Chapter 15
Audrey
Logan’s mouth brushes mine in the elevator—quick, celebratory, his smile pressed against my lips—and I add one to the count.
Forty-seven. That’s how many times he’s kissed me over the last two weeks. Yes, I’m counting.
No, I can’t help it.
It’s what I do. Quantify. Measure. Track variables over time to identify patterns and predict outcomes. The fact that I’ve turned Logan’s affection into a dataset probably says something unflattering about my psyche, but at least I know the trend line is moving in the right direction.
There was the kiss just now in the elevator because we’ve hit our first clinical milestone and are heading up to talk to Bennett about the report.
But before that, there was the kiss in the break room when we both reached for the last Red Bull—longer, lazier, neither of us caring about the caffeine hit anymore.
And the kiss goodnight in the parking garage that turned into three kisses, then five, then me seriously considering dragging him into my backseat.
Before remembering we were on company property with security cameras.
We haven’t done more than kiss. Not yet.
There’s an unspoken agreement between us that we’re taking this slow—that after everything, we owe it to ourselves to build this right.
And honestly? I don’t mind. Every kiss feels like discovering a new room in a house I thought I knew.
Every touch of his hand sends electricity through me.
If this is the slow version, I’m not sure I’ll survive what happens when we stop holding back.
Which is its own kind of fear—because I’ve never had something this good before, and that means I’ve never had this much to lose.
My brain keeps running failure scenarios in the background, trying to predict what could go wrong so I can prevent it.
It’s exhausting, and it’s probably unhealthy, and I can’t seem to stop.
The elevator doors open, and Bennett is already waiting in the hallway, tablet in hand. He looks at us with a bright smile.
“This milestone report is looking amazing,” he says. “The adaptive system has held steady through every stress test, every failure scenario, every worst-case protocol the team could throw at it.”
Logan’s hand tightens around mine. “The stability metrics?”
“Rock solid.” Bennett’s smile widens a fraction. “You two have earned a break. Take the weekend off. Come back Monday ready for the next phase.”
Rest. I barely remember what that word means.
We thank Bennett and head for the parking garage. The evening air is cool against my flushed cheeks as we reach my car.
Logan walks me to the driver’s side, same as always. But instead of kissing me goodnight and heading to his own vehicle, he lingers. Hands in his pockets. That look on his face I’ve learned means he’s working up to something.
“So,” he says. “We have two days off.”
“We do.”
“And I was thinking...” He trails off, fixes his glasses, runs a hand through his hair. “Would you want to do something? Tomorrow? With me?”
“Like a date?”
“Yes. Exactly like a date. A real one.” He meets my eyes, nervous but determined. “I want to take you somewhere. Somewhere special. If you’re interested.”
I pretend to consider it, just to watch him squirm. “I suppose I could clear my schedule.”
“Really?”
“Logan, I’ve been waiting for you to ask me on a proper date since the day we met. Yes, really.”
His smile is worth every second of the wait.
By the time Saturday afternoon rolls around, I’m standing in front of my closet having a minor crisis about what to wear. He wouldn’t tell me where we’re going—just said to dress warm and comfortable, and that he’d pick me up at four.
Warm and comfortable. That could mean anything. A walk along the lakefront? A rooftop bar with outdoor heaters? Some kind of outdoor adventure that I’m woefully unprepared for?
I do what any self-respecting woman does in a fashion emergency. I call for backup.
Audrey:
SOS. First real date with Logan. He said, ‘warm and comfortable.’ WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?
Serena:
OMG FINALLY. It means he’s taking you somewhere outdoors. Or somewhere casual. Or he has no idea how to give wardrobe instructions.
Layla:
All three, probably. What are your options?
I prop my phone against the mirror and start a video call, holding up hangers like my life depends on it.
“OK, option one.” I press a chunky knit sweater dress against my body. “Cozy but cute?”
“Too formal if you’re hiking,” Layla says, her face filling half my screen. She’s got a sheet mask on, which shouldn’t be intimidating but somehow is. “What if there’s mud?”
“Why would there be mud?”
“You said ‘warm and comfortable.’ That’s mud-adjacent language.”
“Logan doesn’t strike me as a hiker.” Serena’s face appears in the other half of the screen, her hair in a messy bun as she stands in her kitchen, stirring what I assume is cookie batter in a mixing bowl. “Show us option two.”
