Chapter 15 Logan #2
I study her profile as she takes in the scenery, noting the way the cold air brings roses to her cheeks and makes her eyes water slightly.
She's beautiful in the kind of understated way that sneaks up on you, not flashy or obvious but quietly stunning in a way that gets under your skin and stays there.
"Cold?" I ask.
"A little. This coat isn't designed for actual autumn," Savannah admits.
"City autumn or mountain autumn?” I press.
"Any autumn, apparently. It's more for show than function," she replies.
Without thinking about it, I step closer, close enough that she could lean into my warmth if she wanted to. Close enough that I can smell her vanilla bourbon scent mixing with the pine and snow and clean mountain air.
"Better?" I ask.
She glances up at me, brown eyes soft and considering. "Better."
The moment stretches between us, charged with possibility and the kind of awareness that makes the air feel electric. Then she starts walking again, and I fall into step beside her, hyperaware of the small space between us and the way she occasionally bumps against my shoulder.
"So," she says as we approach what used to be Peterson's Hardware, "tell me about this coffee revolution."
The building looks the same from the outside, red brick and large windows that used to display everything from garden hoses to fishing tackle.
But now the windows are full of café tables and espresso machine equipment, and there's a hand-painted sign that reads "Sweet Dreams” in artisanal lettering.
"Let me guess," Savannah says, studying the aesthetic. "Owned by someone who moved here from California and thinks authenticity can be purchased by the square foot?"
"Close. Boulder, actually. But your point stands," I confirm.
We push through the front door, and I have to admit the renovation looks good.
Exposed brick walls, reclaimed wood tables, Edison bulb light fixtures that cast everything in warm, golden light.
The smell hits us immediately: fresh coffee, baked goods, and the particular scent of gentrification that comes with charging five dollars for something that used to cost two.
But it's warm inside, blissfully warm after the bite of mountain air, and I watch Savannah's shoulders relax as the heat wraps around us.
"Welcome to Sweet Dreams!” A young woman with purple hair and multiple piercings bounces toward us with the kind of aggressive friendliness that means she's either new to customer service or high on caffeine. "First time in?"
"First time since it stopped being a hardware store," Savannah says diplomatically, unwinding a scarf I didn't notice her wearing.
The movement reveals more of her neck, pale skin that looks soft and warm, and I have to look away before I do something stupid like stare.
"Oh, you're locals! How exciting. I'm Madison, and I just moved here from Boulder. Isn't Pine Hollow just the most charming place? Like something out of a storybook!" Madison gushes.
I catch Savannah's eye and see my own thoughts reflected there. Madison from Boulder thinks Pine Hollow is charming the same way tourists think poverty is quaint when it's packaged correctly.
"Very charming," Savannah agrees, and I catch the subtle sarcasm that Madison completely misses. "What happened to the hardware supplies?"
"Oh, there's a Home Depot about forty minutes away now. Much more convenient for everyone!" Madison explains.
"Right. Convenient," Savannah responds dryly.
We order coffee, and I have to admit it smells incredible.
Rich and complex in a way that makes my morning attempts look like flavored water.
Madison chatters about organic beans and fair-trade sourcing while she works the espresso machine with practiced efficiency, and I find myself watching Savannah's reactions instead of listening to the caffeine lecture.
She's taken off her coat, revealing the full effect of that cream-colored sweater.
It's fitted enough to show her curves without being obvious about it, and the neckline is just low enough to hint at the soft skin beneath.
My hands itch with the urge to touch, to trace the line of her collarbone, to discover if her skin is as soft as it looks.
"Are you two together?" Madison asks with the kind of innocent curiosity that isn't innocent at all. "You have such great chemistry!"
Heat floods my face, and Savannah's vanilla bourbon scent spikes with what smells like embarrassment mixed with something warmer.
"We're..." Savannah starts, then stops, her gaze flicking to mine.
"Old friends," I finish, though the words feel inadequate for whatever this is. "She's back in town for a wedding."
