9. Logan
LOGAN
“Look!” Ellie squealed the second I stepped into her room, waving a picture in the air like a sign of victory. She sat cross-legged in the center of her bedroom floor, excitement practically bouncing off the walls.
A soft breeze floated in through the open window, carrying the scent of summer and sending her sheer white curtains moving with the wind.
Her room hadn’t changed much since we were kids.
It still held that same softness, timeless and comforting.
The walls were painted a pale cream, and neutral accents filled the space, anchored by her gingham-patterned bedding and the steady flicker of a candle glowing in the far corner—jasmine.
My socked feet muffled each step as I moved deeper into the room. I took the photo from her, holding it up to get a closer look.
A grin tugged at my lips.
It was all of us—Boone, Mac, Rhodes, Ellie, and me—smiling wide, holding up watermelon slices like trophies.
We were perched on the big tractor out at Cassidy Ranch, our hair wet and swimsuits still dripping from the hours we’d spent at the swimming hole.
Boone’s mom practically used to drag us out once the sun began to set.
We’d spent so many summer days that way—laughing, splashing, running wild without a care in the world.
Of course, I was sitting next to Ellie in the picture, my arm slung casually over her shoulders, her head tilted against mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.
My heart stuttered just a beat. There had been so many moments like that and so many that I’d pushed down, convinced they were innocent. But now, I knew I’ve always felt this draw to her.
“Mac looks exactly the same,” I chuckled, pointing at the photo. That ridiculous mop of hair used to hang so far over his eyes he couldn’t see a damn thing.
Ellie laughed, reaching into the box in front of her. “Look at this one!”
She handed me another picture, and I moved to sit on the edge of her bed. This one was of the two of us as kids, seated at the tiny picnic table in the backyard. Paintbrushes in hand, we were lost in concentration, our tongues poking out slightly the way kids do when they’re focused.
We both still do that.
“I can’t even tell what we were painting,” I said, squinting at the photo and bringing it closer.
“This!” she said triumphantly, pulling two old papers from the box like buried treasure.
One was a painting of a cow wearing a party hat. The other was a bouquet of brightly colored flowers, painted with more control. The cow had wild colors spilling well outside the lines, a crayon-scrawled “Logan” in the corner. The flowers had “Ellie” written in careful, uneven letters.
“You kept them?” I asked, stunned. “Seriously?”
“Of course I did, all in my memory box,” she replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s a work of art. Well, mine was at least.”
She grinned, tucking the paintings back into the box, her wink full of mischief.
“You’re always so competitive,” I said with a soft laugh.
Ellie grinned as she placed the lid back on the box and lifted it with ease, propping it against her hip like it weighed nothing.
“Growing up with an older brother will do that to a girl,” she replied over her shoulder, disappearing into the closet to tuck it away.
While she was gone, I let myself take in her room again. Photos framed the pale walls. Ellie and her family at different ages and seasons, the girls all together in a new one that looked like it had been taken just a few weeks ago at the birthday party they’d thrown for her.
Ellie was the kind of person who kept everything: movie tickets, scribbled notes, dried flowers. She archived her life with a sort of tenderness, with sentiment and passion.
My gaze drifted to her white desk, where a small silver frame caught the light.
I tilted my head, squinting until I realized what it was.
A picture of her and me. High school graduation.
Both of us in Faircloud High’s deep navy caps and gowns, arms around each other, cheeks pressed close, eyes bright with the kind of hope only eighteen-year-olds know.
I’d been in this room hundreds of times, but I’d never really noticed that photo before.
“So,” Ellie’s voice rang out from the closet, “I thought you could help me figure out what to donate and what to keep from my closet.”
“Um,” I called back, “wouldn’t that job be better suited for Aspen or Penny? Hell, even Theo?”
She laughed. “Aspen and Penny would convince me to keep everything. And Theo would burn it all without a second thought. You, though, you’re the balanced middle I need. Emotional support and practicality.”
A moment later, she emerged wearing a sky-blue turtleneck sweater with delicate stripes stitched into the fabric, paired with the same denim cutoffs she had on all afternoon.
She did a little spin. “Well?”
