Chapter 7
As I approach my neighbor’s front porch, the drums finally—mercifully—go silent, but the heavy metal guitar ramps back up, wailing through the air like a banshee caught in a blender.
My teeth grind with each screeching note that wobbles off-key, and I shudder.
No rhythm. No structure. Just raw, chaotic noise that offends my eardrums.
I pause at the porch steps, glancing back at my house. Maybe I should just buy earplugs? Invest in noise-canceling headphones?
No. This man-made disaster deserves a confrontation. If I chicken out now, it might continue tomorrow, and the day after, and every day after that.
Who in their right mind subjects another person to this kind of acoustic torture? It’s like someone dropped a guitar down a flight of stairs and decided, “Yes, this is the vibe for my next song.”
The porch steps creak beneath my shoes, interrupting my internal rant. The potted plants that Mrs. Parker once lovingly tended now sit empty and forgotten. No welcome mat. No porch swing.
I step up to the door and knock—polite, neighborly taps. Then I step back, arms folded, trying not to breathe fire. No answer.
Of course not. How could anyone hear a gentle knock over what sounds like a cat being strangled through an amplifier? The guitar wails higher, hitting notes that should be illegal in residential areas.
I knock again, firmer this time. My foot taps impatiently against the wooden planks, matching the tempo of my building irritation, which quickly turns to indignation rising from my chest. I silently rehearse my speech about noise ordinances and common courtesy.
Still nothing.
Heat spreads across my face, shoulders tensing up to my ears.
Okay. That’s it.
Sleeves rolled up, I raise my fist and bang on the door with enough force to wake the ancestors. The metal door knocker clanks against the plate with each bang, until finally the guitar stops mid-screech.
I can hear the birds chirping again, and somewhere down the street, a lawnmower hums—the sound practically melodious compared to the auditory assault I’ve just endured.
That was quite a workout. I blow a rogue strand of hair out of my eyes and cross my arms like a woman prepared for battle.
I wait. And wait. Seconds tick by, stretching like taffy.
Then the lock clicks, and the door cracks open a tad, enough for me to see a sliver of the man inside. He’s wearing a cap and dark aviator sunglasses.
Shy much?
It’s not even sunny outside, and this guy’s wearing shades indoors like he’s auditioning for Men in Black. The singular visible slice of his face reveals stubble along a sharp jawline.
Another one in sunglasses. Did I miss a memo? Is it International Sunglasses Indoors Day?
“Hi,” I begin, my voice the brand of politeness I reserve for disciplining kids. “I’m Maisie. I live next door.” I gesture toward my house with a nod of my head, just in case the man behind the door doesn’t understand proximity.
The door opens another inch, but the gap still isn’t wide enough for me to see his full face. His head dips, and he lowers his sunglasses until his eyes meet mine—icy blue, sharp, and fixed on me like he’s trying to piece together a very complicated jigsaw puzzle.
Do I look that terrifying? I know I didn’t brush my hair before storming out the door, but I’m not medusa.
“The music,” I prompt, when it becomes clear he’s not going to speak first. “It’s a bit intense for shared property lines.”
With a defensive stance, his gaze lingers on me, which gives me the creeps.
I uncross my arms, trying to soften my appearance. My teacher instincts kick in—sometimes you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, even if the fly deserves a good swatting.
“Sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a pile of math quizzes waiting to be graded and your music is . . . well, it’s making it a little hard to concentrate. If you could keep it down to a minimum, I’d really appreciate it. Do you mind?”
He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stare.
This is going well.
My throat tightens with awkwardness. Maybe he doesn’t speak English? Although I’m pretty sure I put up a universal facial expression for “your music is giving the neighborhood collective tinnitus.”
Deciding that the conversation is over, I give a tight smile and turn back toward my house, hoping my point has stuck. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt before I call in noise complaints or rally the neighborhood with pitchforks and petition forms.
“Maisie Lang?”
His voice is soft but deep, with the right amount of raspiness to be considered sexy.
I stand there frozen for a moment before turning slowly to face him. “Yeah?” My stomach lurches with that uneasy feeling of being known by someone you don’t recognize. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?” For the life of me I can’t place who he is.
