Chapter Eight
Logan
Victor’s voice crackled through my phone with the intensity of approaching thunder. "What do you mean, 'reconsidering our approach'? We don't reconsider, Westbrook. We acquire. That's our business model."
I paced the confines of my hotel room, watching through the window as storm clouds gathered over Starlight Bay's harbor. The fishing boats had all returned early, battened down against the approaching tempest. Weather alerts had been pinging on my phone all afternoon, warnings of high winds and potential flooding.
"The situation is more nuanced than we initially assessed," I replied, attempting to maintain keep my tone even despite the growing knot in my stomach. "The granddaughter's café venture is gaining traction—"
"I don't care if she's opening the next Michelin-starred restaurant," Victor snapped. "Easter is four days away. The bank moves on Monday. This should be the simplest acquisition of your career."
"I understand the timeline," I said, measuring my words carefully. "I'm simply suggesting we might want to explore alternative approaches that could benefit all parties."
The silence that followed was more menacing than any shouting. When Victor spoke again, his voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper.
"Let me be perfectly clear, Logan. I've invested significant political capital in you. The partnership committee is expecting results, not philosophical debates about 'alternative approaches.' If you can't close this deal, I'll send Raymond Hawkins to finish it."
Raymond Hawkins—an attack dog, known for his complete lack of ethical boundaries. He'd destroy Maisie and her grandmother without a moment's hesitation.
"That won't be necessary," I assured him, though uncertainty churned within me. "I'll handle it."
"Good. Because this is it, Westbrook. Make-or-break time. You deliver the O'Malley property by Tuesday morning, or you can clear out your office."
The call ended, leaving me in silence broken only by the first heavy raindrops striking the window. I sank onto the edge of the bed, tie loosened, jacket discarded and caught my own reflection in the mirror over the nearby dresser.
What was happening to me?
The rain intensified, drumming against the window with urgency. Thunder rolled across the bay, closer now. According to the weather alert, this storm would be the worst of the spring season—high winds, potential flash flooding, possible power outages.
My thoughts turned to the barn—to The Little Red Hen. Maisie had mentioned Carter waterproofing the roof, but in a structure that old, with a storm this intense...
Before I could analyze my actions, I grabbed my keys and raincoat, hurrying down to my car. The wind nearly tore the hotel door from my grasp as I stepped outside. Rain lashed sideways, driven by powerful gusts that bent the newly blooming trees along Main Street.
The rational part of my brain screamed that this was madness—driving in inclement weather to check on a property I was tasked to acquire, concerned for a woman who represented the opposite of everything I'd built my career upon. Yet I found myself navigating the rain-slicked roads toward Orchard Lane, wipers working frantically against the deluge.
As I approached the farm, I could see the farmhouse was dark—power already out, perhaps. But light glowed from the barn windows—flashlights or battery-powered lanterns. Someone was there, and I had little doubt who.
I parked as close as possible and made a dash through the downpour, soaked within seconds despite my raincoat. The barn door was partially open, light spilling out into the stormy darkness. I pushed it wider, stepping inside to the surreal scene before me.
Maisie stood on a ladder, her copper hair darkened to auburn by moisture, attempting to position a tarp over a section of ceiling where water streamed through. Several buckets were already positioned around the floor, catching other leaks. The sound of rain hammering against the roof nearly drowned out her frustrated muttering.
"Maisie!" I called over the storm's cacophony.
She startled, nearly losing her balance on the ladder. "Logan? What are you doing here?"
"I was worried about the barn. The storm—"
"Carter's waterproofing missed some spots,” she said, her voice trembling, “and the wind tore loose a section of roofing."
As if to emphasize her point, a fresh torrent broke through near the kitchen area, splashing onto an antique farmhouse table.
"Where's your grandmother? Carter?" I asked, shrugging off my useless raincoat.
"Gram's at Piper's place in town. Safer there with the power out." She descended the ladder, wiping damp hair from her forehead with the back of her hand. "Carter's checking on his sister's place—her basement always floods during storms."
I surveyed the chaos—water threatening the newly painted walls, handcrafted shelving, vintage furnishings. All of Maisie's hard work, all her hope for saving the farm, literally washing away before our eyes.
"What can I do?"
She blinked. "You really want to help?"
"I wouldn't be standing here dripping on your floor if I didn't."
