Royally Endowed(43)

The painting in front of me is of a woman embroidering, with a little girl at her feet. On the wall beside it, there’s a quote—I think it’s from the Bible: “When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things . . .”

I glance down at my ankle, where my little lemon tattoo is etched. And I feel the hug of the knife holster that’s wrapped around my thigh—that I wear like an engagement ring, religiously, every day.

It’s almost fucking poetic.

I’m a fraud. I haven’t been sucking the lemon of life—I’ve been hiding behind the rind. Playing it safe. Refusing to take the biggest chance of all.

I need to put away childish things. Like high school crushes and bodyguard dreams. I have to put them behind me.

But the only way I’ll ever do that is by confronting them—him. By laying it on the line, putting my bare, beating heart on the table for him to see. And if he smashes it with a sledgehammer, well . . . this analogy took a dark turn…but the point is: Logan either wants me like I want him or he doesn’t.

And it’s time to find out. To hear it straight from the hung-like-a-horse’s mouth. Then I can move forward. Move on, with or without him. But I really, really hope it’s with him. That I’m not the only one feeling this.

George and I have wandered over to a small alcove in the corner, and I put my hand on his arm. “I have something to tell you.”

He smiles. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

And then we speak at the same time.

“I can’t wait to see you again.”

“I have to go.”

When my words penetrate, he slides his hands into his pockets and his forehead crinkles. “Well . . . this is uncomfortable.”

“I’m sorry. You’re a great guy—an amazing guy . . . but . . . there’s someone else. There’s been someone else for a long time and I have no idea how he feels about me, but I need to find out. I have to give it a chance.”

George looks at me for a few moments. Then he leans over and kisses my cheek.

“Whoever he is, he’s a lucky man.”

I smile a thank-you.

“I’ll have the car drop you wherever you want to go.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ve got it covered.” I put my hand over his. “Good night, George.”

George’s two bodyguards, who shadowed us here tonight, stay with him while I walk out of the back door of the museum and hail a taxi. It’s time to seize my destiny, take the bull by the horns, grab the lemon with both hands and suck until my cheeks hollow out . . . and maybe, if things go well, I’ll get to swallow.





I’VE SEEN ENOUGH EIGHTIES MOVIES—Pretty in Pink, An Officer and a Gentleman, Sixteen Candles—to know how this should go. I’m supposed to step out of the cab, walk through the double doors of the bar with the breeze blowing my hair back, search the room until our eyes meet, then—boom—the romantic background music surges. I raise my hand and beckon him close, then Logan kisses the hell out of me and/or swings me up and carries me away. Roll the credits.

Reality is . . . not an eighties movie.

So, when I get out of the cab, my dress snags on the door, tearing a little. I step in a puddle on my way across the street, soaking my foot and creating my very own squishy, farty background music.

Jesus Christ on a candy cane.

I keep my head down and avoid eye contact with a loud group of guys smoking outside the tavern next door—and then I cup my hands around my face and peek in the window of Katy’s Pub.

There’s a small front room with a wooden bar and a few round tables and chairs. I see a hallway in the back that a man in a flannel shirt walks in from, carrying a pool stick. Logan sits at the bar, his brown hair falling over his forehead, a tall glass of dark beer in front of him. A pretty bartender with shoulder-length auburn hair leans his way on her elbow. And then Logan chuckles at something she says—flashing straight, white teeth, his eyes crinkling with laughter.

Jealousy—green and ugly—steams from my ears. And though I recoil at the sight, it’s as if my feet are cemented to the ground and my hands are super-glued to the glass.

And then it gets worse.

A little girl, with swinging blond pigtails and a pacifier in her mouth, comes rushing out from behind the bar. The female bartender chases after her, but Logan beats her to it, scooping the toddler up into his strong arms. He tilts his head, talking to the child and wagging his finger playfully, making her smile around her pacifier. And the woman comes around the bar and stands close to Logan, gazing up at them both.

They look like they’re very well acquainted—wholesome and happy. They look like a family, and it feels like I’m bleeding inside.