His eyes dart to me then back to Ellie.
“I don’t know . . .”
Ellie raises her head, her crying jag finished for now, then stumbles up next to me and wraps herself around my arm—sighing against it, smelling it, practically humping it.
“You can leave me with Logan, Henry. He’s my hero.”
Henry cocks his head suspiciously. “Is that so?”
“Totally.” Ellie sighs, petting my arm. “My pretty, pissed-off guardian angel.”
Jesus Christ.
The blond prince holds my eyes—judging my worth—the way men do. I don’t look away; I don’t blink. After a moment, Henry nods, smacks his palms on the arm of the sofa and hoists himself up.
“Well, that’s good enough for me.”
Ellie claps her hands.
“Yay!”
And almost falls into the fireplace.
I guide her into an antique chair.
Henry makes a show of bowing to Ellie, picking up her hand and kissing the back.
She giggles. “Thank you for tonight.”
He drops down to his knee. “Did you have fun—the best time of your whole life? I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”
Ellie nods, all giddy and loose-limbed.
“It was the very best! I love it here and you’re going to be an awesome king.”
And a strange look falls over Henry’s face. Sad, wistful. “You’re a good-hearted girl, Ellie. You should leave this place as soon as you can.”
The next time he blinks, that jester’s smile is back in place. Henry holds out his fist. “Welcome to the family, sweets.”
Ellie tries to fist-bump back . . . but misses and almost pops Henry right in the nose.
Laughing, Henry holds Ellie’s wrist and taps their fists together.
Then he stands, nods in my direction, loops his arm around the lady and strides out of the room.
“Hey Logan?”
“Yes?”
“When’s your birthday?”
“June seventh.”
“Oh.”
“Hey Logan?”
“Mmm?”
“How old are you?”
I answer without thinking. “Twenty-three.”
“Huh.”
It’s been going this way for half an hour. Ellie sits on the paisley antique sofa, staring into the empty fireplace, with me beside her. I took her shoes off a while ago but she’s made no move towards the bed. It’s better for her to sit upright anyway.
“Hey Logan?”
“Aye?”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Everyone has one.”
“Blue.”
“Light or dark blue?”
Again, I answer without thought. “Light blue.”
Blearily, Ellie turns her head to me, her long lashes blinking slowly.
“My eyes are light blue.”
My mind stutters for just a moment.
“So they are.”
In the time I’ve known Ellie Hammond, been near her, I’ve tended to look everywhere but at her—that’s the job. But at this moment, just a few inches away, there’s nothing to see except her.
And so, I look.
Her neck is elegant, her shoulders straight and small-boned. Her skin is smooth and creamy, with a natural rosy flush to her cheeks. Her brows are fair and arched, her eyes round and deep-set—intelligent with a touch of mischievousness. And she has freckles . . . an adorable dusting of light freckles kissing the bridge of her dainty nose.
“Hey Logan?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t feel so good.”
And there it is. I’ve been expecting this.
“Yeah. Don’t worry. As soon as you puke your stomach inside out, you’ll be feeling loads better.”
Her petite features scrunch. “That doesn’t sound like fun.”
“No.”
For a few moments, the only sound in the room is Ellie’s quick, harsh breaths.
And then, “Hey Logan?”
“Yes?”
“Where’s the bathroom?”
She covers her mouth and her whole body convulses in a heave. Quickly, I lift under her arms, helping her stand, and guide her to the loo. As she steps over the threshold, she lurches towards the open toilet, hands braced on the seat, and a deluge of rejected alcohol spews from her stomach.
I gather the strands of her hair and hold them back, rubbing gentle circles between her shoulder blades and murmuring reassuring words. Though I don’t make a habit of it, I’ve been where she is—more than once—and it’s god-awful.
After another few rounds, it seems her stomach is finally empty. I pass Ellie a ball of tissues and she coughs, wiping her mouth and resting back against the wall.
I reach over to flush the toilet and Ellie groans.
“Don’t—it’s so gross. I’m so gross.”