A flash of lightning illuminated her exhausted face, followed immediately by a thunderous boom that shook the barn's very foundation. She flinched slightly, then squared her shoulders.
"More buckets in the storage closet. And there's another tarp we can try to position over the worst leak near the kitchen."
For the next hour, we worked in tandem, positioning receptacles under new leaks, mopping where we could, moving vulnerable items to drier ground. It was futile work—for every leak we contained, another seemed to spring forth—but we persisted with grim determination.
Maisie climbed the ladder again, attempting to secure the second tarp while I held it steady from below. Rain streamed through the damaged section of roof, soaking her completely as she struggled with the unwieldy material.
"This isn't working," I called up to her. "You're getting drenched for nothing."
"I'm not giving up," she replied through gritted teeth, her fingers fumbling with cold and fatigue.
"There's a difference between giving up and recognizing when to try a different approach."
"If you have a better idea, I'm all ears, Westbrook."
I did, in fact, have an idea—but it would require her to trust me, something I wasn't convinced she was ready to do. "We need to access the roof from outside. Secure the tarp from above, not below."
Her eyes widened. "In this storm? That's insane."
"So is watching everything you've built get destroyed because you're too stubborn to try something different."
Our eyes locked—challenge met with equal defiance. Then, to my surprise, she nodded, descending the ladder with water streaming from her clothes.
"There's a utility ladder in the side shed," she conceded. "And extra tarps."
The next twenty minutes were a blur of driving rain, howling wind, and precarious balance as we positioned ourselves on the barn's slick roof. Maisie proved surprisingly agile despite the dangerous conditions, scrambling across the wooden shingles with determination that bordered on recklessness. Together, we managed to secure heavy tarps over the damaged sections, weighing them down with roofing supplies Carter had left behind.
By the time we climbed back down, we were both shivering, soaked to the skin, but triumphant in our small victory against the elements. The barn's interior was still damp and disheveled, but the worst of the deluge had been contained.
Maisie staggered slightly as we reentered through the side door, exhaustion evident in every line of her body. I caught her elbow, steadying her.
"You need to get dry," I said, noting the blue tinge to her lips. "You're freezing."
"I'm f-fine," she protested, though her chattering teeth betrayed her.
"Hypothermia isn't on the café's opening menu." I glanced around, spotting a stack of clean dish towels on a shelf. "Here, at least dry your hair."
She accepted the towel, rubbing it vigorously over her auburn strands while I did the same with another. We stood in the middle of the storm-battered café, water pooling at our feet, the absurdity of our situation suddenly striking me.
"What?" she asked, catching my expression.
"Just thinking how different this is from my usual property acquisitions," I admitted with a wry smile. "Typically involves fewer near-death experiences on rooftops."
A reluctant laugh escaped her. "Is that what this was? A very hands-on assessment?"
"If it was, I'd have to report that the roof needs a bit more work." I wrung water from my shirt sleeve.
Something shifted in her expression. "If the barn were damaged beyond repair, it would only strengthen your position."
"Somewhere between our first argument and tonight, my position changed." I took a step closer to her. "I don't want to see you fail, Maisie. I want to see what happens when someone fights this hard for something they believe in."
Her blue eyes searched mine, looking for deception, for the cold calculation she expected to find. "I don't understand you."
"That makes two of us." I attempted a smile. "I’m afraid I’ve met someone whose entire worldview challenges everything I thought I knew."
A droplet of water traced its way down her cheek, and without thinking, I reached to brush it away. The simple contact sparked something electric between us. Her breath caught, and suddenly we were standing far too close for professional propriety, drawn together by forces that had nothing to do with business transactions.
"Logan," she whispered, my name a question and warning combined.
"Tell me to stop," I murmured, giving her the power to end this moment before it began.
Instead, she closed the distance between us, her lips finding mine with an intensity that answered every unspoken question. The kiss deepened instantly, and I felt years of shored-up walls crumbling in seconds.
I couldn’t help the groan that escaped me as her hands tangled in my damp hair, fingers threading through the strands with a desperation that matched my own. My own hands found her waist, fingers curling around her hips as I pulled her against me, my need for her sharper and more demanding than anything I’d ever known.
We stumbled backward, colliding with one of the tables, sending a bucket clattering to the floor. Neither of us cared. The storm outside had somehow transplanted itself within us—wild, uncontrollable, devastating in its power.
