Chapter 14
The next day, honey-gold light spills through my curtains in ribbons as I lay in bed. A warm tingle stirs in my belly every time Logan’s half-naked image flashes in my head, effervescing out into my fingertips like electricity, scattering my concentration.
I hold my phone, and the fourth unanswered text to Logan stares back at me. Earth to Logan. Please let me know you’re still breathing. Four messages sent. Zero read. Just sad little “delivered” notifications popping at me.
My body flops backward onto my mattress with all the dramatic flair of a telenovela actress learning her evil twin isn’t actually dead. Professor Hootington—my stuffed owl with the permanently judgmental amber eyes—tumbles against my shoulder in silent solidarity.
Did I say something wrong? Maybe I splashed too aggressively. Was I staring too obviously at his abs? Or worse—what if he’s having second thoughts about our whole arrangement?
The guy hangs out with actual celebrities. Victoria Delacroix, for crying out loud. And here I am, a first-grade teacher who sleeps with a stuffed owl and has dinosaur-shaped mac and cheese in her pantry. Not exactly the glamorous lifestyle he’s used to.
I shove my phone under my pillow and push myself upright. No more wallowing. No more refreshing message screens like some lovesick teenager.
Wait. Not lovesick. Definitely not lovesick. Friendship-sick. Fake-relationship-contract-sick.
When I crack open my window, the breeze carries in the scent of fresh grass, apple blossoms, and blessed freedom from wool sock season. My winter-pale legs practically sing hallelujah.
I slip into a yellow polka dot sundress with delicate lace trim and a cinched waist, then put on white sneakers and drape a denim jacket over my shoulders—not because I’ll need it, but because it completes the cute vibe I’m attempting to pull off.
The first proper dress day of the season deserves a full commitment.
My stomach growls, reminding me that emotional turmoil burns calories.
In the kitchen, Mom sits perched on her usual stool, chamomile tea steaming beside her, eyes locked on the TV.
Chrissy is at the table in her pajamas, also unable to avert her eyes from the screen.
The only one uninterested in the TV is Noah, who slurps Honey Bunches of Oats beside Chrissy.
And then I see what they’re watching.
To my horror, Mom’s usual program, Blitz Kitchen, is replaced by an image of me—freeze-framed mid-blink, looking like I’ve been caught shoplifting in a drunken stupor—alongside grainy footage of Logan climbing into my car.
Red ticker tape runs beneath us: SMALL-TOWN LOVE TRIANGLE? POP STAR, TEACHER, DRAMA HEATS UP.
Every organ in my body free-falls at once, leaving me hollow and weightless like I’ve plunged over the edge of a cliff. What I feared the most is coming true.
Mom’s tea hovers halfway to her lips, her maternal frown deepening as she turns to me—the exact expression she uses when I buy milk too close to its expiration date.
“Oh, honey.” Her voice carries a hint of disappointment. “Are you sure about this?”
I grab the orange juice carton, pouring while avoiding her eyes. “I know how it looks. But none of it is true. We’re just childhood friends catching up while he’s in town.”
Not exactly the truth, but I can’t come clean. I haven’t even told her the real reason behind my breakup with Andy.
I pour myself a glass of juice and that’s when I notice Chrissy hunched over her cereal, uncharacteristically silent. Usually she’s bubbling with morning energy and updates about Theo.
“Why so quiet over there?” I ask, eyebrows raised.
Chrissy’s cheeks flush pink. She pushes her spoon around the now-soggy cereal, avoiding eye contact.
“I think I know how the story got out,” she admits. “Stephanie let it slip to her mom. She was doing laundry and found her blouse—you know, the one Logan signed?”
After worrying about Logan’s silent treatment all night, I don’t have the energy to be angry.
“She almost had a heart attack when she realized the autograph was about to get washed away. Started screaming through the house. Her mom demanded to know why she would act this way.” Chrissy finally looks up. “Sorry, sis.”
I sink into a chair, head dropping into my hands. “It was bound to come out sooner or later.”
Noah perks up, milk dripping down his chin. “Is Logan gonna be my brother?”
The question catches me so off-guard that I laugh hysterically, and soon everyone joins in.
“We’re just friends, Noah,” I say, ruffling his hair.
Mom sets down her tea with a decisive clink. “The sooner he leaves, the better. This kind of attention isn’t good for anyone. You know how this town works. One whisper becomes front-page news before you can blink.”
I don’t think Mom realizes she’s the supervisor at the rumor mill.
“Logan didn’t ask for this either.” The defense springs from my lips before I can consider it.
“He came here to escape all that.” My fingers tighten around my glass.
Would I handle paparazzi camping outside my house with even half his grace?
One encounter left me ready to file restraining orders against the entire profession.
Mom’s lips press together, forming that thin line that means she’s mentally editing her response down from a five-page dissertation to something more diplomatic. “He brings . . . trouble. And you’ve already dealt with enough.”
“Mom! Can we please not excavate my romantic past at the breakfast table for once?
She sighs, shoulders softening as she slides off the stool. “Well, the spring festival setup waits for no one. Less than two weeks away, and we still haven’t decided where to put the face-painting booth.” She reaches for her purse. “I’ll need your help, you know.”
“I’ll be there. Promise.”
She wraps us one by one in a quick hug then grabs her keys and disappears out the door.
I snatch the remote and turn off the TV before my face can make any more unwanted appearances on the news.
Chrissy now clings to me, both arms wrapped around my waist tightly. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say, reciprocating the gesture.
As I’m spreading peanut butter on bread for a sad-adult breakfast, my phone starts to ring. I lunge across the counter, hoping it’s Logan calling, but no such luck.
“Hey, Claire.”
“Is it true?” Her voice comes through breathless, like she’s been sprinting or holding her breath in anticipation. “What they’re saying on the news?”
I sink onto a stool. “Yes and no.”
“Explain. Immediately.” I can practically see her leaning forward, eyes wide.
“After our coffee date, I ran into Logan, and we’ve been hanging out.” The half-truth sounds less convincing each time I tell it. Maybe we should just call this whole thing off. I could figure something out for the wedding—food poisoning, sudden leprosy, witness protection.
Claire’s squeal threatens the structural integrity of my eardrum. “This is massive. How did it happen? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“He moved in next door. To lay low, I guess. Hide out from whatever’s going on in his life.”
“Are the rumors about him true?” Her voice drops like someone might overhear us. “The stuff about the label? Victoria?”
“I honestly don’t know.” I trace circles on the countertop with my finger. “But he’s definitely hiding something. Why else would a famous musician disappear to Maplewood Springs of all places?”
“What’s he actually like in person?” The eagerness in her voice makes me smile despite everything.
My mind instantly brings up Logan’s shirtless, muscular frame, and I give myself a mental shake. “He’s . . . much better looking than in person.”
Claire’s dramatic gasp almost makes me laugh. “You’re practically famous now. What are you going to do?”
Excellent question to which I have no answer. “I wish I knew, Claire.”
“Well, gotta run,” Claire chirps. “We’ve got customers. Keep me updated on every tiny detail, or we’re no longer friends.”
“Will do.”
After we hang up, I stare at my phone for a long moment. This situation is spiraling way beyond our control. We need a strategy, boundaries, something to keep this whole mess from consuming us both.
I dial Logan. His phone rings and rings, then voicemail. I don’t know what his deal is, but I fully intend to find out.
“Where are you going?” Chrissy asks as I walk toward the foyer.
“Next door. Be right back.”