There are photographers and fans waiting outside, in roped off areas behind a wall of security. I shiver when I think the man obsessed with my sister could be in the crowd. But then the door opens, and Logan is holding out his hand to me.
When I touch him, when I slide my hand into his and feel his fingers wrap around mine, a mixture of thrilling electricity and warm comfort races through me. Touching him is my drug, my addiction—though I try not to be a freak out about it. And knowing he’s here, watching over us like a powerful, invincible guardian angel, settles my nerves and, like always, makes me feel safe and cared for. Because Logan would never let anything bad happen to any of us.
And I believe with all my heart that there’s nothing he can’t do.
The Starlight Hall is aptly named. It’s a beautiful room with murals of lush rolling landscapes on the walls and a domed ceiling of thousands of small white iron-framed panes of glass. The guests are similar to the ones at other events I’ve attended with Olivia—a mix of young, sophisticated blue-bloods and older aristocratic lords and ladies wearing clunky jewels and big intricate hats.
Olivia and I sit at a table, chatting with Simon Barrister and his wife, Franny. I’ve met the couple a few times over the years—through Simon’s business with my father and because he’s Nicholas’s closest friend. Liv met Franny on her first trip to Wessco and she was a good friend to her, fierce and honest, when my sister really needed a friend. Franny is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life, with perfect, porcelain skin, glittering onyx eyes and mahogany hair.
She’s also one of the funniest. Because she’s so direct. Practically brutal.
“Death.” Franny tells my sister emphatically. “Childbirth is like death. You’ll think that you’re dying and the pain is so bloody awful, you’ll wish you were already dead.”
Simon and Franny have a three-year-old little boy, Jack, with sparkling blue eyes and red hair just like his dad.
“So you’re saying it’s . . . not so bad?” Liv jokes.
Franny laughs and Simon gazes at her like it’s the most magical sound he’s ever heard.
“I’m just trying to prepare you.” Franny insists. “I wish someone had prepared me.”
Then she looks over at her husband adoringly and strokes her hand down his arm.
“But, afterwards, when you haven’t died and they place that little bundle in your arms, you feel reborn. Like you’ve just accomplished the most perfect, important, wondrous thing you’ll ever do. And you want to do it again and again.”
Later, the topic turns to nannies.
Liv holds Nicholas’s hand in hers, toying with the wedding ring on his finger.
“I don’t know about nannies—I don’t think I want one.”
“One?” Franny exclaims. “You’re having twins, you need an army of them.”
My sister tilts her head from side to side, unconvinced.
“Don’t be an American Bitch, Olivia. Nannies are a part of our culture—especially for you and Nicholas. I can’t imagine how I would have turned out if I was left to be raised by my mother. It would have been a disaster.”
Simon nods to Nicholas. “Hopefully, you’ll have better luck at keeping them employed. Ours quit, often—dropped like flies.”
Franny smirks, looking devilish and beautiful. “I can’t imagine why.”
And Simon grins, delighted by her. “It’s because you threaten them, darling.” He turns toward us. “When they take Jack to the park, Franny reminds them if anything should happen to him, she’ll slit their throats when they return.”
Franny shrugs adorably. “I’m just being honest. They should be forewarned.”
Later, I’m on my own, sipping a vodka and cranberry, while my sister and Nicholas are on the dance floor, gazing into each other’s eyes. Simon and Franny are there too, clasped together, rocking in time to the music. I see Henry at the other end of the room, talking animatedly, surrounded by a group of people who are listening and laughing in response to his every word. Sarah is a few feet away, chatting with her blond sister, Penelope. She an actress in LA, only visiting for a few days, and then she’ll return for the wedding.
A new song comes from the band—an instrumental version of “Play That Song” by Train. I watch Henry leave his group and go over to Sarah—swooping her up, holding her around her hips, above him—both of them laughing and loving. I can’t help but smile when he moves them onto the dance floor and slowly slides Sarah down his body until her feet touch the floor.
If I can find someone who looks at me half as adoringly as Henry Pembrook looks at Sarah Von Titebottum, I’ll be happy for the rest of my life.
I sigh. Because love is all around me. And I’m Ms. Lonely.
And then my gaze is moving . . . I don’t have to scan the room to find Logan, I know just where he is—it’s as if my brain has a 24/7 GPS on him.
But the crazy, awesome, amazing thing that gets my heart pounding so loud it drowns out the sound of the music? When I look at Logan St. James across the room, he’s not searching the crowd for threats. He’s not looking in front of him, so he’s ready for whatever may come.
Instead, when I indulge in my daily Logan stare-fest . . . he’s staring right back at me.
An hour later, I sip my second drink, and am on my way to an awesome buzz, while chatting with Sarah about her Wessco Blue Coats charity work. She started a reading program a few years ago, and though she won’t travel with them, now that she and Henry are engaged, she still organizes book drives and fundraisers. It’s surreal to think that she’ll be a queen one day. Crazy. Because she’s so . . . normal. But she’s also gracious, intelligent and genuine, all the qualities a country would want in a queen.
She giggles, telling me a story about her friend Willard and his wife, Laura, when all of a sudden she stops mid-sentence. And the color drains from her face—even her lips turn to chalk.
I put my hand on her arm. “Sarah? Are you all right?”
She doesn’t reply.
I’m not sure what to do. I know Sarah’s painfully shy and I don’t want to embarrass her. So I turn around and motion Logan over. He comes immediately and focuses on Sarah as soon as he makes it to my side.
“Lady Sarah? What is it?” Logan follows her gaze to where it’s frozen on the tall, gray-haired man across the room. “Him? The man by the door?”
Logan takes one step and Sarah grabs his arm in a panic. “Don’t! Don’t go near him. He’s . . . dangerous.”
I take Sarah’s other hand in mine—it’s ice cold. “It’s all right. He can’t hurt us. Logan would never let that happen. We’re here with you. You’re okay.”
She doesn’t blink, doesn’t take her eyes off the man, and I’m not sure if she heard me.
“Get Henry,” Logan tells me. “Now.”
I give Sarah’s hand a quick squeeze and leave her with Logan. Then I weave between guests until I find the blond prince talking with a small group of friends by the bar. I thread my arm through his, smile broadly and use an over-the-top Cockney accent when I say, “Beggin’ yer pardon, gents. Have to steal the Guvnah, here, for a minute.”
As I lead him away, Henry asks softly, “What’s wrong?”