Chapter 2
Logan
Iknew from a young age that whatever I wanted to do or whoever I wanted to be would never matter.
Probably too young, if I’m being honest. But a Spencer doesn’t get to choose these things.
The map to success is already drawn and, from the moment I started forming my own thoughts, I was reminded I was to never stray from that outline.
Since the creation of Willow Grove, one of my relatives has held the position of mayor.
And their offspring were expected to follow in their footsteps.
Granddad Ben passed it to my father, and my father has been priming me to take over whenever he decides to retire.
Which, if you were to ask anyone, they would have thought that he would be one foot in the grave before he loosened his hold on that seat.
He thrived with the power and attention that came with being the mayor of a small town.
But I always knew my time was coming thanks to the reminders he was always tossing my way.
I just thought I might have some more time to live for myself before he called me for service.
My dad didn’t love the idea that after I graduated college—from his alma mater, of course—that I would move to the city.
So I prettied it up under the guise I was getting as much experience in the business and political world as possible.
Truthfully, I was attempting to prolong the inevitable with small hopes that maybe, just maybe, he would find someone he preferred to take his place.
Luck wasn’t on my side when I got the call from him one Friday afternoon a couple months ago.
It was time for me to return; he told me in the gruff no-room-for-arguments voice I was too familiar with.
It was time for me to prepare an acceptance for a position under him.
Because when the first of the year came, he was going to announce his retirement, and I was to be a shoo in to replace him.
Because no one would go against a Spencer.
Since then, I’ve been pulling all possible scenarios of why I couldn’t return and take my place beneath him out of thin air.
Every time I began to tee it up for discussion, though, he pulled the guilt trip cards he clearly had been holding in his pocket all these years.
Remember those hockey lessons he shelled out money for that I went nowhere with beyond high school?
Or that Ivy League degree I didn’t have to pay a penny toward?
Remember how I was free for years in the city without a care in the world?
And the worst one of all… Remember Jake?
Yeah, my father sure did during every phone call or dinner in the city we shared. I knew it was pointless when he got my mother to pipe in with how excited she was for me to return. To settle down. To be a member of their beloved town again.
Not that I have anything against Willow Grove.
The people are wonderful, though a little nosy.
And the town is beautiful with the surrounding mountains practically hiding it from the outside world.
But at the same time, it felt stifling as I watched everyone I went to school with planning out their futures with big hopes and possibilities, while mine was already sitting in front of me—just waiting for dear old Dad to say go.
I had a good run of almost five years in the city post grad. But that came to an end officially yesterday, as I watched the moving truck pull away from the sidewalk. My new apartment fully furnished and ready to be lived in.
I could feel the nails in my coffin being hammered in. The final one, though, waited until this very moment as I walked into town hall and headed toward my father’s office.
“Ah, there he is now.” My father stands at the head of a conference table. A wide smile on his lips, but a gleam in his eyes that tells me he’s not happy with my slight tardiness.
“Sorry I’m late,” I nod around the large oak conference table, catching my mother’s tense face to his right.
The rest of the room is full of kind smiles on faces I recognize, as well as ones I couldn’t pull out of a lineup if I tried.
Most wear business casual, but there’s a few in their everyday wear.
Namely, those that are contributing members of the town sitting in on board meetings to make sure lines aren’t crossed and ink isn’t spilled where it shouldn’t.
It’s too late for that, I think to myself as I recall the conversations my father and I had when he called me those months ago.
When he informed me of what was really going on in my hometown.
Knowing what I know right now tells me that the meetings they aren’t privileged enough to attend are the ones they need to be concerned about.
“Nonsense,” Harry Lancaster, the owner of everyone’s favorite local diner, holds his hand out for me to shake as I take the open seat next to him. “Good to see you again, son.”
“We were just talking about how excited we are to have you back where you belong,” my father taps his fingers against the back of the chair in front of him. A tell that his patience has worn thin, and he is trying to squelch the bubbling anger.
A tell I saw too often in my childhood.
I swallow against the lump that builds in my throat at the thought and move my gaze around the room again, pasting on my second nature politician’s son smile and hoping it reaches my eyes. That way, no one can see how my body is fighting against this development in my life.
“I’m excited to be back. And I don’t want to steer from the usual, so let’s get right to it. What are we discussing today?” Any topic is better than the topic of me right now.
“The Harvest Festival,” Mother pipes up, a true light in her eyes now as her lips tip up in joy. Margot Spencer lived for events and charity, taking advantage of any chance to host.
The Harvest Festival was the biggest tradition in Willow Grove history and something she was proud to head every single year.
She plops open the overstuffed binder on the table, leafing quickly to get to the page she needs.
“We still have so much to do and not a lot of time to get it done. The date we are landing on is November first. So, we only have four weeks to get everything squared away.”
With a huff, my father takes his seat, his eyes glancing around the room as if making sure everyone was listening to what she had to say. Probably so he could get this out of the way and move on to more important things on his agenda.
“Unfortunately, I do have a tad bit more of not so great news.” My mom’s voice grows somber enough that I worry it might actually be bad news.
I guess it is in her book. “I will need to pass along the planning baton for the Harvest Festival. This year needs to be the biggest and best, therefore we have decided to extend the festivities with a masquerade gala the following night. I can’t handle both, so I will need someone to head the festival while I take on the gala. ”
My father interrupts with a clearing of his throat.
