“I eat meat. And I’m not thin,” I added, defensive.
“You are. You’ve gotten thinner lately.”
I crossed my arms. “Exactly how closely have you been watching me?”
Macy appeared, setting down our steaming cups of coffee. “You eating or just coffee?”
“Two specials, Macy. Extra cheese on both.”
She walked away before I could speak.
“Maybe I’m lactose intolerant.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Moot point, then. Besides, I saw you have coffee a couple times. You always add cream.”
“Logan…”
“Lottie,” he teased.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
He took a long drink of coffee, his eyes never leaving mine. The steam from his cup swirled around his head, his long fingers wrapping all the way around the large mug.
He set it down, resting on his arms. “How closely have I been watching you?”
I was almost afraid to hear the answer. “Yes.”
He traced the handle of his mug a couple of times. “Close.”
“Why?”
His reply was slow. “Because I think you need someone to watch out for you.” He lifted his soulful eyes, the light shimmering in his whiskey-colored irises. “And you came to me first.”
“I did?”
“That day in the subway. I saw you walking—your shoulders were hunched, and you looked so sad. When you sat down, I felt this need to do something to make you feel better. So I started playing for you.”
“For me? I thought it was, ah…” I stumbled, unsure how to say the words.
“For money?” he guessed accurately.
“Yes.”
“It’s always a bonus, but it wasn’t the reason. I wanted to do something for you. You looked so lost, almost broken.” He slid his hand along the table and hooked my pinkie with his finger, squeezing it. “I wanted—I needed—to help you.”
I didn’t know what to say. I stared down at our hands. Mine looked so small compared to his. The way his palm rested against mine, almost encompassing it with its size. His grip was strong, the ends of his fingers calloused from playing guitar, and what I assumed were many years of hard work. His rough skin didn’t bother me at all. In fact, his touch brought comfort. I raised my eyes, meeting his gaze, finally plucking up the courage to say what I had been thinking for so long.
“Your music brings me such peace, Logan. It’s the one thing I look forward to every day. I can’t begin to express how much it means to me.”
“I play it only for you.”
I had no time to respond.
Macy arrived, setting down plates loaded with massive burgers and French fries piled so high, they tumbled over the edge of the plate. We broke apart, and for the first time, I realized how close we’d been leaning into each other. It didn’t seem to embarrass Logan. He winked and picked up the ketchup bottle, adding a generous amount on his plate, offering it to me. I took it, putting a small squirt to the side of my plate.
I studied the burger, unsure how to eat it without it ending up all over me. I glanced up to Logan, who was attacking his burger with gusto. Cheese and ketchup dripped from the corner of his mouth, and with a smirk, he wiped it away with a napkin. He tapped my plate closer.
“Tuck in, Lottie. I want to see you eat it.” He took another huge bite, chewing it leisurely. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. A handful of fries were dragged through the ketchup, shoved into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed, as I watched, fascinated by his actions.
He shook his head and leaned across the table. “Do I have to feed you?”
I snapped out of my trance. “No.” I picked up the burger and bit down. Hot cheese, greasy meat, and fried onions hit my taste buds. I chewed and swallowed, my eyes closing on their own in pleasure. He was right. It was the best burger I had ever eaten.
His chuckle made me open my eyes. He winked at me, offering me a napkin. I wiped away the ketchup on my chin.
“It’s good.”
“I told you it was.”
“You’re awfully sure of yourself.”
He bit and masticated, shrugging one shoulder. “I suppose I am. You have to be in this life.”
“In this life? You mean in general or in, ah, your line of work?”
He pushed the hair off his forehead, shaking his head. “You mean as a young, single guy in a big city? Or as a struggling street musician?”
“Um…”
“That’s what you see, right? When you look at me? Poor, struggling, in need of handouts, like the other night?”
His eyes never left my face, and I felt heat rush up my neck, blooming on my cheeks. “It wasn’t a handout.”
“What would you call it?”
“A thank-you.”
“Do you toss a hundred bucks into every open guitar case?”
“No. But…”
“But, what?”
It felt as if the conversation had suddenly drifted into dark waters. Carefully, I set my burger back on my plate, wiping my fingers.