Chapter 29
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
TESSA
Sitting at my favorite table at the coffee shop, my honey oat milk latte within reach, I skim over my thesis one more time before hitting submit. The cursor hovers over the button for just a second before I click it, and then it’s done.
I close my laptop and lean back in the chair, letting out a relieved breath.
This full-circle moment isn’t lost on me.
I just completed the last step of a lifelong dream in the same coffee shop that’s been my haven for years.
Soon I’ll be working in a career I’ve wanted since I was a kid.
I’m surrounded by people who actually love me, and for the first time in my life, I’m safe.
It’s all coming together in a way I never thought possible.
Layla drops into the chair across from me. “All done?”
“All freaking done.” I can’t stop smiling.
“That’s amazing, Tessa.”
“It feels surreal,” I admit. “Like I’m going to wake up and realize I still have coursework to complete.”
“Well, you don’t. You’re officially almost a college graduate.” She grins. “So what’s next?”
“As soon as the semester is officially over and I graduate, I’ll start applying for jobs. But Logan’s also planning some weekend trips for us before the season starts.”
“Oh yeah? Where?”
“No idea. He wants to surprise me.”
Layla grins. “Happiness looks good on you, babe.”
“Thanks.”
The bell above the door chimes, and Logan walks in. His eyes go straight to my closed laptop. “All done?”
“Just submitted it. I’m officially unemployed with a degree.”
“That’s my girl.” He walks over and leans down to kiss me. “You ready to get out of here?”
“Yeah, let me just grab my stuff.”
We say goodbye to Layla, and I follow Logan out to his SUV. Jack is parked across the street in his usual spot, and he gives us a subtle nod as we pass.
We’re planning to discontinue the security service soon, but Logan doesn’t want to end it until Preston is officially in prison. Honestly, I don’t mind. I’ve gotten used to having Cole or Jack around, and it’s reassuring to know someone’s watching out for me.
Feeling safe is still new enough that I don’t take it for granted.
The bag Logan told me to pack earlier rests in the back seat of his SUV.
“Still no hints?” I ask as he pulls out of the parking lot. “Are we driving or flying somewhere?”
“Driving,” he says, glancing over with a smile.
I love that Logan gets a kick out of surprising me with these trips. Honestly, I’d be happy sitting in a parking lot with him, but I’m not going to tell him that and ruin his fun.
“How long are we in the car?”
“Almost five hours.”
“Five hours?” I settle back into my seat. “Okay. Road trip snacks are mandatory then.”
He laughs. “Already packed.”
Hours later, we’re on board a ferry bound for Mackinac Island.
The cool breeze coming off Lake Huron feels incredible against my skin, cutting through the heavy August heat.
I lean against the rail and look down into the clear blue water, then up at the massive Mackinac Bridge stretching across the straits in the distance.
“I’ve always heard about this place,” I say over the steady hum of the ferry’s engine. “But I’ve never been.”
“It’s one of the first places I visited when I got transferred to the Cranes,” Logan says, standing beside me with his arm around my waist. “There’s really nothing else like it.”
The ferry cuts through the water, and the island grows larger as we approach. I can already see the historic buildings dotting the shoreline, the massive white structure of the Grand Hotel perched on the bluff above town.
When we dock and step onto the island, it’s like walking into another era—if that era happened to be full of tourists in fanny packs.
But even with the crowds, Mackinac Island is charming.
No cars are allowed anywhere on the island, and people get around by walking, biking, or riding in horse-drawn carriages.
The clip-clop of hooves on pavement and the jingle of harnesses create a soundtrack that feels impossibly old-fashioned.
Downtown is exactly what you’d picture from an old postcard—Victorian storefronts painted in cheerful colors, flower boxes overflowing with blooms, American flags snapping in the breeze.
And the smell…God, the smell of fudge shops is everywhere.
The rich sweetness of chocolate and sugar wafts through the air, so thick you can almost taste it.
“First things first,” Logan says, taking my hand and leading me toward a bike rental shop.
He gets himself a standard mountain bike and, without even asking, orders me a three-wheeled cruiser with a big metal basket on the back—just like the one he bought me for our first bike ride together. My chest warms at the thoughtfulness.
“Perfect,” I say, running my hand over the handlebars.
We load our luggage into the baskets—his duffel bag and my weekend bag barely fitting—and I look at him expectantly. “So where are we staying?”
His smile widens. “The Grand Hotel.”
My jaw drops. “The Grand Hotel? Logan, that place is—”
“Worth it,” he finishes. “Come on.”
The ride up to the Grand Hotel is all uphill, and by the time we reach the entrance, my legs are burning, and I’m slightly out of breath. But the view makes it worth it.
The Grand Hotel is absolutely stunning. It’s been standing since 1887—over a hundred and thirty years—and it looks like something out of a fairy tale.
The main building is massive, painted white with bright red geraniums lining every window box and balcony.
But the most impressive feature is the massive front porch.
Apparently, at 660 feet long, it’s the longest porch in the world.
It’s lined with rows of white rocking chairs where guests sit and watch the sun set over the Straits of Mackinac.
