Loree Lough - Devoted to Drew

“Took you a year to recover from what that batty broad did to you.”

“You’d think a guy with a hundred degrees on his wall would know broad isn’t PC.”

“And you’d think a guy with a hundred Tinseltown starlets listed in his little black book would know better than to get tangled up with another emotional basket case. Besides, the only way Wacky Willow deserves PC is if it stands for Permanent Confinement in the nearest loony bin.”

They’d been down this road enough times that Logan knew it was futile to argue the “Willow was certifiable” point. “So maybe Bianca has some issues. Who doesn’t? Doesn’t mean she’s crazy.”

“Or that she was abused.”

Logan waited for Griff to repeat the warning he’d issued during those early months with Willow: Better steer clear of that one....

Thankfully, Griff grabbed Logan’s file. “So when are you planning to see this Bianca person again?”

It had been almost a week since she’d sat across from him, sipping cappuccino and talking about her son, but it might as well have been an hour ago. He remembered thinking how the shaft of early-March sunlight, spilling in from the window behind her, gave a halolike quality to her short blond curls. But then he’d said, “I know a gal who works at Kennedy Krieger, so I know it isn’t easy to get an appointment. If you need help getting in, say the word.” Instead of saying “Drew is fine where he is,” or “We’ll see,” she’d got to her feet, ice-blue eyes scanning his face as she’d thanked him for the coffee and left.

“Yo. Dude.” Griff snapped his fingers. “Earth to Logan, Earth to Logan....”

He met Griff’s concerned stare.

“We have work to do, so how ’bout you nap on your own time.”

“This is my time,” Logan kidded, “bought and paid for to the tune of one seventy-five an hour.”

“Consider yourself lucky. If you weren’t a pal, you’d pay double,” Griff shot back. He tossed a wad of paper into the trash can. “So as I was saying when you veered off into Bianca-land, when will you see her again?”

“Next time I’m on The Morning Show, I guess. Hadn’t really thought about it.”

“If you say so.”

The paperback-sized clock on Griff’s desk chimed eleven times. Using the cap of his ballpoint, he tapped Logan’s file. “Back to business. If you’re serious about this autism project, you’ll need a clear-cut mission statement.” Griff leafed through the will. “What did you do, swallow a leprechaun or something? How does one guy get so lucky in life?”

He’d said pretty much the same thing when Logan had brought him the document naming him sole inheritor of David Richards’s assets. A devout Knights fan, the mega-millionaire had often sought Logan’s help in raising funds for his pet charities, and as had time passed, he’d begun introducing Logan as “the son I never had.” When a team of Hopkins specialists diagnosed Stage 4 esophageal cancer, David—recently divorced from his third wife—sent for Logan. In what turned out to be his last self-deprecating joke, David made Logan promise to distribute his wealth “with my big philanthropic heart in mind.”

And Logan aimed to do just that.

“The mission statement doesn’t have to be fancy,” Griff continued. “Just a few short paragraphs describing the purpose of the charity. Who’ll run it. Who’ll benefit. Once I have it, I can write your Articles of Incorporation, file for your tax ID number—all that legal stuff you pay me the big bucks to do on your behalf.” He scribbled something on the inside front cover of the folder, then met Logan’s eyes. “Have you decided if this is to be a board-only organization?”

“Unless things have changed since our last meeting, that’s the best way to keep greedy stockholders out of the equation.”

Griff made another note in the file. “Given any thought to who’ll help draft the bylaws?”

Logan rested his elbows on the wingback’s arms, then steepled his fingers under his chin. He groaned again, wondering if he’d made a mistake. Funneling the remaining dollars into David’s existing charities would be way easier than building one from the ground up. But his old friend had been very specific, saying, “Your heart has never been in any of these projects of mine. Find one of your own, something that will make you feel like you’re making a difference, the way mine made me feel.” Helping his nephew and kids like him... If Logan could accomplish something like that, maybe he wouldn’t feel as if he was just taking up space and wasting the air he breathed.

Griff was still scribbling when Logan added, “I know a couple people with warehouse space for sale that could work as a school. But I don’t know if that’s the way to go.” He paused as another question popped into his head. “How many board members do you recommend?”

“I think the two of us can handle it.”

“Can’t think of anyone else who’ll keep their eyes on the prize and leave their egos—and self-indulgence—at the door.”

“Yeah. They broke the good-guy mold when they made us, didn’t they?”

The friends shared a quiet laugh as Griff closed the file. “Well, the money is safe in the bank, so you have plenty of time to think about it.”

Logan got to his feet. “Free for lunch?”

“I wish. I’m due in court at one.” He extended his hand, and as Logan grasped it, Griff added, “Be careful, pal.”

“Hey. I’ll sleep easy knowing you’re handling the official stuff.”

“I’m not talking about this school project,” he said, pointing at the file. “I mean this Bianca woman. You barely know her and already you have that gleam in your eye. Last thing you need is to go head over heels for a woman just because she has a kid like Sam.”

Bianca’s son was largely responsible for the hours he’d spent this week boning up on specific disorders within the autism spectrum. When he’d deepened the research by interviewing a few experts, he was surprised to learn that more than half of the markers could just as easily describe him and other athletes who’d suffered head injuries. The similarities between him and Sam made Logan more determined than ever to build a facility that would help normalize their lives. “Just be careful, okay?” Griff said, walking with him to the door. “I don’t have time to put you back together again, Humpty.” Then, “Do me a favor?”

“No, I will not give you J-Lo’s number.”

Griff’s eyebrows rose. “Whoa. You mean to say you actually have Jennifer Lopez’s—”

Logan only laughed.

“Oh, you’re a regular comedian, aren’t you?” But he wasn’t laughing when he added, “Don’t let this one lead you down the primrose path, okay?”

Logan had recently earned his six-years-sober chip, but because he’d seen him hit rock bottom—and stay there for years—Griff had a right to wonder what might shove him off the wagon. And time was the only cure for that.

“Break a leg in court,” Logan said, walking backward toward the elevators.

“Chesapeake fishing trip next week. Call me if you’re interested.”

“Will do,” he said, stepping into the elevator. As it dropped toward the basement garage, Logan remembered how, after the Willow debacle, Griff had suggested counseling, “to find out why you’re attracted to women with more baggage than an airport luggage carousel.” Griff hadn’t been the only one who felt that way, which sent Logan on a quest to prove his friend and family wrong. Unfortunately, what he’d learned confirmed their beliefs; according to articles and the results of dozens of university studies he’d read, Logan suffered from what experts called Prince Charming Syndrome. To this day, it remained one of his most embarrassing secrets. Because he’d self-diagnosed the problem, it made sense to prescribe a cure: abstinence.