“That’s where Logan comes in. This upcoming year we are due for some infrastructure updates, and this event is going to go a long way toward that.
We need all hands on deck.” His eyes cut to me.
“What better way to thank the town for welcoming you back than making this the best year we have seen? Don’t you agree, Logan? ”
All heads turn toward me as my father smirks, knowing he backed me into a corner so I can’t say no, while also pushing me into a task he’s built up so high I bet he couldn’t even reach it.
I bite my tongue against the truth I want to toss out at him, instead addressing the people around the table. “Absolutely. I look forward to it.”
“Wonderful, anything else?” He looks toward my mother expectantly.
“Actually,” she starts, an irritated look in her eyes as she cuts them over at my father.
“I had someone in mind, but I do think it would be beneficial for Logan to have his name attached, too. I hope she won’t mind…
” Mom nibbles on her lip, thinking for a second until she looks toward the doorway.
Her expression lights up when she sees who is walking in. “Gwendolyn, perfect timing.”
I tilt my head to the door, bracing myself for the girl I used to know.
And while it is still who I remember, from the sheepish grin to her long strawberry blond locks that fall in her face as she juggles the pastry boxes in her arms, Gwen Prescott isn’t the teenage girl I see in my mind after all this time. No, she is all woman now.
“Speak of the devil and he shall appear, am I right?” She chuckles as her eyes go around the room, stopping just shy of me, as the boxes tilt to the left a little too much.
I can see the fall happening in slow motion.
I don’t think as I jump to my feet, catching the tumbling box before it crashes to the floor.
Gwen fumbles to keep the rest of them straight as I stand to my full height in front of her.
“Oh my god, that’s embarrassing,” she mutters under her breath while a tinge of pink blooms on her cheeks.
Wanting to ease her worry, I whisper in response, “I promise no one saw that. Actually, maybe Harry, but he has no room to judge with those butterfingers.”
“I heard that,” he chuckles from behind my back.
“Logan,” her pink lips part on my name, sending my sight straight down to the plump skin. Her tongue darts out to wet them.
“Hey, Gwenny.”
She blinks at her nickname, taking a step back on an inhale so deep I can see her chest move. Don’t ask me the color of anything, because I’m trying too hard not to track my gaze all over this new-to-me adult version of my childhood friend in a low-cut shirt.
“Logan, dear, bring those treats over here,” Mom tsks. “They are not all for you.”
The table chuckles, reminding me we have an audience. I take a step back to let Gwen pass me. Her scent invades my senses when she passes in front of me, and I want to follow her if only to catch another whiff when she’s too far away to smell it again. It’s something floral with a hint of peaches.
I shake my head to clear it from the fog that seems to be Gwendolyn Prescott in adulthood.
She smiles down at my parents, more so my mom while giving my father a polite tilt of her lips. Lifting the lid of one of the boxes, she turns it in his direction to pick what he wants.
“Ah, Ophelia’s strawberry scone,” he hums as he takes a bite.
“Made just for you, Mayor Spencer.”
I squint at their exchange, knowing my father gets a kick out of being called that. I want to tell her not to, as to not feed into his ego, but it’s too late for that when his chest puffs up slightly.
“And Mrs. Spencer, a blueberry muffin for you.” Gwen reaches in and takes out a picture-perfect oversized muffin that has my mouth watering.
“You know the way to my heart,” Mom winks at her.
The rest of the table passes around the boxes, picking out their choices and digging in without another moment wasted. I can’t say I blame them as I eye all the baked goods laid out on the table now.
“Logan,” Mom interrupts my thoughts. “Have a seat and grab a pastry before the vultures eat them all. You do not want to miss the magic that comes out of Gwen and Ophelia’s kitchen.” She pats Gwen’s hand on the table, and I watch as the blush that was on her cheeks before spreads down her neck.
“I don’t think we need introductions, do we?” Dad raises an eyebrow at me before nodding toward my vacant seat—a silent warning to take my seat again, or else.
I follow his request if only to avoid making a scene in front of everyone. “No, Gwen and I go way back. Right?” I smirk over at her as she takes the last empty seat near my mom.
“That’s right,” she agrees without making eye contact with me. “Can’t forget childhood neighbors that easily.”
“Or science lab partners,” I add on as the memory of my senior year tickles the back of my mind.
“Good, this will make this that much easier,” Mom pats her mouth with a napkin before turning to Gwen. “How do you feel about planning this year’s Harvest Festival?”
Gwen sits up straighter, her eyes going wide. “What? Me?” Her mouth gaps open a couple of times in disbelief. “I would be honored. Anything you need, I’m your girl.”
“That’s the spirit,” Mom beams at her. “Sounds like we have a plan. I trust you and Logan to set up some time to go over ideas.”
I watch in silence as Gwen’s mouth snaps shut, a small frown marring her face. “I’m sorry, you mean you want Logan and me to work on it? Together?”
Dad nods his head. “That’s exactly what we are saying.
Logan’s got a lot to prove, and my wife seems to think you’re the perfect person to help guide him through this as he acclimates to the town again.
Now, let’s move this meeting along.” He glances at his Rolex quickly.
“I only have a few more minutes until I need to be in another meeting.”
I more or less zone out the rest of the time as Dad drones on, asking for confirmation of information from the members around the table. But my attention is mostly on the beauty across the table, who is busy keeping her sights on anywhere but me right now.