I know I sound like a desperate, pathetic woman, but I just don’t care. Having your heart ripped out of your chest will do that to you.

It’s too early for morning sickness, but even if it weren’t, I know I’m not pregnant. Those magical fixes happen only in romance novels and on soap operas. In real life, birth control is reliably, sometimes heartbreakingly effective.

“It’s really you! Oh my God, can I get a picture?” the statuesque, twenty-something woman vibrating beside me asks.

“No. Sorry, no pictures,” I mumble, staring at the dirty plates in my hands.

Business is booming. The line at Amelia’s is out the door and down the block. They’re not here for the pies—my father filled me in on his covert business deal with Simon Barrister the night I came home. The contract is exclusive, which means we’re out of the pie business for good. And I’m happy about that, I am. Happy that my father is sober and healthy. Happy that Ellie will be able to go to college without the weight of money troubles on her back. Happy even for me—that I have choices now, that my life won’t be spent doing something I hate for the family I love.

But Nicholas was right. Everyone has a price and everything is for sale.

The crowd that fills the coffee shop every day is looking for a piece of Nicholas. They all want to see the table he sat at—Ellie screwed a plaque into the back of one of the chairs: “His Royal Ass Was Here.” Beside it, Marty scratched into the wood: “And it was fiiine.”

I don’t do autographs or pictures, but that doesn’t stop people from asking. I’ve been working every day—trying to stay busy, but I mostly stay in the back. Away from all the greedy eyes and prying questions.

I dump the dishes into the sink in the kitchen, while the DISHWASHER WANTED sign still hangs, unclaimed, in the front window. The chatter of the crowd out front is so loud that I don’t hear the person behind me come in. Not until I turn around and run smack into his chest.

Logan steadies me with a hand on my elbow.

“Pardon me, Miss Olivia.”

That awful tight feeling pinches my chest, because looking at his face drums up memories that pound their way through my head.

“Why are you here, Logan?”

He gives me a confused look. “It’s my shift. Tommy has the day off.”

“No. No, I mean why are you still here?”

There hasn’t been a word from Nicholas—not a call or a text. I expected Logan and Tommy to head back to Wessco as soon as it was clear I was back. For good.

His mouth tightens, and sympathy dims in his eyes. “Prince Nicholas asked me to protect your business, watch over your sister. Until I receive new orders, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Maybe…he forgot you were here?”

Logan chuckles. “He doesn’t forget about his men. If Tommy and I are here, it’s because here is where he wants us to be.”

I don’t know what to do with this information—if it’s some deeper clue about Nicholas’s intentions or means nothing at all. But I don’t have time to analyze it. Because a second later, my sister’s voice echoes from out front.

“Everybody out! Let’s go—it’s siesta time, people—we’re closed for the afternoon. Hey, Marty, help a sister out, will you?”

Logan and I rush out of the kitchen. Ellie holds the door open, waving everyone out of it, despite the grumbles and protests, while Marty herds them in her direction like a modern-day shepherd.

“Your money’s no good here.” He waves at a guy offering him several bills. “Come back tomorrow.”

“What are you doing?” I call above the line of heads.

Ellie holds up her finger until the last would-be customer has left. Then she locks the door and pulls down the dark green shade over the picture window.

“It’s almost time for the press conference.” She skips to the television on the counter, turning it on. “I figured you’d want privacy when we watch it.”

My stomach has dropped to my feet a lot during the last few months, but this time, it drops to fucking China.

“I’m not watching the press conference.”

“Oh yes you are, Negative Nelly.” She drags me by the arm to a front-row seat. “Unlike you, I still have hope that His Hotness is going to pull his stupid head out of his fine ass.”

“Even if he did, it doesn’t matter. We were only supposed to last the summer. We were doomed from the start.”

Marty comes up behind me, squeezing my shoulders. “Even if that turns out to be true, this will give you closure at least.”

I hate that word. Closure. It’s just confirmation that what you dread is actually true. Dead is dead. Over is really over. But there’s no comfort in it.

“I don’t want to watch.”

I haven’t searched Nicholas’s name online, haven’t looked at any of the paparazzi photos that are always so readily available. It would be like holding a still-raw, blistering burn against a hot stove—too much hurt to handle.

My sister folds her arms. “Liar.”

Okay, she’s right. The truth is, I don’t want to want to watch. I don’t want to miss him. I don’t want to need him. I don’t want to spend every moment of every day trying not to cry because I can’t imagine a future without him in it anymore.

But…we don’t always get what we want. Most of the time, we don’t, actually. What did my mother say when we were little? You get what you get and you don’t get upset. So I sit in the chair and dig my fingernails into my palm while Ellie switches the channel to the news station carrying the live press conference, and increases the volume.