Chapter 12 Game on, Logan fucking Crawford
Twelve
Game on, Logan fucking Crawford
Brie
Of course his field is on the other side of the town’s limits.
I have never hated a fence post before, but congratulations to that splintered little jerk across from Reindeer Ridge—you’re my villain origin story.
When I’m back at town hall, I triple-check the town’s boundary line and, sure enough, a fence post is the marker.
Now I’ve shown Logan all my cards. This was supposed to be my surefire way to stop his carnival.
Nope, Logan Crawford thought of everything.
Because why wouldn’t he? Mr. Perfect. He already knew I have no jurisdiction to end his carnival, so Plan A is out of the question.
Now it’s time for Plan B. Which would be so much easier if I had one.
Another thing Logan ruined is my morning routine.
My bottom lip juts out. I never got my coffee this morning.
Instead of finalizing contracts, I tap a pen against the keyboard, willing carnival demise ideas to come to me, but nothing worthwhile comes to mind. After fifteen minutes ticked by all I got were:
Burn it to the ground. But some people consider that arson. Even though it would certainly get rid of my problem.
A Road Closed sign placed on both ends of the road so people can’t get there. Unfortunately, with Reindeer Ridge across the street that would also impact Henry.
Start rumors about tainted hot chocolate?
Or unleash all of Henry’s farm on the carnival grounds?
“Brie, come to my office!” Mrs. Kingsley calls from down the hall.
We have an intercom. I don’t know why she doesn’t use it. I step into Mrs. Kingsley’s office. A young woman in a blazer bright enough to guide ships to shore sits across from her, vibrating with enthusiasm.
“Brie, come in. Take a seat.” Mrs. Kingsley waves me in. I smile at the young woman as I sit down next to her. “This is Lauren. She’ll be your assistant for the rest of the year while you finish planning and executing the Holly Jolly Festival.”
Lauren bounces in her seat. “I’m so excited to get started. I love planning and organizing.”
She’s certainly bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Just like me when I first started. Not a care in the world. Thinking you’ll turn the job into a career. She doesn’t know it yet, but they’ll dangle that promotion in front of you like a carrot and threaten to offer it to an outside agency.
“Great.” I smile. “Much of the planning is already done. We’re just working on the execution phase.”
“Fantastic,” she beams. “I love executing.”
At least she’s enthusiastic. “Awesome.”
“Why don’t you show Lauren around and fill her in on everything that’s happening at the moment?” Mrs. Kingsley adds.
“Yes. Of course.” I rise from the chair, and Lauren follows suit.
“Also, Brie?” Mrs. Kingsley nails tick on the desk as she taps her fingers. “Where are we with booking the reindeer?”
I nod. Reindeer. Oh. Oh! What if Logan doesn’t have any reindeer for his carnival? “I’ll call Henry right now to confirm.”
“Fantastic. Carry on.” Mrs. Kingsley turns her attention to her computer screen, dismissing us.
It’ll be hard to run a successful carnival when there are no Christmas things for the townspeople to enjoy like reindeer. I hightail it out of Mrs. Kingsley’s office and throw myself into my desk chair. Lauren trails behind me. Immediately, I pick up the phone and dial.
“Reindeer Ridge. How can I help you?”
“Hi Henry, it’s Brie.”
“Hey Brie, I was just about to get in touch with you about the reindeer for this year. I have you down for nine reindeer. Is that correct?”
I press my lips together and tap my chin. “How many reindeer do you have?”
“Eighteen. Why?”
“I’ll take them all.”
“You want all eighteen reindeer?”
“Yes, we’re being extra reindeer-y this year.”
“You know Santa only had nine.”
If I take all the reindeer, that leaves Logan with none. I can’t chance it. “I know, but I expect to be so busy I’ll need two sets.”
“Are you sure that’s the reason? And not to freeze Logan out?”
“No,” I spit. “That’s not the reason at all.”
Henry chuckles. “I doubt that. Do you know that eighteen reindeer will be twice your budget?”
“Don’t worry about my budget. I have it all under control.”
“I won’t say no to the extra cash.”
