I can pose the question, a crash from the kitchen pulls me out of my sultry kink-laced fantasy and back to my sucky reality.

The music is so loud, the wooden chairs are vibrating and it’s only a matter of time before a neighbor calls the cops. I’m tired and—son of a bitch—they’re eating the pies! I spot three—no, four—people standing,

talking and shoveling tomorrow’s pies into their mouths with their hands.

Dickheads!

“You’re right. I’m calling it. Let’s pull the plug.” Logan’s dark brown eyes roll to the ceiling. “Finally.”

I twist my hands together, working it all out in my head. “So, maybe you could do that whistling thing with your fingers to get everyone’s

attention? And I’ll stand on a chair and say, ‘Thank you all for coming. This has been great. I hope you—’”

That’s when I realize Logan’s not listening. Because he’s not standing next to me anymore. He’s over by the sound system—cutting off the music, then cupping his hands around his mouth. “Get the fuck out!”

Subtlety, thy name is not Logan St. James.

“You could help, you know.”

After the party cleared out, Logan had sent Tommy home—said he would take the night shift and one of the other guys would relieve him in the morning. That he wanted to make sure everything was “set to rights.”

I get the feeling Logan isn’t too good with delegating.

“Why would I do that?” he asks, leaning against the wall, sliding his thumb across his phone screen. “I told you not to have a bloody party.”

Thank Zeus I did my homework right after school, in between filling orders in the kitchen. I have an exam fourth period tomorrow, but I can study at lunch. At the moment, I’m on my hands and knees, scraping and sweeping up the sticky, squashed pie pieces that are stuck to the floor. The recycling bins are filled to the brim with empties, the kitchen is clean and the tables are wiped down. The floor’s the last thing left.

“It would be the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“I’m not a gentleman and I don’t sweep fucking floors.” “Nice.”

He quirks his head to the side like he’s going to say something else, but before he can, my dad walks through the door.

After two full days.

He lumbers in, not quite staggering, but unsteady on his feet, looking straight ahead.

Like Logan, my dad’s tall—broad—and he’s handsome in a rough, working-man kind of way. The type of guy who showers after work, not before. Or, at least, he used to be.

Now, especially when he’s coming off a bender, he tends to hunch, making him look bent and older than he is. His flannel shirt is wrinkled and dirty and his black-gray hair hangs in his eyes.

“What’s this, Ellie?” he slurs.

And the weird thing is—I hope he yells at me. Grounds me. Takes away my phone. Like a normal parent would, a regular father . . . who actually cared.

“I, uh, had some people over. It got a little crazy. I’ll clean everything up before we open tomorrow.”

He doesn’t even glance my way. Just gives a small, short nod that I notice only because I’m watching so closely.

“I’m goin’ to bed. I’ll be up to help Marty when you leave for school.”

Then he clomps between the tables and through the swinging kitchen door, to the back steps that lead to our apartment upstairs.

I bow my head and go back to cleaning the floor.

A few minutes later without looking up, I tell Logan, “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Don’t have to do what?”

“Worry. You’re all tense, like you think he’s going to hurt me or something. He can barely exert the energy to speak to me—he’d never hit me.”

Logan looks down at me with those deep, dark eyes, like he can see straight through me, read my mind.

“It doesn’t have to be his fists. There’s all kinds of ways to hurt people.

Isn’t there?”

Usually, it doesn’t bother me. I don’t let it. But the last few days haven’t been usual. And big, giant aching tears well in my eyes.

“He hates me,” I say simply. But then a sob rattles in my chest, shaking my shoulders. “My dad hates me.”

Logan’s brows draw close together, and after a moment, he takes a deep breath. Then, with a grace that’s surprising for a guy his size, he walks over and sinks down onto the floor next to me, legs bent, forearms resting on his knees, back against the wall.

He leans in close and whispers so gently, “I don’t think that’s true.”

I shake my head and swipe my cheeks. “You don’t understand. I was sick. The night my mom was killed, I had a sore throat, cough. I kept complaining about it. The pharmacy down the block was closed for renovations, so she took the subway.”

When you grow up in a city, your parents have the mugging talk with you at a young age. The one about how no amount of money or jewelry is worth your life. So, if someone wants those things, just hand them over.

