He’d said it. Not once, but twice.

I love you.

I love you.

It was like an echo. In the room and in my heart. And I so wanted him to mean it. I wanted the words to be true.

Tipping back, I peered down at Logan’s face. Beneath the stubble and the faint shadows bruising his eyes, I saw an eight-year-old boy. Lost and alone. And in that moment, I felt our connection, the something that bound us beyond lust, love, or attraction.

We were the same, he and I.

Our lives had changed—not over months or years, but in seconds. Three shots and Logan’s destiny was sealed. No matter what happened after that, he’d always be motherless. And me … a minute later or a minute earlier on that rain slicked road, and I wouldn’t be a widow. And Paige would be alive.

My copy of Wuthering Heights called to me from the table.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

Pushing the hair back from Logan’s face, I pressed my lips to his forehead. And I did something I’d never done for anyone. I sang to him. So softly it was nothing more than a whisper.

The logical part of my brain told me to protect my heart. That Logan’s damage and my damage were too much to overcome. There wasn’t enough left of either of us to survive if we crashed to earth. But I wouldn’t think about that now. For a few more hours, we’d simply float.

The minute my eyes popped open, I knew it was late. Sunlight flooded the entire loft from corner-to-corner. If I had to guess, I’d say it was mid-morning. Which meant, I was in trouble. With the concert just over thirty-six hours away, I had a to-do list that could choke a horse.

Stupid.

Slowly, I stretched my limbs, stifling a groan when my hip protested. Once the pain subsided I pushed myself up. Logan shifted, and I chanced a peek at his face. So beautiful. The worry lines around his eyes had faded, and I was grateful for that. And then my gaze fell to his chest, and his shallow, even breaths.

Something metal caught my eye, and I tipped forward.

Smiling, I lifted the coin. Logan had a lucky penny.

Just like …

My heart stammered, and then slammed against my ribs as I ran my finger over the stamping that covered the Lincoln Memorial. One word. LUCKY. All caps. The L was slightly lower than the other letters, and inside the stamp, most of the black nail polish had flaked off. But a little remained. Enough to let me know this was my penny. The one my dad had made me with his kit when I was six. Just to be sure, I checked the date on the coin. 1988. The year I was born.

Logan’s fingers closed around mine, and I jerked. His expression was inscrutable. “Good morning, baby.”

I blinked at him. “Where did you get this?”

But I knew. As I looked into those pale blue eyes, I knew.

Logan was the boy I’d given my penny to when I was nine. The boy who’d never offered his name. But that didn’t matter, because I’d made one up: Lucky.

In my head, the boy was Lucky.

Lucky after the penny that was my most prized possession. Lucky because his dad had loved him so much, according to my mom, that he’d picked him up the day after his mother’s horrific accident. Lucky because he wasn’t a foster kid.

Just … Lucky.

Logan smiled sadly. “You gave it to me.”

“When?”

His thumb brushed over my knuckles. “The day you stole my heart.”