Chapter 18
Istill feel the softness of his lips against mine, warm and intoxicating, like sinking into a dream I never want to wake from.
“Come on,” Logan murmurs, his fingers sliding between mine as he guides me off stage.
His touch sends electricity zipping up my arm, which settles in my chest. Not butterflies—this is bigger, wilder, more explosive.
We step down the wooden steps of the platform, my legs wobbling like Jell-O, and I crash into Logan at the bottom step. I feel drunk on his nearness.
“You okay there?” he asks, steadying me with a gentle hand at my elbow.
No, I am not okay. I am the opposite of okay.
“I’m fine,” I say, even though the word is a lie with good posture. I straighten on my own and force my voice into something steady. “That was . . . quite a show you put on up there.”
Logan’s mouth quirks. “You didn’t think I had those baseball skills, did you?”
“I meant the kiss.” I keep my eyes forward. The festival suddenly seems too bright, too crowded, and I can feel people watching us as we weave through the booths.
“Oh.” He steps closer, just enough that his breath brushes my ear when he speaks. “That wasn’t a show.”
“It was risky,” I whisper back. “You could’ve been found out.”
“I know.” His tone stays light, but there’s something underneath it, something that doesn’t budge. “I just couldn’t let you kiss anyone else.”
“It would’ve been just a peck,” I say. “On the cheek.”
He looks at me then, the humor falling away from his features. “It didn’t sit right with me,” he says, quiet and absolute.
Is he just teasing or does he feel even a sliver of my growing affection for him?
Before I can ask, however, I notice a cluster of my students huddled near a popcorn stand, pointing and giggling. Their eyes are wide with delight, little hands pressed to mouths that can’t quite contain their excitement. Logan’s disguise doesn’t fool them; they’ve seen it before.
Grinning despite myself, I press my index finger to my lips in the universal sign for “shh.” They respond with exaggerated nods, zipping their lips and throwing away the imaginary key.
“Secret agent first-graders,” Logan chuckles. “Your little spies are adorable.”
“And surprisingly good at keeping secrets,” I say, “unlike most of the adults in this town.” It takes me a moment before I gather enough courage to speak my next words. “Logan, there’s something I need to tell you.”
His expression shifts, becoming more serious as he squeezes my hand. “Funny, I have something to tell you, too.”
My mouth goes dry. Could he possibly be feeling the same earthquake that’s rearranged everything inside me? Or is he about to tell me his label wants him back in L.A.?
“You go first,” I say, chickening out. Whatever bomb I’m about to drop, it can wait another thirty seconds.
Logan takes both my hands in his, thumbs tracing small circles on my skin that send shivers racing up my arms. “Maisie,” he starts, and the way he says my name makes it sound like poetry. “I—“
“Maisie!” Lindsey’s voice cuts through our moment like scissors through wrapping paper. Why does she always show up at the most inconvenient time?
Logan’s hands drop from mine as we both turn to see her charging toward us, her blond ponytail bouncing from side to side, wearing a smile so wide it would be endearing if I didn’t know it’s fake. My teeth clench involuntarily, a headache instantly forming between my eyes.
She slides to a stop, practically panting with excitement, her gaze fixed on Logan like he’s the last slice of chocolate cake at a birthday party.
“Oh my God,” she breathes, both hands clasped to her chest in dramatic fashion. “It really is you. So the rumors are true!”
Logan and I exchange a look—his apologetic, mine murderous.
“Don’t worry,” Lindsey adds. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Sure. And I’m secretly Beyoncé‘s backup dancer.
“But oh my gosh,” she continues, already fumbling for her phone. “Can I please get one tiny picture with you? Pretty please? No one will believe this!”
I step between them faster than a mom catching a toddler about to touch a hot stove. “Absolutely not.”
Lindsey’s smile retreats, and she gives a cute pout directed at Logan. I’d like nothing more than to smack it right off her face. “Come on, Maisie. It’s just one little photo.”
“And one little photo becomes one viral post becomes one hundred paparazzi crawling all over town.” I cross my arms. “No pictures.”
She sighs dramatically, shoulders slumping. “Fine. Can I at least get your autograph then?”
To my astonishment, she produces from her purse a photo of Logan from one of his photoshoots and a pen. Was she expecting to run into him here?
Logan glances at me with raised eyebrows, and I shrug in defeat. One autograph won’t bring down civilization as we know it.
He scrawls his signature across the front of the photo—his penmanship exquisite—while she watches like she’s witnessing the second coming.
“Thank you so, so much,” she gushes, clutching the picture to her chest like a precious artifact. Then her eyes shift to me. “Hey, could I talk to you for a second? In private?”
Great. What could she possible want?
Logan, bless him, reads into it perfectly. “I’ll grab us some drinks,” he says, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze before heading toward a nearby concession stand.
I turn to Lindsey, arms crossed. “What do you want?”
She bounces on her toes, excitement bubbling through her like a shaken soda can. “Okay, so I know this is totally random, but I was wondering . . .” She leans in like she doesn’t want anyone to hear. “Do you think Logan would perform a song at my wedding?”
My mind goes blank. I’m so stupefied I actually laugh—a sharp, humorless bark that surprises even me. “You cannot be serious right now.”
“What?” She blinks, genuinely puzzled. “It would be amazing. Andy and I are huge fans, and people would absolutely lose their minds.”
“Let me get this straight”—each word I sputter is laced with white-hot rage—“You want Logan Humphries—who I’m bringing as my plus-one to your wedding—to perform for you and the man you stole from me?”
Lindsey rolls her eyes like I’m the unreasonable one. “Come on, Maisie. Andy wasn’t happy with you. I did you a favor. You would’ve ended up divorced anyway.”
The sound that escapes my throat is something between a gasp and a growl. “Get out of my face. Now.”
“God, you’re still so dramatic,” she huffs, flipping her hair as she turns to leave. “Just think about it, okay? It would mean the world to us.”
She saunters away, leaving me standing there, vibrating with fury, fighting the urge to chase after her and pull her hair so hard she lands on the dirt.
I pace in a small circle, shaking out my hands like I’m trying to fling water off my skin. Deep breaths. Think happy thoughts. Puppies. Rainbows. Lindsey falling face-first into the dunk tank.
“Trouble in paradise?”
Everything inside me freezes at the sound of that smooth, cultured voice.
Slowly, I pivot to find Victoria Delacroix standing three feet away, designer sunglasses perched atop her head like a crown, latte in one perfectly manicured hand, the other resting on her hip that’s cocked at a sharp angle.
I stare back and gulp, bracing myself for what is to come next.