They can be replaced—you can’t.

“He wrote us a letter a few years ago from prison—the guy who did it. He said he was sorry, that he didn’t mean to shoot her, that the gun just . . . went off.”

I glance up to find Logan looking and listening intently.

“I don’t know why anyone thinks stuff like that is supposed to make

people feel better. That he was sorry. That he didn’t mean to do what he did. It didn’t for us. If anything, it just proved that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And that . . . if I didn’t exist, the love of my dad’s life

would still be here. I’m not being dramatic—it’s just a fact. And that’s why he can’t even look at me.”

We’re quiet for a few minutes. Me, leaning back on my calves, Logan looking straight ahead.

Then he rubs his neck and asks, “You know how they say that New Jersey is the armpit of America?”

“I always thought that was shitty. I like Jersey.”

“Where I grew up—East Amboy—it’s like the taint of Wessco.” A quick laugh busts out of my throat.

“There was this guy—Wino Willie—everyone called him that. He’d spend the whole day begging, walking the streets looking for loose change in the gutters. Then he’d buy the biggest, cheapest bottle of liquor he could get.”

The steady sound of Logan’s deep voice, the lilting accent, is calming.

Soothing, like a dark lullaby.

“But he wasn’t always Wino Willie. Once, he was William. And William had a pretty wife, three little kids. They were poor, we were all poor, and they lived in a tiny, one-bedroom flat on the fourth floor of a building that was falling apart—but they were happy.”

His voice drops.

“William worked the night shift at the supermarket, unloading trucks, stocking shelves. And one night, he kissed his pretty wife goodbye, tucked his kids into bed and went off to work. And when he came home . . . everything that he loved, everything he lived for, was nothing but ash.”

I gasp, small and quiet.

“There’d been a fire, bad wires, and they all got trapped in that tiny flat and died. All except one. The oldest, Brady—he was about the same age as me. He was able to jump out a window before the smoke got to him. He

broke bones up and down his leg, but he lived. Now, you’d think, having lost everything else, William would’ve held onto that lad with both hands. Never let him go, never let him out of his sight.”

Logan shrugs. “Instead, as soon as Brady was out of the hospital, William called social services, signed away his rights, and gave up his only living child.”

He shakes his head, his voice softening as he remembers.

“When they came to take him, it was the saddest thing I ever saw. Brady on the pavement, hoppin’ around on crutches, cryin’ and beggin his dad to

let him stay. Willie never even turned around. Never said goodbye. Just walked on . . . and started lookin’ for change.”

“Why?” I demand, pissed off and hurt for a kid I never met. “Why would he do that?”

Logan looks into my eyes. “To punish himself—for not being there when the people he loved needed him. For failing them, not protecting them

—it’s the worst sin a man can commit. If a man can’t keep those most precious to him safe . . . he doesn’t deserve them.”

“But it wasn’t his fault.”

“The way he saw it, it was.”

His voice is soft around the edges. Gentle.

“I’ve seen your dad’s face when you’re near, Ellie—he doesn’t hate you. Right or wrong, he hates himself. You remind him of everything

precious that he didn’t keep safe. He’s drowning so deep in his own hurt, he can’t see yours or your sister’s, or how he’s adding to it. He’s weak and sad and focused on himself, but that’s on him—you know? It’s got nothing to do with you.”

It doesn’t fix things. It doesn’t make anything better. But hearing those words from someone on the outside—who’s got no skin in the game, no real reason to lie—makes it . . . not quite as hard.

And that’s when I feel the exhaustion. It hits me like rushing floodwaters—hard and fast and knocking me on my ass all at once. My

bones feel like they’re seventy years old instead of seventeen. Well, at least what I imagine seventy will feel like.

I cover a yawn with the back of my hand.

“Go on up to bed, lass.” Logan stands, brushes off his pants and picks the broom up from the floor. “I’ll finish here.”

I drag myself up too. “I thought you don’t sweep fucking floors?”

Logan winks. And, right there in that dim little coffee shop, he steals a piece of my heart forever.

“In your case, I’ll make a fucking exception.”

He starts sweeping up, but when I get to the kitchen door, I pause. “Thanks, Logan. For everything.”

He looks at me a moment, then gives an easy nod. “No need to thank me—just doing my job.”