The door swings open all the way, and he glances left, then right, as if making sure no one’s around, before he steps onto the porch. The Mudcats cap and aviators conceal his face.
Then a lightbulb flashes. “You were at Granny Jo’s this morning,” I say. That much I’m sure of. But the rest? I’ve lived here my whole life—I know the town, the people, the rhythm of things. This guy doesn’t belong to any of that.
“Forgive me,” I add, my curiosity spiking. “I’m drawing a blank. Have we met before?”
He takes off his cap with a casual flick of his wrist, and his black hair falls in tousled waves over his forehead. Then he slides his sunglasses off and—
My jaw drops.
I blink. Once. Twice.
The world tilts sideways for a moment, my brain stuttering as it tries to reconcile the astronomical improbability of this event. My heart slams so hard against my ribs I’m afraid it might leave a bruise.
No. Freaking. Way.
Standing in the doorway, looking rather proud of himself, is Logan Humphries. The Logan Humphries. Maplewood Springs’ very own celebrity son. Pop sensation. National heartthrob. Former glue-dumping playground menace turned chart-topping singer-songwriter. Also, apparently, my neighbor.
“Recognize me now?” he says with a casual smirk.
Logan stands on the porch, tall and imposing, his messy black hair framing a face that looks like it was painted by an artist who knew exactly what they were doing.
His jawline is well-defined with a sharp chin, covered by a five o’ clock shadow that looks deliberate rather than lazy.
When he crosses his arms, chest muscles bulge beneath his t-shirt, making me swallow hard.
And his eyes—those piercing blues now make something flutter in my core.
Even the slight crookedness of his nose (broken in an altercation with a manager, if the rumors were accurate) only enhances his appeal, giving a rugged edge to features that would otherwise be too perfect, like an exhibit in a museum that visitors aren’t allowed to touch.
His lips are fuller than mine will ever be, curved with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how good they look, and his teeth are so unfairly perfect and white that toothpaste companies should be gunning for his secret.
My pulse spikes for reasons entirely unrelated to anger.
A car hums past behind me, and Logan ducks his head, turning away from the street as he steps behind the doorframe. After the car drives out of earshot, he casually leans against it, one foot crossed over the other, every inch of him relaxed in a cool way.
I close my mouth; the sound of my gulp is embarrassingly loud in my own ears. I don’t want to be perceived as one of those screaming teenagers who camp outside his hotel.
He’s wearing a black Foo Fighters t-shirt stretched perfectly across his lean, muscular body, dark navy jeans that are snug enough to make a girl wonder how they look from behind, and white Nike sneakers—no laces, of course.
One wrist sports a thick leather bracelet; the other holds a sleek-looking smartwatch.
His presence is magnetic—the photos in tabloids don’t do him justice. He’s somehow more real and more unreal up close. No wonder his fans are feral.
I examine myself. Here I am, in my grading clothes—leggings with a suspicious chocolate stain and an oversized Colton Hayes Elementary sweater—standing before the man whose face has been plastered across billboards and magazine covers. I should’ve at least brushed my hair.
“Celebrities,” I finally mutter loud enough for him to hear.
Perplexion crosses his face, his brows pulling together like he’s trying to do long division in his head.
“They wear sunglasses indoors,” I say matter-of-factly as if that alone should clarify it. “That’s how you spot a celebrity in the wild.”
He scratches the back of his head, lips twitching like he doesn’t know if he should smile or not. The gesture is disarmingly boyish for someone who’s oozing so much swagger.
“Never mind.” I wave it off, embarrassment roasting my cheeks. “What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be . . . I don’t know, performing at sold-out stadiums or breaking up with pop princesses in public?”
Immediately, regret washes over me as I realize how rude that sounded. But something about finding my childhood nemesis as my new neighbor has turned off my filter.
“I needed to get away for a while,” he says casually.
I tilt my head. “So you’re hiding?”
“Something like that.”
“From the trouble you’ve caused?” I arch a brow, folding my arms again as the morning radio segment comes to the forefront of my brain.
He pushes off the doorframe and takes a step toward me, suddenly serious. The shift in his aura makes my shoulders tense. “Don’t believe everything you hear on the news. I’m not the same guy you knew when we were kids.”