“This is a terrible idea,” she gasped against my mouth, her lips swollen and flushed from the force of our kisses. And still, she couldn’t seem to stop herself, her fingers working frantically at the buttons of my shirt, shoving the wet fabric off my shoulders.
“The worst,” I agreed, but my hands were already slipping beneath her shirt, my palms grazing over the smooth skin of her stomach, memorizing the warmth and softness. My thumb traced slow, deliberate circles along her ribs before gliding higher, brushing against the swell of her breast. “We should definitely stop.”
“Absolutely,” she nodded, but her hands clutched at me, pulling me back to her with surprising strength. There was a desperation in her touch, a need that called to something primal in me, something I couldn’t—wouldn’t—deny.
Rainwater dripped from the ceiling, splashing on our tangled forms as clothing was shed with frantic urgency. Her shirt hit the floor, followed quickly by mine, our bodies pressed together, skin against skin. The heat of her, the feel of her curves molding perfectly to me, sent a rush of desire flooding through my veins.
In the dim light of battery-powered lanterns, her skin glowed like alabaster, freckles scattered across her shoulders like constellations I suddenly needed to memorize with my fingertips, my lips. I traced a slow path along her collarbone, my mouth following the delicate curve until she gasped, her nails digging into my shoulders as I lifted her onto the table.
Her legs parted instinctively as I stepped between them, my hands cupping her face as I kissed her with all the longing and frustration I’d been bottling up for far too long. My tongue swept against hers, tasting, claiming, deepening the kiss until it was nothing but heat and need.
My fingers slipped down her spine, drawing a shiver from her before finding the waistband of her jeans. She shifted, her hips lifting as I slid the denim down her legs, tossing it aside. She was bare before me, save for the simple lace of her underwear, and the sight of her as I removed the remaining article of clothing nearly brought me to my knees.
“Are you sure?” I managed to ask, the last thread of rationality clinging desperately to consciousness. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—push her into something she didn’t want. But the way her eyes blazed with desire, her chest rising and falling with shallow, urgent breaths, told me everything I needed to know.
Her answer was to guide my hand to the soft warmth between her thighs, her eyes never leaving mine as she nodded. “I’m sure about right now. Tomorrow can take care of itself.”
The breath left my lungs in a rush, my restraint unraveling like threads pulled loose from their weave. My fingers traced over her, through damp heat, drawing a low, shuddering moan from her that nearly undid me. Her hips rocked against my hand, her body straining toward mine, wordlessly begging for more.
I swept her up into my arms, lifting her from the table and carrying her to the pile of tablecloths and curtains strewn across the floor. The rain beat against the roof, like a symphony that was playing just for us.
I laid her down gently, her hair fanned out across the fabric like red silk. Her eyes locked onto mine, wide and wanting, her hands reaching for me as if I were the only thing keeping her grounded.
I joined her, my body pressing against hers, heat mingling between us. My lips traveled down her neck, tasting the rainwater still clinging to her skin. She arched beneath me, her hands gripping my shoulders as I continued my exploration, my mouth leaving a trail of kisses from her breasts to her stomach.
Every sound she made, every shiver and gasp, drove me on, my own need for her building to a fever pitch. Her ivory skin was soft, smooth, and impossibly warm, her body reacting to my touch with a responsiveness that left me breathless.
When I finally moved between her thighs, her breath hitched, her eyes fluttering closed as her head tilted back. I explored her with my tongue and fingers, licking, stroking, learning what made her gasp and tremble. Her body responded with an eagerness that made me ache to be inside her, but I forced myself to take my time, to savor every moment.
I wanted her desperate. I wanted her pleading. And she was.
“Logan,” she breathed, her voice a ragged plea. “Please… I can’t… I need…”
I claimed her mouth again, swallowing her words as I slid my rock-hard cock inside her with a slow, deliberate thrust. Her gasp echoed mine, her body arching to meet me, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
We moved together, our bodies finding a rhythm that felt both frenzied and perfect. The storm outside raged, but the only thing I could hear was her breath mingling with mine, her whispered moans, the soft, insistent sound of our bodies meeting over and over.
I didn’t know how long we stayed like that, tangled together in the heat of the moment, but when we finally collapsed into each other’s arms, spent and trembling, I felt like I’d just survived a hurricane.
And I wanted nothing more than to dive right back into the storm.