Chapter 11
Heather
Iwake up wrapped in Logan's arms, sunlight streaming through my bedroom window, and for a moment, everything is perfect. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath my cheek, one of his hands tangled in my hair, the other resting possessively on my hip.
Last night was incredible. Beautiful and intense and terrifying in the best possible way. I let myself be completely vulnerable with him, and he treated me like I was precious. Like I mattered.
I trace lazy circles on his chest, and he stirs, his arms tightening around me.
“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.
“Morning.” I tilt my head up to look at him. His hair is adorably mussed, and there's a satisfied smile playing at his lips.
“How do you feel?” he asks, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Like I never want leave this bed.”
“I'm okay with that plan.” He kisses my forehead, then my nose, then finally my lips, soft and sweet and full of promise.
“But we should probably be adults and head next door. I'm sure Jake and his girlfriend want to get home. Cookie's likely terrorized them by now.”
He chuckles. “Fair point.”
We eventually make our way next door and are greeted by chaos. Violet bounces on the couch demonstrating her new jumping skills, while Cookie barks encouragement from below. Jake and his girlfriend look equal parts exhausted and amused.
After thanking them profusely and seeing them out, Logan starts the coffee while I rummage through his fridge.
We move around each other easily, assembling breakfast in comfortable silence.
At the kitchen table, Violet regales us with tales of cupcake consumption and their movie marathon while Logan and I steal bites from each other's plates, grinning at nothing in particular.
It's domestic and peaceful and everything I didn't realize I was missing.
“I should probably go home and shower,” I say reluctantly, though leaving is the last thing I want. “Attempt to look like a functioning adult.”
“Counterproposal,” Logan says, catching my hand. “Shower here. Borrow my clothes. Embrace the chaos.”
His phone buzzes on the counter, shattering the moment. He picks it up and scowls.
“It's a San Francisco number.” He shows me the caller ID. “Probably a spam call.”
“You should answer it anyway. Just in case.”
He answers the phone. “This is Logan Maddox.”
I sip my coffee and watch his expression change. His eyes widen, then his jaw tightens. He stands abruptly and walks to the window, his back to me.
“Yes, sir. I appreciate you reaching out.” His voice has gone formal, professional. “Wow. That's quite an opportunity.”
My stomach drops. The shift in his tone, the way he's suddenly standing at attention, hints that this isn't a casual call. This is important. This is the kind of call that changes everything.
“I'd need some time to think about it, of course. This is a big decision.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Yes, I understand the timeline. Could I call you back?”
There's a pause.
“I appreciate that. Thank you for reaching out. I'll be in touch.”
He ends the call but doesn't turn around immediately. His shoulders are tense, his hand still gripping the phone like a lifeline.
Before he says anything, I already know. The perfect morning we just had, the promises whispered in the dark, it's all about to come crashing down.
“That was the MLB Commissioner's office,” he finally says, still not looking at me. “The San Francisco Condors are looking for a new general manager. They want me to come in to meet with the team.”
The words hang in the air between us like a guillotine blade.
“That's amazing,” I manage, proud that my voice doesn't shake.
“It is.” He finally turns, and I can see the war raging across his features—the duty battling desire, loyalty wrestling with ambition. But underneath it all, there's something else that cuts deeper. Excitement.
He wants this job.
Of course he does. It's the Condors, one of the best teams in the major leagues. It's the natural next step after his playing days ended.
And it's three thousand miles away.
“They want me to fly out for interviews, tomorrow if possible,” he continues, moving back to the table but not sitting. “They suggest I bring Violet so they can show us around the city, see schools, get a feel for what life would be like there.”
“You should go.” The words curdle in my mouth. “You should absolutely go.”
“Heather—”
“I'm serious, Logan.” I stand, wrapping my arms around myself. “This is your career. You can't pass this up.”
“It's not that simple anymore.” His eyes search my face. “I have Violet to think about. She's settled here, finally happy. And you—” He reaches for me, but I step back.
I can't let him touch me right now. My chest aches with the weight of what I'm asking him to do—what I know he has to do, even if it means losing him. If his fingers find mine, if I feel the warmth of his hand, every careful wall I've built will crumble, and I'll beg him to stay.
“You need to think about what's best for you and Violet,” I say carefully. “Don't factor me into this decision.”
“How can I not factor you in? Heather, last night—”
“Was amazing, wonderful,” I finish for him, struggling past the lump in my throat. “But it doesn't change the reality of your situation. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If you don't at least explore it, you'll regret it forever.”
He stares at me for a long moment. “Is that what you really think? Or are you already writing us off?”
The accusation stings because it's partially true. I can feel myself pulling back, protecting myself, building that wall in preparation for the inevitable heartbreak.
“I think,” I say slowly, “you need space and clarity to make this decision without feeling guilty. So I'm going to go home and let you process it.”
“Heather, don't do this. Don't shut me out.”
“I'm not shutting you out. I'm giving you room to breathe.” I force a smile. “Call them back. Set up the interview. See what they're offering. Then we'll talk. Cookie, it’s time to go.”
I grab my purse and her leash, then head for the door, moving quickly before he can see the tears threatening to spill over. I have to get out of this house before I can change my mind and beg him not to go.
