“Your music, it means something to me. More than I can tell you. It brings me peace. It–it’s the only thing I have to look forward to every day.” My voice rose. “And you never let me put money in. You let everyone else!”
“They’re different.”
“I don’t understand.”
He finished his burger, pushing his plate away roughly. He drained his mug and signaled for a refill, waiting until Macy brought him more coffee and left, taking his empty plate.
“You’ve barely touched your food.”
I looked down at my half-eaten burger and the large pile of fries that still sat on the plate. “Not that hungry. You want it?”
“No. I want you to eat it.”
“Tell me what you meant by that statement.”
He scrubbed his face roughly. “I play for you. If other people listen and get some enjoyment, that’s great. They want to drop in money, fine. But my music is my gift for you. You don’t have to pay to hear it. Ever.”
His words astounded me.
“What makes me different?”
“You make you different.” He bent low, extending his hand across the table, running his finger over my wrist. “Ever since I saw you that night, I felt this draw…this need to watch for you. I was heading home when I caught sight of you. You looked as if the weight of the world were on your shoulders. It reminded me…” He frowned, falling silent.
“Reminded you?” I prompted.
“It reminded me of how my father used to look. Worn-down, beaten. Stretched to his limit.” His eyes blazed as he stared across the table. “The corporate world killed him. He was dead at forty-two. He had a heart attack sitting at his desk. Just dropped dead.”
I covered my mouth. “Logan,” I breathed out.
“I was fourteen. I used to watch him, see how hard he worked. And it was never enough. If he gave ten hours, they wanted twelve. If he worked six days, they wanted seven. He struggled to be enough every fucking day—and he never was. He gave everything he had to a demanding corporation, and all he got in return was an early grave.” He flung his napkin on the table. “And all I got was one foster home after another, until I ran away.”
“What about your mother?”
“She left when I was a kid. She hated the mediocre life she led. She kept telling my father she wanted more. She packed up one day and left without a word to either of us.” Logan closed his eyes for a moment. “My dad was stuck with me and a job he hated.” He huffed out a loud breath. “Some life.”
I didn’t know what to say. Silence descended around us. Logan’s fingers drummed on the table in a restless beat, his leg swinging like a pendulum in short, rapid movements. He reached across the table, dragging my plate closer, and started eating the French fries. His movements were jerky and tense, and he didn’t meet my eyes.
Finally, he spoke. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you. I rarely talk about my past, but somehow with you, it just sort of came out.”
“No, I’m glad you told me. What was your father’s name?”
“William. William Logan.”
“I’m sure he’d be very proud of you.”
Logan brushed off my words. “Tell me about you.”
“Not much to tell, really. I work at Prescott Inc.”
“The investment company?”
“Yes.”
“Prescott, as in your family?”
“Yes, my father owns and runs it.”
“No nepotism there, I see.”
A shot of anger went through me. “Actually, no. I went to school and earned my degree. I had to work my way up, just like everyone else. I’m only a manager of one small group. If anything, I have to work harder, prove myself more than anyone else there because of who I am.” I lifted my chin, meeting his steady regard. “My father believes you have to earn your place, family or not.”
He held up his hands in supplication. “Sorry, I was only teasing. I’m sure you’re great at what you do.”
I shrugged, picking up my mug. “I try to be.”
“Do you like your job?”
My gaze drifted around the diner and settled back on Logan’s face. He lifted an eyebrow, studying me. “If you have to think that hard about it, I would say the answer is a resounding no.”
“I’m not sure anyone actually likes their job.”
He pursed his lips with a fast shrug of his shoulders. “I do.”
“Not all of us can wander the streets and play music for fun.”
He indicated my plate. “Are you really not going to eat that?”
“No.”
He pulled it closer and picked up the burger, demolishing it in moments.
I worried about how often he was able to eat. He was lean, but he didn’t look undernourished. He was well muscled and in shape.
He caught me staring and chuckled, waving Macy over. “More coffee, please. And a piece of the spice cake. Two forks.”