Chapter 8 #2
As I dig through my desk drawer for a piece of paper and a pen, shoving aside paperclips and sticky notes, one thought hums through my mind louder than any of his raucous guitar solos.
What the heck have I just agreed to?
Logan uncaps my blue pen and starts writing “Pretend Relationship Agreement” at the top of the page in big, bold letters. The dramatic flourish of his wrist as he forms each capital letter makes me wonder if he practices autographing body parts on a daily basis.
“Rule number one,” he says, scribbling it out, “one cannot fall for the other.” The last few words we say in unison. Logan glances up at me like I’m joking. I’m not. “I’m serious, this is the most important part.
“Shouldn’t be an issue. You’re really not my type.” Too much of a loose cannon, this one.
He smirks and looks back at the piece of paper that is to be our contract. “You catch on quick, Lang. You’re not mine either.”
Relief curves my mouth upward. The first rule is the only one I care about.
After all, good looks aren’t the secret to a successful relationship.
It’s the little moments—like making chicken soup when you’re sick or serving breakfast in bed on a lazy Sunday or arriving home to a bouquet of flowers after a hard day’s work—all acts of kindness that speak volumes about a person.
It’s having each other’s backs—as I’ve seen my parents demonstrate throughout the years—that strengthens the foundation of any union.
That last bit I’m convinced Logan is incapable of. He only cares about himself.
“Rule number two,” Logan moves on, “no one can know about this. Not the contract, not the arrangement, and definitely not that I’m back in town.”
“Got it,” I say, nodding with exaggerated solemnity. “Top secret.”
“I’m talking Mission Impossible level,” he says as he writes. “We tell no one. If my manager or my publicist finds out, I’m toast. You’re toast. This entire charade?” His eyes widen for effect. “Burnt toast.”
“Are you done with the breakfast metaphors?”
“Almost,” he says, tapping the pen against his chin in a way that draws attention to his jawline, which is absolutely not something I should be leering at. “I could throw in something about scrambled plans or half-baked ideas, but I’ll waffle on that for now.”
I roll my eyes. “Please make it stop.”
“As you wish. Let’s move on to rule number three. You’re responsible for making this fun.”
“What kind of rule is that?” I say, approaching my desk.
He points the pen at me, grinning with all the self-assurance of someone who’s never had to put in effort to make a relationship work.
“This is your town. You know all the good spots. I need a break from the spotlight, and this arrangement means I get to have a semi-normal, small-town experience.” He leans forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Entertain me.”
Mmm-hmm. More like a distraction from infamy. “Oh, so I’m your personal event planner now?” I fold my arms across my chest, trying to look stern but probably failing.
“Exactly. Except unpaid and with better snacks,” he offers with a wink.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re lucky I’m this charming.“ He signs his name with a theatrical swoop at the bottom. “Your turn,” he says, sliding the contract over to me, our fingers brushing in the exchange which elicits a prompt withdrawal on my part.
I read it over—because what kind of teacher would I be if I didn’t check for spelling errors?
“Something’s missing,” I tell him, scribbling in rule number four. “Logan must attend the wedding as agreed upon.”
“Sounds like a fair deal.” He swirls in my chair like a kid.
With the rules established, I sign my name at the bottom like it’s the lease on a high-end apartment I can’t afford.
My signature looks awkwardly formal next to his artistic scrawl.
Just another reminder of how different our worlds are—his full of spotlights and record deals, mine of alphabet charts and parent-teacher conferences.
Logan snatches the paper back and folds it in half. “I’ll hang on to this.”
“Don’t I get a copy?”
“The fewer copies, the better,” he replies smoothly, tucking the paper into his back pocket. “We don’t want it falling into the wrong hands.”
Before I can argue about my right to documentation—and my sudden concern about whose hands he thinks might be interested in our little arrangement—the front door downstairs clicks open.
“We’re home,” Mom calls out cheerfully.
Sheer terror lodges in my throat like I’ve swallowed a golf ball, and judging by Logan’s expression, he’s not faring any better.
“Where would you like these groceries, Mrs. Lang?” Theo asks, his voice carrying up the stairs with alarming clarity.
“In the kitchen,” Mom answers.
I rush to the door in a panic, fingers fumbling with the lock before I press my ear against the wood, listening for approaching footsteps. Chrissy trudges up the stairs—I’d recognize that heavy-footed stomp anywhere—and it sounds like Theo is right on her heels.
A sharp knock on the door startles me, sending me backward right into Logan, whose solid frame stops my retreat. I can feel the warmth radiating from him, his chest alarmingly firm against my back before I step away and look into his terrified eyes.
“Maisie? Are you in there?” Chrissy’s voice booms on the other side of the door.
“Yeah,” I call back, trying to sound casual and not like I’m harboring America’s most gossiped-about pop star in my bedroom. “Just getting dressed.”
“We got food,” Chrissy says.
“I’ll be down soon,” I reply, silently praying she doesn’t try the doorknob.
“What are we going to do?” Logan’s voice drops to a whisper.
I scan the room frantically, searching for an escape route. “The window.”
His complexion turns ghostly. “Are you insane? What if I fall?” He glances at the second-story drop with the terror of someone contemplating bungee jumping without the bungee.
“Don’t be such a baby,” I hiss, marching to the window and pushing it open. The cool evening air rushes in, carrying the scent of rain-washed grass. “It’s not that high. There’s a trellis right outside—just climb down like a ladder.”
“I’m not Spider-Man!”
Another knock at the door makes us both stiffen. “Maisie? Mom wants to know if you’re eating with us,” Chrissy calls from behind the door.
“Yes! Five minutes!” I shout back, then grab Logan’s arm and drag him to the window. “You’ve got to take one for the team. Now.”
With obvious reluctance, Logan swings one leg over the sill, then the other, clinging to the frame like a terrified cat being bathed. “This is crazy,” he mutters, his knuckles white from gripping the windowsill. “If I die, I’m going to possess that owl of yours and terrorize your dreams.”
“Just climb down already,” I instruct, shoving at his shoulders with perhaps more force than necessary.
“I almost forgot,” Logan says, brandishing his phone with one hand while holding onto the window frame for dear life with the other. “Put in your number.”
I type it quickly and give it back to him. Then he reaches for the wooden lattice, testing it with one hand. “It feels rickety.”
“It held my weight when I was sixteen and sneaking out to see Fall Out Boy,” I assure him, though I conveniently leave out that I was significantly lighter than him.
With a grimace, Logan transfers one foot to the trellis, which immediately creaks. His eyes widen to comic proportions. “I’m going to die on your rosebushes. This is not how People Magazine said I’d go.”
“You’re doing great,” I lie encouragingly, trying not to laugh at his dramatics. The sight of a multi-platinum recording artist trembling on my mother’s garden trellis might be the highlight of my week.
He makes it halfway down before disaster strikes. With a splintering crack, the wooden lattice gives way, sending Logan plummeting the remaining few feet. He lands with a spectacular thud and a muffled groan, sprawled on the lawn like a dropped marionette.
I lean out the window, concern battling with the urge to laugh. “Are you okay?”
Logan rolls onto his back, clutching his hip and glaring up at me. “Barely.”
He moves like a wounded giraffe as he limps across our yard and disappears around the corner of the house.
We’re safe for now.