I snort. The sound escapes before I can stop it, and I grimace from yet another embarrassing moment. “I doubt that.”
From what I’ve heard—the tantrums, the walkouts, the eye-roll-worthy interviews—he’s still the Logan I remember: unpredictable, attention-seeking, and totally exhausting. Just with a bigger audience and more expensive toys.
“I’m serious,” he insists. A flash of vulnerability crosses his face so quickly I almost miss it. “It’s been what . . . ten years? You don’t know me anymore.”
“Oh yeah?” My teacher’s instinct to challenge a bluff kicks in. I step up onto the porch and the closer I get to him, the more apparent it becomes how impossibly good-looking he is. He sure sprouted, too—he’s a neck and head taller than I. “I bet you a hundred bucks your socks don’t match.”
He scoffs. “Seriously?”
“Pull up your jeans and prove me wrong.”
A smile plays at the corner of his mouth—not the camera-ready grin from album covers, but something more genuine. “You’re on.” He bends slightly, grabbing the fabric of his jeans above his knees and hiking it up just enough to reveal his ankles.
Two socks. Black, but completely different patterns. One has tiny guitars; the other has tacos wearing sunglasses.
Ahh, the sweet taste of victory—nothing quite like it.
His eyes flick to mine. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I hold out my hand with a grin. “Pay up, buster.”
He laughs under his breath and fumbles for cash but comes up empty. “Raincheck?”
The small victory feels disproportionately satisfying, so I let him off the hook. “Now, you owe me.”
“Pretty impressive.” His voice gushes with admiration.
“Not really,” I say. “I just noticed when you crossed your legs earlier.”
His lips part, and he looks positively beyond himself. Possibly insulted. Definitely stunned. It’s glorious.
A warm rush of confidence floods my system. Making a global pop star speechless? I should add that to my resume.
“I wouldn’t peg you for a swindler, Maisie Lang. If I remember right, you were a goody two-shoes when we were younger.” He looks at me with impressed eyes.
Gosh, he’s so handsome in person. How did that scrawny kid turn into this godly creature? I better get away from him before I say or do something embarrassing again.
“I guess I’m not the same girl you once knew, either. Anyway, a bet’s a bet. Oh, and can you please keep it down so I can finish grading papers?”
I turn and walk away, still in disbelief that Logan Humphries is hiding out next door, half expecting to wake up any moment and realize it was but a dream.
“Hey!” he calls after me, jogging across the lawn to keep up. “Do you wanna hang out sometime? Catch up?”
My steps falter. Did Logan Humphries just ask me out? The boy who once loudly proclaimed I had cooties? The man whose dating life makes tabloid headlines?
“Absolutely not.” The words fly out automatically.
“Why not?” He sounds genuinely surprised, like rejection is a foreign concept to him. It’s hilarious.
I reach my front door and swing it open before turning to face him. “Because you’re not my type. And judging by the fact that you threw a puddle of mud at my dress in third grade, I’m not yours, either.”
His expression twists in thought, and he scratches the back of his head. “I did that?”
I’m not sure if the confusion in his voice is a smoke screen or real. “Ruined my favorite dress. Had polka dots and everything. I loved that dress.”
I’m halfway through the door, mentally composing the thank-you speech I’ll deliver to myself later for surviving this ridiculous encounter, when I pause and add, “Oh, and don’t even get me started on the glue incident.”
Logan’s cocky grin drops away completely. “Sorry about all that. I was kind of a jerk back then, huh?”
“That’s a bit of an understatement,” I say, but there’s a tiny seed of satisfaction blooming in my chest. The apology is unexpected. And somehow, it hits more deeply than it should, like I didn’t even realize I’ve waited to hear it.
He looks at me differently now—like he’s on the edge of saying something profound. “I’m not that guy anymore,” he says.
I exhale through my nose. Does he really mean that? Or is this just another performance? One thing I’m absolutely sure of: where he goes, chaos follows. “I know you, Logan Humphries. Trouble follows you around like a lost puppy. And I want no part in it.”
I step inside, gripping the doorknob. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. I won’t tell anyone you’re living next door.”
As I close the door, his foot slips into the jamb to block it. “Forget catching up. I have a proposition.”