I swap to the pink and yellow striped sweater and dark jeans. “Casual but not sloppy?”
“Ooh.” Serena leans closer to her camera. “I like that. It’s giving ‘I want to impress him but also I’m not afraid to spill hot chocolate on myself,’ which is very you.”
“Those jeans make your ass look incredible,” Layla adds. “Wear those.”
“You can’t even see my ass right now.”
“I’ve seen your ass in those jeans before. Trust me.”
I snort, but I’m already reaching for the jeans. “Boots or sneakers?”
“The ankle boots with the low heel,” they say in unison, then exchange a look through their respective screens.
“We’ve trained her well,” Serena says solemnly.
“She’s ready to leave the nest,” Layla agrees.
“I hate you both.”
“You love us. Now go get ready—and we expect a full debrief tomorrow. Full. Debrief.” Serena waggles her wooden spoon at the camera. “Have fun, babe. He’s lucky to have you.”
The call ends, and I’m left staring at my reflection with a stupid grin on my face.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed and approved—jeans, sweater, boots, just like the council decreed.
I leave my hair down, the natural curls I stopped fighting once I realized Logan likes them better than the flat-ironed Swedish version.
Minimal makeup. Just enough to feel put-together without looking like I’m trying too hard.
At exactly four o’clock, there’s a knock on my door.
I open it to find Logan standing there in jeans and a charcoal sweater I’ve never seen before—something that actually fits him properly, that makes his shoulders look broader and his eyes look bluer behind his glasses.
He’s holding a small bouquet of flowers.
Not roses—something wilder, more interesting.
Purple and white blooms I don’t recognize.
“Hi,” he says, and his voice does that soft thing it only does when we’re alone.
“Hi yourself.” I take the flowers, bringing them to my nose. They smell incredible—sweet and slightly spicy. “These are beautiful. What are they?”
“Freesia and stock. The woman at the flower shop said they symbolize trust and lasting beauty.” His ears go pink. “I may have spent an embarrassing amount of time researching floral symbolism before I went. And then cross-referenced her recommendations.”
Of course he did. Of course Logan Whitman peer-reviewed a florist.
“They’re perfect,” I say, and mean it. “Let me put them in water, and then you can tell me where we’re going.”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.” He follows me into the kitchen, watching as I find a vase and set it on the counter. “Probably. I hope.” He picks up the vase and fills it with water while I arrange the stems.
“Probably. You hope?”
“Yes. I think there’s a high probability of you enjoying it, but there’s always a margin of error when dealing with subjective experiences—”
“Logan.”
“Yes?”
“Take a breath. I’m sure it’s going to be great.”
He does take a breath, visibly collecting himself. “Right. Yes. OK.”
With the flowers in water, I set the vase on my counter where I’ll see it every time I walk into the kitchen, then grab my jacket. “Lead the way, Dr. Whitman.”
We drive north, away from downtown, the late afternoon light painting everything gold.
Logan keeps glancing at me like he’s checking to make sure I’m still there, still real.
I pretend not to notice, but secretly I love it.
All that time spent wondering if he felt the same way I did, and now I get to see it written all over his face.
“Can I have a hint?” I ask as we merge onto Lake Shore Drive.
“You’ll see in about fifteen minutes.”
“One hint. Just one.”
He considers this. “It involves stars.”
“Stars like... celebrity stars? Are we going to a movie premiere?” I’m teasing, and he knows it.
“Stars, as in astronomical objects. Giant balls of gas undergoing nuclear fusion millions of light-years away.”
“So we’re going stargazing? Logan, it’s not even dark yet.”
“Not exactly.” That smile again—the one that makes my stomach flip. “Just trust me.”
Trust him. Two months ago, I wasn’t sure I’d ever trust him again. Now I’d follow him anywhere.
We exit the highway and wind through streets I don’t recognize until suddenly, I see it—the distinctive curved roof of the Adler Planetarium, silhouetted against the lake.
“The planetarium?” I sit up straighter. “I haven’t been here since a field trip in middle school.”
“Good. Then this will be new for you.” He pulls into the parking lot, which is surprisingly empty. “Or at least, this version of it will be.”
“What do you mean, ‘this version’?”
He parks the car and turns to face me, something almost shy in his expression. “I may have called in a favor. The planetarium is technically closed to the public today, but...” He trails off. “They’re opening it for us. Just us. For a private show.”
I stare at him. “You rented out the Adler Planetarium?”