Royally Endowed(5)

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?”