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CHAPTER 4

ELLIE

One week later

MY BRAIN HURTS.

But it was worth it. The all-nighters. The cramming. The stunting of my already stunted growth from too much caffeine—all worth it. Because it’s over now.

I’ve crossed the finish line. Planted my flag on the mountain peak.

Snapped the last Lego into place.

The only problem is . . . there’s no crowd to roar. I have no one to share the news with. Liv’s asleep on the other side of the world, Marty’s on a date, my dad’s “out,” a.k.a. wasted at a bar somewhere, and Cory, my friendly neighborhood security detail for the night, was snoring away at the coffee-shop table.

People probably can’t tell this about me, but I’m a sharer. I need to spread the word, like I need water or air or microwave popcorn.

Which is why I’m doing something stupid right now. I didn’t even tell Marlow, though she would’ve totally approved, the vixen.

I’m going to Logan’s apartment. I know it’s dumb, but I just can’t stop myself any more than a magnet can stop its stupid slide toward its one true opposite.

A few weeks ago, at the museum, I could’ve sworn I felt . . . something.

A connection. Logan wore my favorite tie—that’s gotta count for something, right?

Logan gave me the address to the apartment he shares with the other security guards in case I needed it. And I’m standing there now. It’s a decent building—no doorman, nothing too fancy, but not a dump, either. I knock on the door of Apartment 409. I look up and down the hall, shuffling my feet, hearing “Silver Springs” by Fleetwood Mac in my head.

Then the door opens, and it’s not Logan I see, but Tommy Sullivan— like I’ve never seen him before. Shirtless, with low-slung jeans hanging haphazardly off his hips and a cigarette between his lips.

Tommy’s a hottie. Not the same kind of Adonis perfection that Logan is, but still a fine-looking boy.

“Ellie!” He smiles, seemingly happy to see me. Tommy’s always happy.

He takes the cigarette from his mouth. “What are you doing here, pet? Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, no, everything’s fine. Is Logan home?”

Tommy raises his eyebrows, questioning, but doesn’t ask. Instead he turns his head toward the interior of the apartment and shouts, “Lo!”

He leans out the door. “I’d invite you in, but it’s no place for a girl like you. We’re all indecent here.”

And doesn’t that just get my imagination working overtime. Then Logan is filling the doorway, looking surprised.

But I barely notice his expression.

Because Logan is shirtless too. And in the immortal words of Joey Lawrence . . . whoa.

Smooth, taut skin covers his shoulders and chest—bronze, except for

the stunning swirl of colorful tattoos that spread across one shoulder and all the way down one arm. His arms are big, bulging with muscle—cut, tight. He has abs—lots and lots of abs—rock hard and rippling, with a slight dusting of hair low on his stomach, that makes the happiest of all trails into his jeans. It’s a beautiful body. A man’s body.

He glances up and down the hall. “What’s wrong?” “No, I—”

“You’re here by yourself?”

He sounds annoyed and I start to think maybe this wasn’t just a stupid idea, but possibly the stupidest idea I’ve ever had. And through the years, I’ve had some doozies.

“Yes, I—”

“Where’s Cory?”

Even if Cory had been awake, he’s not the one I wanted to share my

news with. And I didn’t want him coming with me here. Because I wanted to talk to Logan—alone.

“He’s back at the coffee shop.”

“You snuck past him?” Logan asks, like he doesn’t believe it. “Not exactly.”

His sexy muscles swell as he folds his arms. “Then how did you get here without him? Exactly?”

I try to come up with a good excuse for Cory’s sake . . . but lying has never been my thing.

“He fell asleep.”

Wrong answer. Logan’s eyes grow hot and intense. “He seemed really tired. Don’t be mad, Logan.”

He pushes a hand through his dark hair, and for a moment I’m caught up in how soft and thick it looks. How it would feel between my fingers.

And then a voice calls from inside the apartment—a voice that doesn’t belong to one of the guys.

“Let’s go, Logan. It’s your turn to deal.”

She comes into view and she’s not just “buxom”—it’s like the word was invented for her. Big, shiny red hair, flawless skin, legs as long as my whole body encased in tight, might-be-painted-on jeans, a teeny waist and big

boobs covered by an even teenier black tank-top.

She looks like the head manager at Hooter’s in man-only heaven. Her green eyes slide from Logan over to me, then back again. “Oh,

sorry—I didn’t realize you had a visitor.” She smiles. “Is this your little sister?”

You know the sound a balloon makes when it’s dying? That’s my heart—right now.

He puts his hand on her bare arm and the weirdest combination of

sadness and violence consumes me. I want to cry . . . and bite his hand off like an outraged chimpanzee.

“Go back in. Tell Tommy to deal.”

Deal? Are they playing strip poker?! Kill me, kill me, die, die, die . . . After she fades back, I shuffle my feet. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s fine.” He says softly, “What do you need, Ellie?” “Nothing. Never mind. You should go back to your . . . friend.” Logan shakes his head. “She’s Tommy’s friend.”

