Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
CASSIE
A few days pass with me avoiding Logan like the plague. I wake up earlier, make sure to be going on walks, and just generally not around whenever he is.
And then I find the coffee shop by accident, just wandering around the cute little downtown in Riverbend.
Tucked between an antique bookstore and a florist that still does handwritten receipts, it looks like a painting come to life—weathered bricks, a crooked wooden sign, and a porch full of mismatched rocking chairs. The place is called “The Roost.” I don’t even hesitate.
Inside, the ceilings are high and the light is golden, streaming through stained-glass windows like something holy.
There are plants everywhere—ferns hanging from hooks, succulents clustered on windowsills, a fiddle-leaf fig that looks like it’s been growing since 1992.
The floors creak. The tables don’t match.
And yet, somehow, it feels perfect. Better than the last place I went to.
Like it was built for people like me—tired hearts looking for something quiet. Something about it puts me at ease.
I order a cappuccino and a raspberry scone and settle into the corner booth next to a stack of old National Geographic magazines. I pull out my phone to scroll, mostly out of habit, and that’s when I see it.
Logan Wade: Game 1 Highlights
His name is all over the local feed.
Terrific. Just what I need. Surprise surprise—my phone is listening to me and giving me related Reels.
Because I am, apparently, sadistic, I watch.
A clip of him snagging a hard-hit grounder down the line at third. A close-up of his serious game face. An interview after the game where he runs a hand through his hair and says, “Just doing my best to stay ready.” He looks hot. Of course he does. Stupid, talented man.
I shake my head and swipe past it. Not my business. Not my problem.
“Used to be that people’d talk about this place,” a voice says from behind the counter. “Now it’s all Logan Wade and lattés the size of bathtubs.”
I glance up. The owner is a woman in her forties, maybe early fifties. Sharp jawline, silver-streaked curls piled on her head, and a tattoo of a sunflower peeking out from her shirt sleeve. Her name tag says June.
“I’m sorry?” I say.
She gestures to my phone. “Not mad. Just...remembering when our coffee made the front page. I’ve owned The Roost for twenty years.
Never thought I’d see the day I got outbrewed by one of those drive-by coffee spots.
They’re all the rage now. And then there’s this new ballplayer in town?
Yeah, he’s come in a couple of times. Caused quite the stir.
Someone did a write up of him in the paper.
And, well, I suppose people don’t even read the paper any more.
But it just makes me think, you know? But that’s how it is in the world. The only constant is change.”
There’s a beat of silence as she wipes her hands on a towel and nods toward the espresso machine.
“Chain shop opened six blocks down,” she says.
“One of those places with the neon signs and the cardboard art. They serve everything iced and overpriced, and the high schoolers flock like moths. And they have a drive through and an order-ahead app. We don’t do that here.
I always just wanted to have a cute place where people could sit down and really converse with their coffee. ”
I offer a small smile. “This place is amazing, though.”
“Maybe,” she says. “But amazing don’t always pay the rent.”
There’s a weight in her words I recognize.
That stubborn hope you hold onto, even when the odds are stacking higher than you want to admit.
“I’m Cassie,” I say, reaching out my hand. “And for what it’s worth—this is the best cappuccino I’ve had in months. Frothy and perfect.”
June smiles. It’s small. But real.
“Well, Cassie,” she says, “you’re welcome here anytime.”
“Oh, I’ll be back.”
And I realize, in that moment, that maybe I needed this more than I thought.
Not just the caffeine, but the quiet and a nice big corner booth to remind me that sometimes the best things aren’t loud or shiny. They’re tucked away, just waiting for you to find them.
I plug in my headphones, put my phone away, and take out my journal.
I write about everything. The breakup. Possible plans. Brainstorm about what an ex-corporate girl like me could do in a town like this.
Maybe it’s the ambience here—she’s got comfy chairs and high ceilings—but the words start to really, really flow.
I don’t usually cook.
Not because I can’t—just because I don’t bother when it’s just me. But tonight, with the house quiet and Logan due back late, I figure…why not? He is paying me to host him, after all.
There’s something calming about chopping onions and letting garlic sizzle in a pan.
I throw together a pasta dish with roasted vegetables and fresh basil, and before I know it, the whole kitchen smells like something out of an Italian grandmother’s daydream.
I’m just putting the last touches on the salad when I hear the front door creak open.
