Chapter 19
Victoria is in my face before I can even blink, her stiletto heels digging into the festival grass. The woman’s presence fills more space than her slender frame should allow. She’s bigger than life, especially up close.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, instinctively retreating two steps.
Victoria’s kohl-rimmed eyes narrow, and she advances while I keep retreating. “You never answered my question,” she says.
“What question would that be?” I cross my arms, doing my best to match her attitude despite the panicked state my heart is in.
“What’s your relationship with Logan?”
The nerve of this woman. The absolute audacity. Is that what she came all this way to ask?
“There’s nothing between us.” The lies seem to come easier in her presence. “But even if there were, I don’t see how that would be any of your business.”
She steps closer, eliminating what little personal space I had created. Her perfume wraps around me like a python. Is she trying to suffocate me with Chanel No. 5?
“It is my business,“ she hisses, voice low but intense. “Logan and I are about to collaborate on a new project. We both have parts to play—and you’re not in the script.”
A strange, hollow feeling expands in my chest. “Excuse me?”
“There is a contract that must be honored.”
Has Logan been keeping secrets from me? He never mentioned any contract with Victoria. Not once during our town escapades or our hot spring confessions. Not even when I was nursing him back to health.
“Whatever is going on between you two, I suggest you cut it off. Immediately.” Her tone might as well be ice.
People start gathering around us, recognizing her.
“Isn’t that Victoria Delacroix?” one curious teenage girl says.
“Oh my gosh, she’s really here,” says a woman in a pink tank top.
“Are they fighting over Logan?”
Perfect. Just what I need—to become the latest episode of Maplewood Springs’ resident soap opera. I straighten my spine, summoning every ounce of first-grade teacher authority I possess.
“I don’t answer to you,” I inform her, voice as steady as I can muster. Then I pivot on my heel, planning a dignified exit.
But Victoria’s hand snaps out like a viper, fingers wrapping around my wrist with no intent of letting go.
“Don’t you walk away from me,” she growls at me.
“Let go of me!” I twist my arm, trying to break free without causing a scene. “What is wrong with you?”
Before I can wrench myself loose, another hand enters the fray—Logan’s.
He peels Victoria’s fingers from my wrist with ease, then positions himself between us like a human shield.
“What the hell are you doing here, Victoria?” His voice is calm yet razor-sharp.
Victoria’s transformation is swift and bewildering. The cobra becomes a kitten; her shoulders soften, her expression opens into wide-eyed vulnerability. She blinks up at Logan with doe eyes that would make Bambi jealous.
“I came to get you,” she says. “The label wants to move forward with our plans.”
“You mean your plans,“ Logan replies flatly. I’ve never heard such coldness in his voice before.
“This will be good for us. For your image.” She reaches for his hand, but Logan recoils as if she’s offered him a handful of fire ants.
Then, in one fluid motion that steals the breath from my lungs, he drapes his arm around my shoulders, drawing me against his side. My heart hiccups as his warmth seeps through my sundress.
“The record label doesn’t control me,” he states plainly, “and neither do you.”
Victoria’s face crumples in disbelief. “You can’t be serious. Her?“ She points at me like I’m a disappointing meal she’s sending back to the kitchen.
“What if I am?” Logan challenges, chin lifting.
I find myself hoping there is genuine feeling behind his words.
A collective gasp ripples through the crowd. Cell phones rise in unison like periscopes, recording everything. There will be no containing this now.
“So you admit it?” Victoria’s voice climbs an octave. “There is something between you two.”
The moment crystallizes—dozens of eyes on us, the spring sun warming my skin, Logan’s arm still anchoring me to his side. He removes his cap and sunglasses with deliberate slowness, revealing his face to everyone.
Meeting Victoria’s gaze, he says loudly enough for all to hear, “Yes, there is.”
The crowd erupts like someone just announced free cotton candy forever. Phones click madly, people scream and push closer. The festival turns into chaos.
“Umm . . . Logan?” I reach for his hand with a panicked grip. “We better get out of here.”
Logan finally tears his attention from Victoria, his eyes widening as he processes the impending human tsunami coming at us. He quickly jams his hat and glasses back on, then clutches my hand. “Let’s run for it!” he says.
We bolt across the grassy festival grounds like we’re fleeing a zombie apocalypse. Logan guides me expertly through the maze of booths and food trucks, ducking under awnings, weaving between carnival games, moving like he’s spent a lifetime avoiding unwanted attention.
When we reach the edge of the park, safely hidden behind a row of oak trees, he finally slows to a stop. I bend forward, hands on my knees, gasping for air.
Looking up, I freeze at what I see on his face—he’s smiling. Not his media-trained grin or his trademark smirk, but something genuine and unguarded that transforms his entire face. His eyes sparkle with what looks like joy.
A cold realization settles over me. He’s exhilarated. Energized. This isn’t the face of someone upset about being discovered—it’s the face of someone who’s gotten exactly what he wanted.
All those weeks of hiding out, the disguises, the sneaking around—was it all a game? Does he actually crave the spotlight, the drama, the chase?
For the first time since we met on his porch, I feel a profound disconnect between us. I don’t belong in his world of paparazzi ambushes and manufactured relationships. I don’t want to chase the spotlight nor run from it like I’ve done something wrong.
Mom was right. I am a small-town girl craving a simple life. I don’t think our paths were ever meant to cross.