Chapter 10 Logan
LOGAN
The first date had been a smash hit. The photos were everywhere. Our new relationship even made The New York Times.
Who said hard-hitting journalism was dead?
Everyone was saying Sophie had tamed me.
Tamed. Like I was some rabid animal they found in the wild and rehabbed with a bit of positive reinforcement and a leash.
Still, the headlines were good. The internet was eating it up. And Elizabeth wanted to capitalize on the momentum.
I should have been okay with it. Fake dating Sophie Hartwell was easy. She was charming, knew how to play to the cameras, and did most of the work for me.
Date number two: making king cake.
The second we hit the sidewalk in front of the bakery, the cameras zeroed in. Flashing, clicking, the usual circus. I pasted on the smirk they all wanted, but inside, I was rolling my eyes.
Sophie, on the other hand, was thriving.
She waved to the crowd, blowing a kiss to one of the photographers, flashing the kind of smile that could power a small city. I barely had time to adjust my jacket before she looped her arm through mine, tilting her head just so, perfectly positioning us for the shot.
She was a pro.
After a few carefully staged moments of us laughing on cue and looking like the world’s most photogenic couple, Elizabeth gave a subtle nod from the sidelines, and we finally moved inside. The kitchen smelled like butter and cinnamon.
Elizabeth’s voice appeared in my ear, barking out her pre-date instructions. “Try to be more engaging this time,” she said, barely looking up as she flipped through her notes. “Sophie said you were ‘present but distant’ last time.”
“That’s literally my entire personality.”
Elizabeth shot me a sharp look from across the room.
I coughed. “Fine. What do you want me to do? Gaze into her eyes while we knead dough together? Confess my fake feelings?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Make an effort. You’re supposed to be having fun.”
Having fun. Good luck with that.
However, Sophie was immediately in her element, giggling like mad, chatting with the bakers, flattering the head chef, and cooing over a fancy wedding cake.
I hung back, observing the chaos, while she twirled her way through the room like she was born to be there. She made sure to angle herself toward the cameras every time she sprinkled cinnamon over the dough.
And me? I was trying not to look like an idiot. But I guess I wasn’t the one who needed to be worried about that because the moment I heard the panicked yelp, I knew something was about to go down.
I looked up in time to see a young baker, wide-eyed, sweating, and looking like he’d made the worst mistake of his life.
The industrial mixer was whirring at full speed. The giant bag of flour next to it? Wide open. And the blades? Already sending a white cloud of powder straight into the air.
I braced myself for impact, already picturing the headlines: Logan Richards and Sophie Hartwell: Drenched in Flour at King Cake Disaster Date!
But before the flour could explode over everything, Elizabeth moved.
She didn’t shout. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look fazed.
She stepped forward, smooth as ever, and shut the mixer off with one hand while steadying the bag with the other.
She whipped a dish towel off the counter and waved it through the air, sending the cloud drifting away from the workstation instead of straight onto Sophie’s perfectly styled dress.
And because Elizabeth thought of everything, she casually nudged Sophie’s elbow to turn her away before she even noticed what was happening.
The whole thing lasted five seconds.
By the time Sophie turned back around, smiling, oblivious, tossing her hair like a pro, the mess was gone. Sophie never noticed how close she’d come to disaster. The reporters hadn’t caught it either. But I had.
And the young baker? Still standing there, frozen in absolute terror. Elizabeth, clipboard still in hand, turned to him, her voice low and calm. “You okay?”
The kid nodded rapidly, looking like he was one deep breath away from passing out.
She handed him a clean spatula and gave him a quick, reassuring nod. No lecture, no scolding. Just a simple, steady look that said, Get back to work, you’re fine.
And then, just like that, she was moving again.
Like it was nothing.
Like she hadn’t just saved the young baker from an absolute meltdown. Like she hadn’t single-handedly prevented a PR disaster in front of a dozen cameras without so much as breaking a sweat.
I wasn’t surprised that she was good at her job. I’d seen firsthand how she always had a plan, how she could turn any situation to her advantage. But watching her in action, pulling every thread at the right time, smoothing over every rough edge before anyone even noticed there was one?
That was something else.
I thrived in chaos. I liked the unpredictability of life, the way it cracked and unraveled, the way it kept everyone guessing. Control was suffocating. Control was rules and expectations, and people waiting for you to fail.
But this? This wasn’t just control.
This was power.
Elizabeth seemed to move through life with a confidence so effortless it was almost unfair. Every moving piece, every potential problem, she already had a solution before anyone even knew it was needed.
And I hated that I noticed. Hated that it was… kind of hot.
No. Not hot. Just admirable. Yeah. That was it.
But in Elizabeth’s interactions with the intern, I caught something else.
The way she softened for just a second, her voice losing that sharp efficiency, her expression shifting into something almost gentle.
It was quick, barely noticeable, but for the first time, I saw a flicker of something beneath all that control.
And then, just as fast, it was gone.
I didn’t know why that stuck with me. But it did.
Once we were finished, I spotted Elizabeth sitting in the hallway, glued to her laptop, probably drafting yet another damage control email.
She was so focused that she didn’t even notice me walking up.
I leaned against the doorframe. “You know, for someone who planned this entire thing, you didn’t eat anything.”
She looked up, startled. “What?”
I held up a paper napkin. Inside, a single, perfectly cut slice of king cake.
Her brows lifted as she peeked under the napkin. “You cut me a piece of cake?”
“I stole it,” I corrected. “The bakers were guarding the good pieces, so technically, this is a high-stakes operation.”
She snorted. “A criminal and a gentleman.”
I grinned. “Don’t spread it around. I’ve got a reputation to protect.” Before she could say anything else, I rocked back on my heels. “Anyway, enjoy. You do eat, right? Or do you survive on pure stress?”
She shook her head but took the cake, breaking off a piece and popping it into her mouth.
And maybe it was my imagination, but she looked genuinely touched. She waved me off, chewing, but I caught the tiniest hint of a smile.
And as I turned to go, I glanced back.
Elizabeth was still sitting there, staring down at the napkin like she wasn’t sure what had happened.
Truthfully?
Neither was I.