“Perfect. Thank you, Henry.”
I hang up. From across my desk, Lauren flips through a folder of papers. “Do you have a restructured budget to accommodate the extra reindeer?”
No, Lauren. I needed to beat Logan to the punch, so I did this on the fly.
“I’ll figure it out.” I wave her off. “Plus, the entire town will love the extra reindeer. They’re always a big attraction at the festival.
” And Logan gets none. I rest my elbows on the desk and steeple my fingers together.
An evil laugh sits on the tip of my tongue, but it might scare Lauren.
On our way to the Holly Jolly Festival grounds, Lauren and I stop at Sip and Sleigh. I need to reassemble my morning routine because Logan threw it off kilter with his fence post.
From behind the counter, Sloane takes one look at me and smirks. “I heard it was an epic failure shutting Logan’s carnival down.”
Seriously, do people have microphones and cameras covering every inch of this town? How did she find out so fast? “It didn’t go as planned.”
“Logan? What carnival?” Lauren asks.
“Oh, this is my assistant, Lauren.” I point to Lauren and then Sloane. “This is my friend Sloane. She also owns the coffee shop.”
“Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!” Lauren bounces on the balls of her feet, her gaze directed over my shoulder. “Is that?”
We said his name too many times, just like Beetlejuice. My nightmare before Christmas strolls through the door. I sigh. “Logan Crawford. Mount Holly’s very own hockey legend,” I say, my voice as monotone as a robocall.
Lauren’s gaze jumps from me to Logan and back to me. “I’ve been a huge fan since he got traded to Chicago. Do you know him personally? Oh gosh, can you get me an introduction?”
“No,” I deadpan.
“Hi Sloane.” Logan greets her with a wave.
“Hi Logan,” Sloane replies.
“Hi Brie.” He flashes me a dimpled half smile. One that can still turn my insides to goo. I hit him with my iciest glare. He leans down so only I can hear. “If you want to shut down my carnival, you’ll have to try harder than that.” He straightens and offers his hand to Lauren. “Hi, I’m Logan.”
“I—Lauren—hi!” she squeaks. Her cheeks turn redder than Santa’s suit as she latches on to his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Lauren.” He tries to pull his hand away, but she refuses to release her grip. His eyes widen, the whites taking over his irises.
Maybe Lauren can kidnap Logan, and problem solved. My brows raise at the idea. Images of him tied up in her basement flit through my mind. On second thought, I don’t have time for police questioning. I nudge Lauren with my elbow, and finally, she retracts her claws.
Logan backpedals a full step. “I’ll see you later.” He hits me with a wink before retreating to the opposite side of Sip and Sleigh.
“Oh my god. It’s Logan Crawford.” She’s practically levitating with happiness. “We should invite him to the Holly Jolly Festival. He’d draw a crowd the size of Minnesota.”
Sloane stifles a laugh.
I clear my throat. “No, Lauren. Logan is the enemy.”
She blinks. “The… enemy?”
“He’s organizing a Christmas carnival to sabotage the Holly Jolly Festival.”
“Well,” Sloane interrupts, “it’s not sabotage per se, but it has put a burnt-out bulb in Brie’s string of Christmas lights.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” I direct my attention back to Lauren. “He and his carnival are the enemy, and we will not fraternize with the enemy.”
I had a lapse of judgment for a moment. I don’t know what I was thinking. Clearly, I wasn’t. It won’t happen again. After we finish the festival tour, we make plans to meet at the office tomorrow morning and part ways.
The bell above the door chimes as I push my way into Holly Hammer Hardware, my parents’ store, after work. “Hey Mom.”
She looks up from a Christmas magazine. “Oh, hey Brie.”
“Where’s Dad?” I come to a stop at the counter across from her.
“He’s tinkering with the snow shovel display. Trying to determine the optimal position to encourage snow shovel sales.”
I nod along. “That sounds like Dad.”
“Precisely.” Mom turns to the next page.
“Hi Brie! I thought I heard your voice.” My dad appears from around the corner. “Here, come check this out. Let me know what you think.”
“Is this about your snow shovel display?”
