2. Logan #2
He stayed at his desk after they left, reading through the proposal line by line.
The more he read, the more irritated he became.
Not because the plan was bad. On the contrary, it was good – really good.
Harper Lane had thought of things half the town committee would never consider.
Wind direction. Overflow parking. Burn barrels placed away from guest flow.
A warming tent for children. A backup cider station in case the cocoa machine failed.
He stopped at that.
A backup cider station.
She had planned for that.
He leaned back slowly.
The woman had joked through the entire incident, but she had not been improvising as much as she made it seem. She had known where to send people, which station to shift to, and how to keep the event smooth.
Competent. Funny. Too willing to stand beside a smoking machine.
He would fix the last part.
Logan closed the folder and checked the time.
Late.
He should go home. Sleep. Think about snow load, generator inspections, and whether the east walkway needed additional lighting.
Instead, he thought about Sparks’s smile.
Not the event smile. The other one. The sharper one she had given him when she said, Captain, if you wanted my phone number, you could have just asked.
He exhaled and stood.
No.
Bad idea.
He had no business noticing her that way. She was coordinating a town event under his safety review. He was responsible for public risk, not personal fascination. The last time he had let emotion cloud judgment, people had paid for it.
Not directly or cleanly, but enough.
A memory pushed up in his subconscious before he could stop it.
Smoke against a winter sky. Someone shouting his name. A door too hot under his glove. The sickening delay between knowing what had gone wrong and being able to reach it.
He shoved the image down, hard. Then he grabbed his coat and the festival folder.
By morning, he would be steady again, Harper Lane would be another coordinator with a complicated plan and the spark in his chest would be gone.
***
The next morning, Logan arrived at Maple Peak Town Hall at eight sharp with the festival proposal, a fire code manual, and a black pen.
Harper’s temporary office was at the end of the hall, the door propped open with a box labeled LANTERN BATTERIES – DO NOT LET HIM TOUCH.
Logan paused. Then looked at the box again. Inside the office, Harper’s voice floated out.
“No, Mabel, we cannot put rum in the public cider station because it is ten in the morning, because children attend festivals, because ‘they’ll sleep better’ is not a legal defense.”
A pause.
“Yes, I respect your community spirit.”
Another pause.
“No, I am not afraid of fun. I am afraid of lawsuits.”
Logan felt the corner of his mouth move.
He stopped it.
Harper appeared in the doorway with the phone pressed to her ear, dark hair swept up messily, pencil tucked behind one ear, clipboard in hand. She wore a fitted cream sweater, black trousers, and boots that looked practical until he noticed the heels.
Her gaze landed on him.
For half a second, surprise softened her face.
Then the smile came.
Professional. Bright. Deadly.
“Mabel, I have to go. The fire department has arrived.”
She ended the call.
Logan lifted the folder. “Morning.”
“Captain No-Fun.”
“That’s not my title.”
“Give it time.”
His gaze flicked to her boots. “Are those festival site boots?”
“These are office boots.”
“You have different boots for the site?”
“I have boots for every category.”
“That concerns me.”
“Most things do.”
It smelled like coffee, paper, vanilla perfume, and impending conflict. Festival maps covered the walls. Color-coded tabs lined folders on the desk. A whiteboard listed tasks under headings like URGENT, FAKE URGENT, and TIM, WHY?
Logan scanned the room despite himself.
Thorough. Again.
Harper noticed.
“Careful,” she said. “You look impressed.”
“I look observant.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Yes.”
“Must be exhausting.”
He set the manual on her desk. Her eyes dropped to it and then to the pen in his hand.
“Black ink,” she said.
“Yes.”
“No red?”
“No.”
“Interesting. I assumed you’d bleed directly onto my plans.”
“I considered it.”
Her smile widened.
He opened the folder. “We’ll start with vendor placement.”
“Lovely. I’ll start with coffee.”
“I don’t need coffee.”
“I wasn’t offering you any.”
He looked up.
Harper turned toward the small coffee machine on the side table. This one looked newer. Less haunted. He watched her pour herself a cup with insulting calm.
“You always this cooperative?” he asked.
“Only when being inspected before breakfast.”
“It’s eight-oh-seven.”
“My personality doesn’t arrive until nine.”
“That explains some things.”
She turned, mug in hand. “Was that a joke, Captain?”
“No.”
“It sounded close.”
“I’ll be more careful.”
“You do that.”
They stood on opposite sides of the desk, the festival plans between them like battle lines.
Logan opened to the first page.
“Bonfire location.”
Harper took a slow sip of coffee. “Good. We’re beginning with the soul of the event.”
“We’re beginning with the largest open flame.”
“Same thing, depending on your relationship with wonder.”
“My relationship with wonder requires a twenty-foot clearance.”
“And there he is,” she said softly. “The man. The myth. The municipal headache.”
Logan looked at her.
She looked back.
The office felt smaller than it had a second ago.
He did not like that. He tapped the map with his pen. “Let’s work.”
Harper set down her mug and leaned over the plans, close enough that he caught the warm vanilla edge of her perfume.
“Fine,” she said. “But for the record, if you kill my festival, I’m haunting you.”
“Noted.”
“With glitter.”
His pen paused.
“That,” he said, “is a credible threat.”
Her laugh came quick and bright, and Logan, against every instinct he trusted, wanted to hear it again.
He quickly looked back at the map before it became obvious.
The festival had not even started yet, and already, he had a problem.
***