Chapter 23
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t imagined it—Logan and me, away from the world, somewhere quiet where no one knows us.
A place without trending hashtags, without cameras flashing in our faces, without Mom’s worried glances every time I come down to the kitchen.
Logan’s lake house invitation caught me completely off-guard, and now I’m standing in my bedroom, staring at the pile of clothes on my bed, trying to put together the perfect getaway wardrobe.
My fingers trace the edge of a sundress—canary yellow with tiny white daisies—before I fold it and tuck it into my oversized suitcase.
Another sundress joins the first, then another. Three bathing suits (because options), two pairs of shorts, four tops, a hoodie for cool evenings, and my favorite straw hat with the blue ribbon. Packing light has never been my strength.
Lake Martin, Alabama. That’s where Logan’s taking me. Crystal blue waters, towering pines, and a sky that stretches forever—at least according to the pictures he showed me. His “sanctuary,” he called it. The place where he can escape the turmoil of his notoriety and decompress.
“Maisie? Are you ready?” Mom calls from downstairs.
“Coming!” I give the zipper one final, victorious tug and hoist the suitcase off my bed.
Downstairs, Mom’s keys jingle in her hand. Dark circles shadow her eyes—probably from staying up half the night worrying about me going away with Logan. Our kitchen table discussion had stretched past midnight as my reassurances met her concerns in an exhausting back-and-forth.
“I’ll have my phone the whole time,” I promise, for what must be the hundredth time since yesterday.
“And you’ll call if—”
“If anything feels off. Yes, Mom.” I soften my interruption with a quick hug. “It’s just a couple of days.”
Mom’s car smells like vanilla and cinnamon—the air freshener she’s used since I was little. Logan sits in the back seat, completely unbothered by her disapproving glares in the rearview mirror. I don’t think he even notices.
At the airport, Logan gets out first, baseball cap pulled low, oversized sunglasses hiding half his face, looking every bit the celebrity in disguise from a cheesy movie, and I begin to worry if someone will recognize him.
“Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Lang,” he says, taking my suitcase as if it weighs nothing.
Mom’s smile is polite but chilly. “You better take good care of my daughter.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The sincerity in his voice warms me.
When mom drives away, Logan and I get our tickets and check in luggage.
“Have you ever flown first class?” he asks, adjusting his sunglasses.
I snort. “Have I ever—no, Logan. Small-town teacher’s salary, remember?”
“You’re in for a treat,” he says and winks at me.
The TSA line crawls forward at a glacial pace. A woman ahead of us keeps glancing back at me, her eyes narrowing in that “do-I-know-you” way that makes my skin prickle.
“Just say you’re a lookalike,” Logan murmurs, lips barely moving.
We inch closer to the window. “That never works in movies.”
“Better than running away once they figure out who you are.”
I make a curtain of hair fall over half my face as we inch closer to the checkpoint. Once there, Logan presents his ID with a confidence I envy. The TSA agent’s eyes widen comically, darting between the photo and his face.
“Oh my god,” she says, fumbling in her pocket. “Could you—I mean, my daughter would—”
Logan presses a finger to his lips and she nods, then he takes her pen and signs the yellow notepad she slid toward him. When he winks at her, I swear the woman nearly faints.
“Is it always like this for you?” I ask as we retrieve our personal items.
Logan’s shoulders lift in a casual shrug. “Pretty much. You get used to it.”
I’m not sure I could ever get used to strangers thinking they know you, wanting a piece of you, all because your face appears everywhere. I admire him for that.
On the plane, I can finally relax. First class means wide seats and attentive flight attendants who don’t bat an eye when he orders sparkling water with lime and an extra blanket.
“Diva,” I say, looking over the menu options, which are vastly superior to economy offerings.
“Comfort is my love language,” Logan replies, squeezing his cute butt right next to me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, scooting over. “You have your own seat over there.”
“I told you I’m all about comfort.” His eyes meet mine. “There isn’t anywhere more comfortable than right here.”
I bury my face in the menu, not wanting him to notice the flush in my face.
Somewhere over Kentucky, Logan’s head droops onto my shoulder, and unruly strands of dark hair tickle my neck.
My fingers twitch with the urge to brush it back, but I don’t want to wake him.
After five minutes, I’m more than willing to endure the stiffness developing in my neck for the scent of his oceanic shampoo—it’s like a saltless sea breeze carrying a hint of cucumber.