“Something smells amazing,” Logan says as he kicks off his shoes.
“Don’t get too excited. It’s just pasta.”
“Still. Major upgrade from the turkey sandwiches I’ve been inhaling all week.”
I smile and hand him a glass of water. He looks flushed from the game, hair still damp from a quick shower, sleeves pushed up, forearms tanned and dusted with dirt that didn’t quite come off. And for a second, I just look at him. He notices.
“What?” he asks, smirking.
“Nothing.”
“You cook enough for two? Or am I on my own?”
“I suppose I owe you from that salmon dinner you made the other night.”
“Yes!” He pumps his fist, so animated you’d have thought he just won the lottery.
“Simmer down, it’s not that big of a deal.”
“It really is. I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me.”
“Well, don’t get used to it. This is a one-off.”
We sit down and eat together, the silence easy, the kind that only happens when you’re used to someone being around. I find myself telling him about the coffee shop.
“So. How was your day?” he asks, and he’s sincere but his tone is also half-roleplaying like we’re some domestic thing. I decide to just play along. “Tell me the details, Cass.”
I roll my eyes.
“Sorry. Miss Cassie. Not Cass.”
“Well, there’s this woman, June,” I say, twirling my fork.
“She owns this coffee shop in town. The place is incredible. Plants everywhere, real espresso, mismatched furniture she sourced from secondhand stores. The place really has a unique ambiance. But she’s struggling.
She says a chain coffee place moved in down the road, and now she’s barely keeping the lights on. ”
He chews thoughtfully. “Why don’t you help her?”
I blink. “Help her?”
“Yeah. You’ve got a business background, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, but not that kind of business. I worked in corporate. Marketing campaigns. Strategy decks. Not mom-and-pop coffee shop rescue missions.”
Logan shrugs. “Still. You’re super smart. Why not just go for it?”
The compliment lands soft and unexpected. “You think I’m super smart?”
He looks at me, and something flickers behind his eyes—something earnest, unguarded. “Look…I’m not the smartest crayon in the box, Cassie. I admit that. I hit baseballs for a living. I memorize signs and eat sunflower seeds and try to not get beaned by fastballs.”
I laugh, but he keeps going.
“But the moment I met you—even with ketchup on your face—I could tell. You’ve got this spark. Like you see things other people miss. It’s in the eyes. And I’m never wrong about these things. So, I don’t think. I know.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. I try to look away, but he says the compliment so simply, so matter-of-fact, and so sincere, that it almost hurts.
“Anyway,” he says, reaching for his water, “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
My heart thuds unexpectedly. “Oh? Where to?”
“Georgia. We’ve got a ten-day road trip. It’s a whole swing through the South. Jacksonville, Savannah, a couple of stops in between.”
“Oh. Cool.”
And yet it feels heavier than I expected.
He grins at me. “So don’t miss me too much.”
“Please. I’ll be too busy saving local coffee shops with my corporate strategy decks,” I say. But suddenly it feels insincere in my body.
“Exactly,” he says, still smiling. But I see some little piece of him looking back at me like maybe he’ll miss this too. Or maybe I’m just hallucinating.
“What are you up to tonight?”
“I was just going to do the dishes.”
“Nah. That’s on me.”
“No, Logan—”
“I wasn’t asking. I need to unwind anyway. I like doing the dishes.”
“You…like doing the dishes?”
“Yeah. Keeps my hands busy.”
“You’re lying.”
He wipes his mouth with a napkin, then stands, grabbing his plate and mine.
“I don’t lie,” he says. “I’m on the honor system.”
He hovers for a second, close enough that my breath catches.
Like he might kiss me.
“Take a glass of wine,” he says instead. “Head out to the patio. Brainstorm some marketing campaigns. Enjoy the vibe of the evening…Cass.”
He clears his throat.
“I mean, Miss Cassie.”
I try to shoot him a dirty look, but he’s already in the kitchen.
A second later, music starts playing. Something easy and acoustic. It sounds like either John Mayer or maybe some old-time rock and roll.
He sings along. Not loud, and definitely not for show. Just casually, like this is normal for him.
I step out onto the patio with my wine, the evening air soft against my skin and listen to his voice drift through the open door.
And somewhere between the music and the quiet sounds of the evening, a realization settles in.
I actually might miss that man.