But what is she to him? More than a friend? A fuck-buddy? A lover? My stomach spins. I’m such an idiot.

“That’s good. Friends are good.” I hook my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m just gonna head out. Skedaddle.”

’Cause nothing says mature, sophisticated woman like “skedaddle.”

Christ on a Ritz cracker, somebody nail my tongue to the wall.

“Ellie—”

But I’m already turning, skipping the elevator and heading right for the stairs, trying to appear dignified while bleaching the image of Logan touching that woman from my mind.

“Later, Logan.” “Fuck . . .”

And the sound of the slamming door chases me down the stairwell.

Out on the street, the air is humid and the cars are loud, honking. It’s after eleven p.m., so the sidewalk isn’t too crowded, but it’s busy enough that I should be able to give Logan the slip if he tries to follow me.

Or I would be . . . if I were dealing with an average guy. “Ellie! Hold up!”

There’s nothing average about Logan St. James.

I make it one block before he’s standing right in front of me, blocking my way. He’s got a shirt on, but it’s only half-buttoned.

“Why’d you run away so fast?”

I shrug, tapping a quick beat against my outer thighs. “You know how it is—places to go, people to see.”

Logan bends his neck forward, lowering his head, catching my eyes and holding on tight.

“Why’d you come here? Tell me the truth.”

“It’s not a big deal . . .” I sigh, feeling small and stupid. “Tell me anyway.”

I look down at the cracked sidewalk. “Remember the other day, that last exam I was studying for?”

He snorts. “Yeah—physics, wasn’t it?”

“I got my grade back.” I slip the paper out of my pocket, holding it up. “I aced it.”

And for the first time, I say out loud, “I’m valedictorian.”

Logan gazes at the paper for a long moment. And when he takes it, I feel the brush of his finger against mine.

“Look at that,” he says with awe. “That’s brilliant. Smart girl.” His large hand moves to my shoulder, squeezing. And I feel it everywhere. Warmth

tingles through me, from the top of my ears to the tips of my toes. “Congratulations, Ellie.”

My mouth stretches so far into a smile, tears spring up in my eyes. “Thanks. I just . . . I wanted to tell someone.”

Him. I wanted to tell him.

Because he’s gorgeous, but even more than that—he makes me feel wanted. Valued and important, like I’m someone worth protecting.

Knowing this man would give his life to shield me, guard me from pain or danger—it’s a heady thing. An arousing, stirring thing.

I lost my virginity to Aaron Myers after the winter formal last year. I’d known Aaron since I was a kid, he’s a good guy. It wasn’t true love, it was just something we ended up doing, and it was nice. A good memory.

But now, I wish I had waited. For Logan. I know it’s stupid and would never happen, but if in some upside down, alternate universe, it did happen

—he would make the earth move for me. I feel more alive just standing next to him, than I have around anyone else. I can only imagine, dream, what it would be like to be held in his arms, to feel the power of his body, his passion and tenderness, surrounding me, inside me.

“I’m glad it was me.” His hand squeezes again. “Let’s walk you home.” “You don’t have to.”

As much as I love being around Logan, I don’t want to be annoying.

Don’t want to become a nuisance to him. “Aye, I do. It’s not safe.”

I roll my eyes to the skyscrapers. “I grew up in New York—it’s my city

—I know it better than you do. We’re in Tribeca, for God’s sake . . . it’s not dangerous.”

“You’re a young, beautiful girl, Ellie. The whole world is dangerous for you.”

And, of course, among all those words, the one I latch onto is . . .

beautiful.

Because I’m still an idiot.

Half an hour later, we walk into the coffee shop, where Cory’s blond head rests on his arms on the table. Logan walks straight to him and kicks the leg of the chair—almost knocking him over.

Cory startles awake, sputtering, “What—who?” Then he rubs at his eyes. “What’s the deal, Lo?”

“The deal,” Logan says in a deadly calm tone that makes me shiver, “is you’re gonna get your arse back to the flat, pack up your shit and go home. You’re done.”

Oh crap.

“No, Cory—you don’t have to do that—it’s not your fault.” I tell Logan, “It’s not his fault.”

But Logan doesn’t even look at me. He’s staring daggers at poor Cory.

Jagged, bloody daggers.

“You’re gonna want to move now, mate, or you won’t like how I’ll move you.”

Cory frowns down at the table. Then he pushes out of the chair, so hard it falls back, and stomps out.

Logan locks the door behind him.

“Why did you do that? I’m the one who snuck out. It’s my fault.”

Logan points toward the door. “Did you bash him on the head? Drug his tea?”

No.

“Then it’s his fault—and he knows it.” “Couldn’t you give him a second chance?”

“No. Not in this job.” He moves closer. “We have to be focused and ready—alert at all times. It only takes one fuck-up to get someone hurt, or killed. What if he’d fallen asleep while your sister and the Prince had been here?” His voice sharpens. “What if something had happened to you

tonight?

And there it is, again. The wonderful warmth that suffuses my limbs.

Logan makes me feel precious with every word he says—and every breath he takes.

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