“Heather, wait—”
But we’re already out the door, and I’m practically running across the lawn to my house. I don't look back.
Inside, I lean against the door and let myself break. Great, heaving sobs that shake my whole body. Because I know what's coming. I've lived this before.
History is repeating itself, and I'm powerless to stop it.
Several days pass in a painful blur. Logan texts constantly, calls, tries to talk.
I managed to answer my phone the first few times, forcing brightness into my voice.
But I don't have the energy anymore to fake it through another conversation.
Now I just stare at his name on my screen until it stops ringing.
I can't face what's coming. Every time his name lights up my phone, my heart clenches with the fear that he's calling to tell me he's made his decision. And I'll have to pretend I'm strong enough to let him go.
He left Monday morning with Violet for San Francisco. It was three days of interviews, city tours, and school visits. Three days of them falling in love with a new life that doesn't include me.
Like any other heartsick fool, I throw myself into work, into grant planning, into anything that keeps me from picturing Logan on the other side of the country. Of him realizing everything Pelican Point isn't—the opportunities, the prestige, the life he deserves.
Cookie keeps wandering through the house, sniffing the corner of the couch where Violet likes to curl up with her books, her tail nub drooping when she comes up empty.
She's been sleeping by the front door since they left, ears swiveling toward every passing car.
This morning I found her carrying one of Violet's forgotten hair ribbons in her mouth like a prize, and I had to blink hard against the burning in my eyes.
Needless to say, we're both pathetic.
Julie had sent a group text this morning with a simple directive:
Girls' night at The Celtic Knot. Non-negotiable. You need to get out of that house before you and Cookie form your own support group.
Amy followed up with:
Wear something that isn't dog hair and despair. We're getting you drunk on expensive wine.
Grabbing the closest outfit, I completely skip the dog hair inspection. If they wanted fur-free, they shouldn't have invited someone who owns a shedding machine.
The Celtic Knot's tasting room is beautiful with exposed brick, warm lighting, and old wine barrels repurposed as tables. The server who brings our first flight of wines, gives me a sympathetic look that suggests the majority of the town already knows what’s going on.
“Okay, ladies,” Julie announces, raising her glass. “We’re not here tonight to mope about gorgeous men leaving town for their dream jobs. We’re celebrating Heather successfully landing a huge grant for the library. Cheers!”
I manage a smile and take a sip of wine that might as well be water for all I can taste.
“So,” Amy leans forward, “I didn’t get to tell you at work today, but Mrs. Henderson posted some pictures of you and Logan leaving your house together rather early Sunday morning.” She wriggled her eyebrows. “Is there anything you’d like to share with the group?”
“Oh good,” I say flatly, taking a gulp of wine. “I was worried we might make it through the evening without discussing my doomed love life being documented by the town's spy network. Should we start a betting pool on how many people think Logan will take the job and run?”
“We just heard bits and pieces around town,” Julie comments. “What really happened?”
Suddenly I can’t hold it back any longer and it all comes pouring out. The amazing night together, the phone call, the job offer. Me insisting Logan leave for San Francisco with Violet. The awful, crushing certainty that he's not coming back.
“He's going to take it,” I finish, wiping my eyes with a cocktail napkin. “Why wouldn't he? It's the Condors. It's perfect for him. And I'm just the girl from his past who was convenient while he figured out his next move.”
“That's not true,” Amy says firmly. “That man is in love with you. Anyone with eyes can see that.”
“Then why is he three thousand miles away looking at houses?” I know the words are unfair as I mutter them, especially since I practically shoved him on the plane to San Francisco. But I’m too far gone in this pathetic self-pity spiral to have any honest self-reflection.
“Because he's thirty-two and received a job offer that a thousand men would kill for,” Julie points out. “Heather, what did you expect him to do? Turn it down without even considering it? You just said that you told him to go, do the interview, and you’d talk when he got back.”
“I just hoped he’d choose me this time.” The words burst out louder than I intended.
The table falls silent.
“Oh, honey,” Julie says softly. “Have you told him how you feel?”
“What's there to say? 'Please don't take this dream job because it'll break my heart'? That's not fair to him.”
“Neither is deciding his answer before he's even made a decision,” Amy counters. “You're protecting yourself by assuming the worst.”
“Because the worst is what happened last time.”
“You were kids last time. He had to leave,” Julie says. “This is different.”
“I know.” I force out something between a laugh and a sob. My brain understands the logic perfectly, but it's my heart that refuses to accept it. “That doesn’t make it hurt any less.”
“You should have an honest conversation about what you both want. Maybe there's a compromise you haven't considered.”
“I doubt there's a compromise between San Francisco and Pelican Point.”
“Maybe not,” Julie says gently. “But you won't know unless you actually talk to him.”
I stare morosely into my wineglass, feeling hollowed out and exhausted.
“He gets back on Friday,” I whisper. “I don't know if I can face him.”
“You can,” Amy says firmly. “Because that's what love is. Showing up even when it's hard. Even when you're scared.”
But I am beyond scared. Terrified, actually.
Because this time, if Logan Maddox breaks my heart, I’m not certain I'll survive it.