She shakes her head. “This has been wonderful. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun. Not in forever, I think.”

I want to ask her to stay. It would be so easy for her to slip out of that dress and into the magnificent bed just down the hall. But…she’d say no—I can feel it. Too soon.

And she wouldn’t get a wink of fucking sleep anyway—I’d keep her up all night.

I gesture toward the door, like the gentleman I’m not. “Let’s get you home, then.”

Olivia’s head rests against my arm the whole ride back to her place. Our legs are aligned and pressing, our hands entwined on top of my thigh. I turn my head just slightly and inhale the addictive jasmine scent of her hair.

There’s a cable show, My Strange Addiction—one of the most insane things I ever saw, one episode was about a wanker who was obsessed with sniffing women’s hair.

I’m sorry I judged you, wanker. I get it now.

“You smell fantastic.”

She angles her head up, her eyes light and mischievous. Then she presses her face against my pectoral—and inhales so deeply she practically snorts my shirt.

“I like the way you smell too, Nicholas.”

The car pulls up to the curb and rolls to a stop.

And I’m about to ask if I can sniff her again tomorrow, but Logan’s voice comes through the speaker.

“Stay in the car, Your Grace. There’s a vagrant outside Miss Hammond’s door—Tommy and I’ll take care of it.”

Olivia jerks up away from me, going tense in an instant. She looks out the window, white-knuckling the armrest.

“Oh no…”

And her words barely register before she shoves the door open and dashes out.

“OH NO…”

To little girls, fathers are heroes—at least the good ones are. Tall and handsome, strong but patient, with a deep voice that speaks the wisest truths.

My father was a good one.

A chaser-away of monsters under the bed, a sneaker of cookies before dinner, an encourager, a protector, a teacher of what a real man is supposed to be. His hands were big and callused—working man’s hands—powerful, but gentle with us. He used to hold my mother’s hand like she was a precious work of art. Oh, how he loved my mother. It was in every move he made, every word he said. His love for her was the light in his eyes and the breath in his lungs.

I look like him—his black hair, the shape of his eyes, his long limbs. It used to make me proud to resemble him because, like all little girls, I thought my father was unconquerable. Invincible. The wall that could never crumble.

But I was wrong.

One terrible day…one horrible moment on a subway platform…and all that strength just dissolved. The way a pillar candle melts down into a heap of wax. Into something unrecognizable.

“Daddy?” I kneel down.

Behind me, Nicholas’s approaching footsteps stutter to a stop.

And the mortification nips at my heels as I imagine how this must look to him.

But I don’t have time for that now.

“Daddy, what happened?”

His eyes struggle to find mine, to stay open, and whiskey fumes burn my nostrils.

“Livvy…hey, sweetie. Couldn’t…somethin’s wrong with the lock…couldn’t get my key in.”

He tried using the walk-up door to our apartment. He could have just gone through the coffee shop—but he doesn’t know about the broken lock that I still haven’t gotten around to fixing.

His keys slip out of his grasp. “Damn.”

I scoop them off the cold sidewalk. “It’s okay, Dad. I’ll help you.”

With a spine-straightening breath, I stand up, turn around, and face Nicholas. And my voice goes straight to autopilot.

“You should go. I have to take care of this.”

His gaze darts to my father on the ground, then back to me. “Go? I can’t just leave you to—”

“It’s fine,” I grit out, teeth crunching and embarrassment creeping up my neck.

“He’s three times your size. How do you plan to get him upstairs?”

“I’ve done it before.”

In a nanosecond he goes from pitying to pissed. And he uses that voice again—the one that bent Bosco to his will, the one that says it’s his way or his way.

“You’re not doing it now.”

I know what he’s trying to do—and I hate it. He wants to be noble, helpful. Trying to be the hero. Isn’t that what princes do? But it just makes me feel shittier.

I’ve been my own hero for a long time—I know how it’s done.

“This is none of your business. This is my business. I told you yesterday—”

“If you fall down those steps you’ll snap your fucking neck,” Nicholas says harshly, leaning down. “I won’t risk that because you’ve got more pride than sense. I’m helping you, Olivia. Deal with it.”

Then he walks right past me. And crouches down.

His voice grows gentler. “Mr. Hammond?”

And my father slurs, “Who’re you?”

“Nicholas. My name is Nicholas. I’m a friend of Olivia’s. It looks like you’re having a bit of trouble, so I’m going to help get you upstairs. All right?”

“Yeah…damn keys aren’t working.”

Nicholas nods, then motions Logan forward. They heave my father up, one on either side, his arms flung over their shoulders.

“Olivia, get the door,” he tells me.

We go through the coffee shop because there’s more room that way. And as I watch them carry my father through the kitchen and up the stairs—his head dangling forward on his neck like a newborn, his legs useless—I realize that this is a really, really bad night. The best I would have been able to do was drag him inside, get a pillow and blanket, and spend the rest of the night on the floor with him.