Every whiff I take is more pleasant than the previous.
I gently press my cheeks to the top of his head to get more.
After we land, Logan arranges an Uber to take us to his lake house. Except at the drop off area, there’s no house—just a narrow trailhead disappearing into dense woods. Sunlight dapples through the leaves, painting the forest floor in shifting patterns of gold and green.
“Um . . . did the driver drop us at the right place?” I tug at the rim of my lavender-flowered sunhat as a sudden gust of wind tries to steal it. My wedge sandals sink slightly into the soft earth, and I look at the uneven trail ahead with growing alarm.
“It’s just a short hike through the woods.” Logan hoists both our suitcases like he’s carrying grocery bags with two items in them. “Trust me.”
The forest smells amazing—pine and earth and something sweet like wild honeysuckle. Birds call to each other overhead, and somewhere in the distance, I can hear water lapping against a shore. It would be dreamlike if I wasn’t worried about twisting my ankle with every step.
“Are you absolutely sure we’re not trespassing on someone’s property?” I glance at a gnarled root stretching across the path in front of us like nature’s own tripwire.
“Positive.” Logan doesn’t even look winded, carrying our luggage like it weighs nothing.
A bird flutters overhead, and I look up at the beautiful canopy of trees. Then my foot catches on something, and I let out a clumsy wail and go flying forward with all the grace of a chimpanzee.
The world tilts, blurs, then solidifies against something warm and firm.
Logan’s chest.
My fingers have somehow found their way to his back, clutching the soft fabric of his T-shirt like a lifeline. Which, to be fair, it probably is at this moment.
“Whoa there,” he says softly against my ear, sending little electric shocks down my spine.
His hands, strong yet gentle, steady me at the waist, and my gaze travels upward to meet his.
I’ll never not be enthralled by his sumptuous eyelashes or the deep blue of his eyes.
I could lose myself in them. I could lose myself in his arms.
“I’m starting to think this was all a ploy to get me to fall for you.” The words come out before I can police them.
The corner of his mouth quirks upward, revealing that dimple I like so much. “Can’t say I’m disappointed by how it turned out.”
The teasing lilt in his voice shouldn’t affect me—after all, I’ve been the subject of it for many weeks now— but it absolutely does. I push away from his chest, trying desperately to regain composure.
Logan drops to a crouch, his back facing me, and pats his shoulders. “Wanna keep going on foot, or should I carry you? Piggyback special.”
It’s just like him to add to my embarrassment. “I’ll be fine—”
“If you twist your ankle, I’ll never forgive myself.” There’s no teasing in his voice now, just concern wrapped in that unmistakable don’t-argue-with-me-on-this tone.
Grumbling under my breath, I surrender to his logic and climb aboard this broad back.
My legs squeeze around his waist, and I’m immediately aware of three things: how effortlessly he stands with me on his back, how the muscles in his shoulders shift beneath my arms, and how absolutely right it feels to be pressed against him.
He somehow manages to grab our luggage in each hand, like some romance-novel lumberjack who moonlights as a celebrity.
My arms loop loosely around his neck, and I allow myself the indulgence of resting my cheek against his hair once more, breathing in the scent I can’t get enough of. My eyes close for just a moment, savoring this closeness.
“You okay back there?” His voice vibrates through his back and into my chest.
“Couldn’t be better,” I answer truthfully, breathing him in once more. “Thanks for the lift.”
Logan hikes us through the last stretch of forest, the path gradually widening as trees thin out. Then suddenly, we break through the tree line, and the world opens up before us in a panorama so stunning I nearly lose my grip on his shoulders.
A vast lake spreads out like liquid sapphire, mirror-still and reflecting the cloudless sky with photographic precision.
At the water’s edge sits a two-story cabin that belongs in a travel magazine—all honey-colored wood with oversized windows and a wraparound porch that practically begs for morning coffee and sunset cocktails.
A weathered dock stretches into the lake like a welcoming handshake, and nearby, a tire swing hangs from an ancient oak.
“Oh my . . .” Words fail me as Logan gently sets me down. “It’s magical.”
When we step inside, the cabin’s interior doesn’t disappoint.
Sunlight pours through tall windows, a plush ivory rug stands out in the living room, and a stone fireplace stands at the ready for cooler evenings.
The air carries traces of cedar and lemon, clean but lived-in. Not showy or pretentious—just cozy.
No wonder he retreats here.