Chapter 10
Wednesday is parent-teacher conference day, which means I get off before noon. My phone buzzes with yet another text from Logan: Is watching paint dry considered a local pastime here?
I can’t help but smile at his dramatic complaints about small-town boredom. Can’t say I blame him, though. He’s used to performing in front of thousands of screaming fans. Coming back to his quiet hometown must be a bit of a shock.
After sending my first graders off with detailed progress reports clutched in their little hands, I text him back: Survived conferences. Heading over now. Try not to expire from boredom before I get there.
Spring sunshine warms my face as I drive the short distance to his temporary hideout. The Parker house looks different now that it’s occupied—less haunted mansion, more mysterious bachelor pad. My hand hovers mid-knock when the door suddenly swings wide open.
Logan stands there grinning, dressed in faded jeans and a vintage Foo Fighters t-shirt, looking far too restless. “So, what’s on the agenda for today?”
A weary breath escapes me. The parent conferences drained more energy than I expected, explaining to Mrs. Peterson for twenty minutes why little Timmy still needs to work on sharing.
“Now that I have no choice but to go to the wedding I never wanted to attend, we have two missions: I need a dress. You need a suit.”
He folds his arms across his chest and lifts his chin in that cocky way that probably makes teenage girls faint at concerts. “And how do you know I didn’t bring a suit?”
“Suits were never really your style.” My lips quirk up as a particular Sunday comes to mind. “I distinctly remember you wearing a hoodie to church once.”
“Oh, yeah,” he exclaims. “I thought it would create more of an outrage, but no one said a word to me.”
“That’s because you sat in the front row and missed all the judgmental stares behind you.”
“Including yours?” His brow shoots up.
“I saw you as a disruptor of peace and a town menace.”
He tilts his chin, eyes gleaming with mischief. “But you gotta admit, there’s more to me than meets the eye.”
“Please. You’re not that complex.”
His hand flies dramatically to his heart as he staggers back a step. “Wounded.”
The theatrics coax a reluctant laugh from me as I step past him into the house.
The space echoes around us, still sparsely decorated with a few essential pieces of furniture and some expensive-looking audio equipment sprawled across the living room.
“We better leave now if we’re going to beat the lunch crowd. ”
My gaze shifts toward the street, imagining the spectacle we might cause in public.
This town doesn’t just love Logan; it worships him.
Any teenager who happened to spot him would snap photos faster than I can say “viral.” It’d take seconds for the news to spread from the store clerk to the borders of Maplewood Springs—possibly beyond.
I glance back at him, anxiety tightening my chest. “If someone recognizes us—“
His hand shoots up to cut me off. “Say no more.” He spins around, disappearing into the hallway for maybe a minute before reappearing with an economical disguise—a fake mustache that looks like it came from a Halloween store, round glasses that Harry Potter would reject, and a Maplewood Mudcats baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.
“Voilà!” he announces with gusto, arms spread wide like he’s serenaded me with an astonishing magic trick.
My head shakes in disbelief. How did this man become a multi-platinum recording artist? “You look ridiculous.”
“Thank you,” he replies. “No one should recognize me now.” He strokes the fake mustache with exaggerated pride.
My weight shifts to one leg as I take another glance at him. “Lose the stache. I’m not going out with you dressed like a creepy Joe Jonas.”
He pouts but removes the facial accessory, tucking it into his pocket like he might need it later. The glasses at least stay on, which actually helps disguise those distinctive blue eyes with impossible long eyelashes.
Twenty minutes later, we pull into a strip mall on the edge of town.
My sensible Volkswagen looks comically ordinary parked next to gleaming SUVs and trendy crossovers.
I steer us toward a place called Briar & Belle, which has a small but surprisingly good selection of dresses and suits.
I’ve purchased dresses here in the past—affordable but still nice enough for special occasions.
They have a more premium selection, but I never look at those.
The bell over the door jingles cheerfully as we enter, and the woman behind the counter—Marjory, if I remember correctly—glances up with professional interest that instantly transforms into wide-eyed suspicion the moment she sees Logan.
“Aren’t you—“ she begins.
My heart jolts. “He’s my cousin,” I say quickly, linking my arm through Logan’s and dragging him toward the dress racks before his ego exposes us to the entire staff.
Logan’s greeting as we walk away consists of a hand thrown up and a barely concealed smirk.