“This place has hosted five US presidents,” Logan says as we walk our bikes up to the valet stand. “And they filmed Somewhere in Time here. You know, that old movie with Christopher Reeve?”
“I’ve never seen it,” I admit.
“We’ll have to fix that.”
“Do you work for the tourism board here?” I tease.
The corners of Logan’s mouth tilt up into a shy smile. “I may have memorized a few facts about the island for you. I just want you to have the best time.”
I slide my fingers through his and squeeze his hand. “That’s already a given. My favorite moments are with you, no matter where we are.”
He bends and gives me a sweet kiss.
A hotel attendant takes our bags and assures us they’ll be delivered to our room shortly.
Logan offers me his arm. “Ready?”
We step through the grand entrance into the lobby, and I have to stop and just stare.
The ceilings soar at least twenty feet, with ornate crown molding and massive chandeliers dripping with crystals.
The floor is polished to a mirror shine, and fresh flower arrangements the size of small trees sit on antique tables.
Everything is elegant and historic and utterly beautiful.
“Mr. Wright,” the woman at the front desk greets him warmly. “Welcome to the Grand Hotel. We have you in the Lilac Suite.”
“Perfect,” Logan says.
She hands him two old-fashioned brass keys—actual keys, not key cards—and directs us toward the elevator.
Our room is on the third floor, and when Logan unlocks the door and pushes it open, I actually gasp.
The Lilac Suite is enormous. The walls are papered in a delicate floral pattern with soft purple accents, and the furniture is all antique—a four-poster bed with white linens, a velvet loveseat by the window, and a writing desk that looks like it’s from the 1800s.
French doors open onto a private balcony overlooking the straits, with two rocking chairs positioned perfectly to watch the water.
“Logan,” I breathe. “This is incredible.”
“You like it?” He steps up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist.
“I love it.” I turn in his arms to face him. “This whole thing. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He kisses me softly. “Now go get ready for dinner. We have reservations in the Main Dining Room at seven.”
“The Main Dining Room?”
“It’s formal,” he says with a grin. “Which means I get to see you in that dress you packed.”
“I didn’t pack a fancy dress.” I frown, looking over at our bags that have already been delivered.
“You might want to check your bag again.” He winks.
I laugh and shake my head. “How?”
He shrugs. “I had Iris order a couple of dresses for me. She assured me that you’d love them.”
“Oh, I’m sure I will.”
An hour later, I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom, barely recognizing myself. The dress is beautiful—a deep emerald green that brings out my eyes, with a fitted bodice and a flowing skirt that hits just above my knees. Iris clearly has excellent taste.
I hear Logan moving around in the bedroom, and when I step out, he’s standing by the window in a crisp white dress shirt and dark slacks, and he looks so damn handsome it makes my chest ache.
He turns when he hears me, and his expression shifts immediately—eyes darkening and lips parting slightly.
“Wow,” he says.
I smooth my hands down the dress self-consciously. “It’s okay?”
“Okay?” He crosses the room in three strides and takes my hands in his. “Tessa, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. “You’re biased.”
“Absolutely,” he agrees. “And I’m still right.”
He kisses me, slow and deep, and I have to pull away before we get too distracted and miss our reservation entirely.
The Main Dining Room is breathtaking. The ceilings are even higher than in the lobby, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the straits and the Mackinac Bridge in the distance, now lit up as the sun sets.
Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the room, and each table is set with white linens, fine china, and fresh flowers.
A tuxedoed server leads us to a table by the window, and I feel like I’ve stepped into another world—one where I belong in fancy dresses and historic hotels, where my past doesn’t matter and the future is full of possibility.
“This is unreal,” I whisper as we sit down.
“It’s pretty great,” Logan agrees, reaching across the table to take my hand.
Dinner is a five-course meal—starting with lobster bisque, followed by Caesar salad, then a palate cleanser of champagne sorbet, then the main course of filet mignon with roasted vegetables, and finally a dessert of Grand Pecan Ball, which the server explains is an island specialty: vanilla ice cream rolled in pecans and topped with hot fudge.
By the time we finish, I’m so full I can barely move, and so happy I could burst.
“Thank you,” I say again, squeezing Logan’s hand across the table. “For all of this. For everything.”
“You don’t have to keep thanking me,” he says softly. “I love doing this with you. I love seeing you happy.”
“I am happy,” I say, and it’s the truest thing I’ve said in years. “I’m so happy I don’t even know what to do with it sometimes.”
“Then we’re doing something right.” He stands and offers me his hand. “Come on. Let’s take a walk on the porch before we head up.”
We step out onto the long front porch, and the night air is cool and perfect. The rocking chairs are mostly empty now, just a few couples scattered along the length, talking quietly or simply sitting in comfortable silence.
Logan and I walk hand in hand to the far end, where we can see the lights of the bridge twinkling in the distance and hear the gentle lap of water against the shore far below.
“I could stay here forever,” I murmur.
“We’ve got two more days,” Logan says, pulling me close. “Let’s make them count.”
And standing there on that historic porch, wrapped in his arms with the stars coming out overhead, I know that wherever we go, whatever we do, as long as we’re together, it will be perfect.