“It needs a woman’s touch.”
“Mom’s right there.” I hike my thumb behind me.
“Apparently, I’m not the target market for snow shovels,” Mom says.
I shrug. “Doesn’t everyone need a snow shovel?”
“That’s what I said,” Mom replies.
I follow him past a row of shelves to a pyramid display of six different shovels.
He puffs out his chest. “What do you think? I have them tiered from good—they’ll get the job done but maybe not to your satisfaction.
Better—it’ll clear the snow with minimal back pain afterward.
And best—your neighbors will weep with envy. ”
“Oh wow. You can’t go wrong with that type of marketing. I think it looks great, Dad.”
He beams at his handiwork. “Thanks. These babies will fly off the display in no time.” He turns his focus to me. “So what brings you in today?”
“I need a Christmas tree stand.”
“Didn’t you just buy a new one last year?”
“I did. But I’ve gained three additional trees.”
He squints. “So instead of a cat lady, you’re a tree lady now?”
I bite my lips together. “It’s a long story.”
From behind the counter, Mom calls, “Does this have anything to do with Logan Crawford?”
I whirl around. “Why do you say that?”
“I just heard you had a run-in with him at Reindeer Ridge. Something about you two being awfully close. A lot of sexual tension.”
My nose scrunches. “Mom, don’t say sexual tension.”
“Well, when you stare longingly into someone’s eyes—”
“There were no long stares.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“He just caught me off guard. I tripped and took some trees with me. Because they were damaged, I told Henry I’d buy them.”
“That was nice of you,” Mom adds.
My dad plucks a stand from the shelf and hands it over. “Here you go, dear.”
“Thanks.” We wander to the counter.
“So how is the festival planning coming?” he asks.
My shoulders tense. Do I give him the truth or how I wish it was going?
I plaster on my best Christmas cheer smile.
“It’s going great!” Minus the giant roadblock named Logan Crawford.
“I got an assistant today, so hopefully we can double the fun activities we have planned. I think this will be the best festival yet.”
Mom shoves the magazine to the side. “We have all the faith you will do an amazing job and get the promotion. You haven’t been this motivated since your class-president campaign.”
“Yeah, and all I got was treasurer.” While the golden boy himself got the crown. All hail President Logan Crawford.
“If you don’t, you know there’s always a job waiting for you at the hardware store,” Mom adds. Dad clears his throat and shakes his head.
I laugh. “Well, I really hope that won’t be necessary. We all know how the first time went, but thanks for the offer.”
My dad’s been Mount Holly’s resident handyman since before I was born.
He can fix anything, from broken fences to cursed snowblowers.
I, on the other hand, can barely operate a tape measure.
After losing my last job, I came home to work at my parents’ hardware store with a one-year plan but it somehow turned into four.
Honestly, I think they kept me on payroll out of pity.
Luckily, when the Mount Holly assistant coordinator job opened up, they finally got to fire me with slightly less guilt.
“Bring a flyer when you have them,” Dad says. “We’ll put it on the corkboard.”
“Will do.” I slide my card into the reader, turn toward the exit, and freeze. The corkboard boasts exactly one flyer. Logan’s carnival. Center stage. Of course. Dammit. Number one item on the to-do list tomorrow. Flyers. So I can staple them over Logan’s.
I pull out my phone and dial Lauren’s number. “I have my first task for you.”
“Yes, I’m eager to get started.”
“How are your design skills?”
“I love design. Fonts, color palettes, the whole thing—sometimes I do mock posters for fun—”
“Perfect. We need the best flyers Mount Holly has ever seen. Bright, bold, candy-cane gorgeous. I want Logan’s posters to look like reindeer poo in comparison.”
“On it!”
“Text me drafts tonight,” I say sweetly, end the call, and glance back at the board.
My parents are across the store debating a giant inflatable snowman.
I casually pluck Logan’s poster from the corkboard.
It rips satisfyingly down the middle, the tack staying put like a tiny, triumphant flag.
I crumple the paper, drop it in the trash, and smile.
Game on, Logan fucking Crawford. Game on.