Chapter 17
Ilet Logan read the message and say, “Duty calls.”
I don’t like the sound of this. Mom’s emergencies at festivals usually involve clipboards, malfunctions, and me volunteering for things I never agreed to.
I jostle my way through the festival crowd, Logan keeping pace beside me. “Any guesses what disaster awaits?” he asks.
“Knowing my mom? Someone quit the funnel cake booth, or the porta-potties look like they exploded.”
Mom waits for me near the information booth, clipboard clutched like a life raft, frowning at a cluster of confused volunteers. Her hair—usually styled to perfection—has escaped its clip, and there’s a smudge of what might be face paint on her cheek. Definite emergency vibes.
She spins as we approach, shock visible in her eyes. “Logan!” I shoosh her immediately. “Oh, sorry.” She looks around to make sure no one’s heard. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Lang,” he says, flashing his world-famous grin, which seems to work on unsuspecting mothers, too.
“What’s the big emergency?” I ask.
Mom’s eyes find me, clearly frazzled. “Venessa, who was supposed to give the prize for the hoop competition caught a stomach bug and can’t make it. We need someone to step in.” Her eyes narrow on me with laser-like focus. “Guess who’s the lucky pick?”
I groan so loud I hope she changes her mind. “No, Mom. Isn’t there someone else? The last thing I want is a kiss on the cheek from someone three times my age.” Could she possibly have picked a worse time—right when I’m sorting through these overwhelming feelings for Logan?
“Maisie,” Mom says, her voice taking on that tone that’s won her arguments since I was five, “it’s tradition.”
“I thought the dunk tank was tradition.” My last-ditch effort at deflection.
“That too,” she says, dragging me by the elbow toward the hoop arena. “But people love this one. And you’re . . . renowned around here as of late.”
“That should make me the last person you’d consider for this,” I counter.
“I think it’ll be good for everyone to see you’re not bothered by any of this celebrity nonsense.” She shoots Logan an admonishing look over her shoulder, and I hear him clear his throat.
“Fine.” I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.
Mom is beyond herself, already racing to the stage to spread the good news.
Logan’s shoulder brushes mine. “It’s just a little fun. Besides, think of the public service you’re doing for Maplewood Springs.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you.”
He just looks away, licking his ice cream cone with innocence.
Minutes later, I’m seated on the stage, which now has a sign reading: DON’T MISS AND WIN A KISS! My cheeks warm to approximately the temperature of molten lava. I do not like the spotlight.
I wave half-heartedly at the crowd forming around the makeshift throwing range. More arrive every minute, as if someone announced the main event is about to start. Mom’s handy work, no doubt.
Five hoops hang in a row, each smaller than the previous, with tennis balls stacked in a bucket nearby.
Each participant will throw five balls, trying to make it through the hoops. With this town’s baseball obsession, this is the most popular competition at the festival—and for some reason, the prize for first place was always a kiss from a young bachelorette.
Whoever came up with this rule had to be an old geezer, desperate to relive his young stallion days. That’s why I never volunteered. What year is this anyway? The 1950s?
I eavesdrop on the guys up front, who look at me with lustful eyes. Gross. On closer inspection, every man gathered here ogles me like I’m the entree for tonight’s dinner—and they all look hungry. Some even lick their lips.
Lord, help me.
My nerves keep winding with each passing second as more people turn up, some spectators but mostly participants. It’s as if the recent headlines have made me desirable in the worst way possible—due to notoriety. Logan is rubbing off on me.
Where is he, anyway? My eyes skim over the crowd. Good, he’s nowhere to be seen. At least he has the good sense of not risking being seen.
Even my students have gathered with their parents. They wave at me, and I smile, returning the gesture while trying not to look like I’m being held hostage.
“Oh no,” I say under my breath as Mr. Collins—the sweet but slightly too friendly diner regular whose predatory wink give me the creeps every time I see it—waddles up with his ball in hand.
“Can’t wait for that kiss, Maisie,” he says, and my skin crawls like ants have taken up residence on my body.
“Likewise, Mr. Collins.” Could I sound any less enthusiastic?
Next up is Mr. Dutton, the science teacher who keeps asking if I’d like to “co-sponsor” the school dance committee. I tense immediately.
Please miss. Please miss.
If there’s any justice in the universe, his aim will be terrible.
To my disbelief, Mr. Collins is weirdly athletic, and lands four out of five shots. That puts him in the lead, which makes me nauseous. I would consider him only if he was the last man on the planet and the fate of humanity rested on my ability to procreate.
One by one, all the participants try their luck. The smaller hoops prove to be a challenge as most of them can’t get past the third one. I wish someone would score above Mr. Collins, though. I’d rather kiss anyone else.
But it doesn’t look like my prayers will be answered today. The announcer is about to declare Mr. Collins the winner when I see him amble toward the starting line.
Logan—cap low, sunglasses on, coughing in his hand to ward off a few onlookers who try to make out who he is. My breath catches in my throat.
At this point, I’d rather have him reveal his identity and cause a commotion than to suffer Mr. Collins.
He nods at the announcer, who says, “Last contestant of the day!”
Logan takes his position, his back to everyone else. Silence falls all around as he concentrates. One ball in. Then the second. He makes short work of the third hoop.
My hands come together in a prayer. If he makes the fourth, we will have a tie breaker.
He takes longer with this one. I bite my lower lip in anticipation. Then he throws, and I watch the ball travel through the air in a deep arch before it goes through the fourth hoop without touching the rim.
I throw my head back in relief, exhaling deeply, but the crowd doesn’t cheer yet—he’s got one more to go.
For this last throw, he’s much more relaxed. The ball goes up and—
Unreal. Five hoops in a row.
The crowd claps and cheers, his disguise holding despite the attention. My students jump up and down, clearly impressed by this mysterious stranger’s skill.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer calls out, “we have a winner!” He turns to Logan. “Young man, you may come up to claim your prize.”
My heart picks up pace as Logan climbs the stairs like a victorious gladiator, drops onto the chair beside me, and offers that devastatingly charming smile.
“Wipe that grin off your face,” I say, even though my own lips twitch upward. “It’s just a peck on the cheek.”
He taps the side of his face twice. “Lay it on me.”
Hand propped on the edge of my seat, I lean in, almost making contact with Logan’s right cheek when he turns at the last possible moment, and our lips touch.
At first, I’m too stunned to move, but then I give in to him. The press of his mouth against mine engulfs my small lips entirely in a kiss so intimate you’d think we were lovers reunited after decades of separation.
The kids erupt in a chorus of groaning “Eww!” but I barely hear it. Because at this moment, I stop pretending. I let myself kiss him wholeheartedly, and I taste the chocolate on his lips.
I feel the warmth in his palm as it slides around the back of my neck, and it hits me, all at once—how long it’s been since I’ve felt something like this. Since someone touched me like I mattered most. Since someone made my heart stutter and my stomach flip like a carnival ride.
When he finally pulls back, my cheeks blaze, my breaths uneven. I glance down, trying to calm the emotional hurricane inside me.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was never supposed to feel this real. Hadn’t we specifically written it into our ridiculous contract?
He brushes my hand gently with his thumb as I sit there, surrounded by the sounds of applause and whistles. I realize this is much worse than the moment we shred in the hot spring.
Despite my better judgement, the contract we created, and Mom warning me against it, I cannot deny the truth any longer.
I’m in love with Logan.