“Cousin? I don’t think she bought it,” he says against my ear as I pull him between two tall racks of formal wear.
“That’s why we’re walking away.” The back of my neck prickles with awareness that the clerk’s eyes are still firmly fixed on us. “You’re like Maplewood’s own royal scandal. Everyone loves you here and follows your every move, so try not to be too friendly.”
He strokes his chin thoughtfully, and I can practically see his ego inflating like a hot air balloon. “Maybe I should move here permanently.”
“Get serious.” I file through a row of dresses. “We need to find a dress and leave before the Logan Humphries Fan Club assembles in aisle three.”
At every turn, he ducks his head, pretending to be engrossed by the fabric of a navy blazer to avoid Marjorie’s increasingly obvious staring.
I focus on the dresses, trying to find something appropriate for a wedding where I will have the distinguished pleasure of watching my ex marry my former best friend.
The bell over the door chimes again, and several voices float through the store. Logan’s head snaps up like a startled deer, panic flashing across his face as he spots three teenage girls entering. Without warning, he bolts for the changing rooms like a man fleeing hungry lions.
“You can’t just—“ I hurry after him, abandoning a promising emerald dress mid-examination. “You can’t hide back here.”
Before I can process what’s happening, his hand closes around my wrist, and he pulls me in after him, shutting the curtain with a swift yank. The small space instantly feels too warm, too close, as we stand facing each other in what is definitely a one-person changing room.
“What?” he whispers, his breath warming my forehead. “You said I look suspicious. Better suspicious and hidden than suspicious and mobbed by everyone walking in.”
“This isn’t any better. What if someone thinks we’re up to no good?”
The corner of his mouth curls up. “Define ‘no good.’”
I know exactly the thoughts responsible for that teasing smirk of his. I know because I’m thinking them, too. “Logan.” I glare at him, trying to ignore my galloping heart in this confined space that is seemingly getting smaller by the second.
“Maisie.” He mimics my indignant tone.
What am I going to do with him? Sometimes, he acts like Tom Hanks in the movie Big. I sigh. Here I am, chaperoning yet another kid.
When I hear the girls leave, I slide the curtain open and step out, realizing how good the store’s cool air feels against my hot face.
I grab three dresses to try on while Logan hovers near a mirrored column.
The first is a pale-yellow chiffon number with cascading ruffles from the neckline to mid-thigh, a fabric belt cinching the waist, and a hem that floats just above my knees.
The second, a rich forest green velvet, features a square neckline and sleeves so voluminous they might qualify as flotation devices in an emergency.
My final selection is a navy blue silk-blend with a subtle shimmer woven into the fabric—floor length with a modest slit up one leg, and a sweetheart neckline that manages to be both classic and current.
Logan plants himself in the corner near the three-way mirror, arms crossed over his chest. “Go ahead. Show me what Maplewood Springs’ most stylish teacher has picked.”
“You’re taking this whole fashion judge role pretty seriously.”
“I’ve been to enough award shows to have opinions.” He gestures toward the changing room with a theatrical wave. “The runway awaits, Ms. Lang.”
My eyes roll automatically. He wouldn’t know haute couture if it smacked him in the face. The man wore jeans and flannel to the Billboard Music Awards last year.
Five minutes later, I emerge in the yellow dress, the ruffles somehow multiplying under the fluorescent lighting. The fabric swishes as I walk, making a sound like someone shuffling a deck of cards.
“Well?” I turn in a small circle, already knowing the answer from his pained expression.
“Are you auditioning for a Little House on the Prairie reboot? Because you’ve got the prairie wife look down.”
“That bad, huh?” I smooth the excessive ruffles.
“Let’s just say if you wear that to the wedding, people might think you’re there to set the tables, not drink champagne.”
I let out a small laugh. “Fine. I’ll try on the next dress.”
I retreat back to the changing room, slipping into dress number two. The forest green velvet drapes heavily across my frame. The sleeves billow out like I’m storing emergency supplies inside them. When I emerge, Logan’s eyes widen before he clamps his lips together, clearly suppressing a laugh.
“Say it,” I challenge, raising one eyebrow as the sleeves sway with each tiny movement.
“The dress is wearing you, not the other way around.” He circles me slowly, studying the monstrosity from all angles. “Though I suppose if a sudden cold front moves in during the reception, you could offer sleeve shelter to half the guests.”