I blinked. “It’s nice,” I said, shifting back onto her bed and settling in. I had a feeling this was going to be a process.
“Nice?” she repeated, raising a brow and running a hand down the front of the sweater. “I’m gonna need more than nice, thank you very much.”
Sighing dramatically, I leaned against her headboard, crossing one ankle over the other. “Ellie, we live in Texas. Do you really think you need a turtleneck sweater?”
She snapped her fingers and pointed at me with a victorious smile. “That’s the logic I’m looking for! Donate pile it is.”
Then, without hesitation, she grabbed the hem and tugged the sweater over her head.
My brain short-circuited for a second.
Underneath, she wore a lace bra, delicate and pale against her skin.
My heart jumped to my throat. I snapped my gaze away, dragging a hand down my face as I stared at the ceiling like it held some kind of distraction.
“Come on, El.” My voice came out breathy and thin.
“Oh, please. You’ve seen me in a bikini. What’s the difference?”
She was unfazed, simply turned on her heel and disappeared back into the closet as if nothing had happened.
But I was still sitting there—skin buzzing, thoughts scrambled—trying to pretend I hadn’t just had the wind knocked out of me by a girl I’d known since I was eight years old.
God help me, she’s gorgeous.
Not that I needed the reminder.
Ellie popped in and out of her closet like a whirlwind, modeling everything from cozy sweaters to tank tops and jeans. I saw it all.
We made our way through her wardrobe, sorting each piece with efficiency. Honestly, we created a pretty impressive donation pile.
“Why are you trying to downsize this much anyway?” I asked, reaching for another handful of chips she’d brought out to keep us fueled. “You could just keep some of this stuff here.”
“Because,” she called from inside the closet, “now’s as good a time as any to get rid of what doesn’t serve me. Why hold on to things that don’t have a purpose anymore?”
“Fair enough,” I replied, crunching on a chip.
“Besides,” she added, “it leaves room for new clothes.”
A moment later, she stepped out of the closet—no longer in casual clothes, but in a dress that made time stop.
Gone were soft cotton and denim. In their place was silk.
A rich emerald-green dress clung to every curve of her body, the fabric catching the light as she walked.
It hugged her in all the right places, a perfect contrast against her skin.
Her bare feet padded softly across the floor as she made her way to the full-length mirror, studying herself with a slight tilt of her head.
But then—I saw it. That flicker in her expression, the faint crease between her brows. Dissatisfaction.
“Something’s off with this one.”
Off? Was she kidding?
She looked stunning. Elegant. Effortless. Like every damn fantasy a man didn’t dare voice out loud.
I was too stunned to form a coherent thought, let alone a full sentence.
“Logan?” she prompted with a light laugh, snapping me back into the room.
“Nothing is off,” I finally managed. Then I noticed the thin straps on the dress were loose, slipping slightly off her shoulders.
“Wait, come here.” I motioned for her with a finger.
She approached, and I gently turned her so her back was to me. She crouched slightly, and I lifted the strap, fingers brushing against her bare skin.
Goosebumps rose instantly beneath my touch.
I felt it—that spark, like electricity between two fuses.
A quiet current passed between us, something unspoken and unmistakable. It traveled from her skin to my fingertips, straight to the center of my chest, straight to my heart.
Choosing to disregard the sudden ache blooming in my chest, I fixed both straps carefully, fingers grazing the silk as I adjusted the delicate material to fit her frame. When I was done, she stood and walked back to the mirror.
This time, she smiled.
That simple shift in expression hit harder than it should have. I wanted to stand up, cup her face in my hands, and tell her just how fucking beautiful she looked in everything she’d tried on today.
But I didn’t because I could never tell her how I really felt. Doing that presented the possibility of pushing her away forever, and I couldn’t have that.
Instead, I stayed where I was, rooted to her bed, letting her come to that realization on her own.
“That’s it,” she said with a nod, exhaling softly. “It was just too loose.”
“That one better be a keep.”
Her eyes met mine in the mirror. And for the briefest second, something passed between us, something hot and electric and dangerous.
Ellie broke the connection, glancing back at herself, and nodded. “Definitely.”