"Oh, how romantic! Weddings are so magical. Are you planning to stay long?" Madison asks.
"Just a few weeks," Savannah replies.
"Well, you'll have to try our Thursday night poetry readings. Very intimate, very authentic. Really captures the spirit of the community," Madison suggests.
Poetry readings. In Pine Hollow. Where the primary cultural event used to be the annual pie contest at the county fair.
"Sounds unforgettable," I say dryly.
We take our coffee and find a table by the window, where we can watch Main Street wake up to another day of being picturesque for people who've never lived here year-round. The coffee really is excellent, smooth and rich without the bitter edge that comes from sitting too long on a burner.
Savannah wraps her hands around her mug like she's trying to absorb its warmth, and I notice her fingers are long and elegant, her nails short and practical.
"Poetry readings," she muses, taking a careful sip. "Think they cover agricultural themes? Odes to hay baling, perhaps?"
"Probably more like an authentic mountain living by people who've never milked a cow," I reply.
"Harsh but probably accurate." She laughs, and the sound does things to my chest that should probably worry me. "Remember when the biggest cultural event was Mrs. Patterson's cat pageant?"
"She still does that. Seven cats now, all dressed up like tiny Victorian aristocrats," I tell her.
"Seven? She only had four when I lived here," Savannah says.
"Mr. Darcy, Heathcliff, Rochester, and Elizabeth," I list. "Then she added Jane, Emma, and Mr. Knightley."
"All literary characters, naturally," Savannah observes.
"All spoiled rotten. She brings them to Xavier for 'wellness checks' that are really just social visits," I explain.
The conversation flows easily, naturally, like we're picking up a thread we dropped eight years ago instead of trying to navigate the minefield of former lovers turned houseguests.
"Next stop?" I ask when we've finished caffeinating.
"The yoga studio. I need to see what enlightenment looks like in Pine Hollow," Savannah decides.
Mountain Serenity Yoga occupies what used to be Franklin's Five and Dime, a cramped little store that sold everything from fishing line to birthday cards to penny candy.
The windows are now full of inspirational quotes and advertisements for classes with names like "Sunrise Flow" and "Chakra Alignment. "
"Think they offer classes in practical spirituality?" Savannah asks, her breath creating small clouds in the cold air. "Like meditation for people who have to shovel snow?"
"Probably more like meditation for people who pay someone else to shovel snow," I respond.
A woman in expensive athletic wear emerges from the studio, her blonde hair perfect despite presumably having spent the last hour contorting herself into impossible positions.
She's got the kind of carefully maintained appearance that screams money and leisure time, and when she spots us through the window, she waves with the kind of enthusiasm that suggests she either knows us or thinks she should.
"That's Jessica Hamilton," I tell Savannah, moving slightly closer as we watch Jessica approach. "She moved here from California two years ago. Bought the old Mitchell place and turned it into something that belongs in a magazine."
"Jessica Hamilton. Why does that name sound familiar?" Savannah asks.
"She's Emma's college roommate. The one whose anxiety scent throws off wedding parties," I explain.
"Right. The nervous omega," Savannah recalls.
Jessica reaches us before I can explain further, her omega scent carrying expensive perfume and the kind of manufactured serenity that comes from weekly spa treatments.
"Logan Pierce! How wonderful to see you," she gushes, then turns her attention to Savannah with obvious curiosity. "And you must be Savannah. Emma's told me so much about you. I'm Jessica Hamilton."
"Nice to meet you," Savannah says with professional politeness, but I catch the way she steps slightly closer to me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body.
"I heard you're planning Emma's wedding. How exciting! I've been telling her she should consider a winter ceremony at the resort. The ballroom is just magical this time of year," Jessica suggests.
"We're keeping it local," Savannah says diplomatically. "Emma wants something that feels like Pine Hollow."
"Oh, of course. Small-town charm has its appeal." Jessica's tone suggests she finds small-town charm about as appealing as a root canal. "Well, if you need any recommendations for vendors or venues, I know simply everyone worth knowing."
"I'm sure you do," Savannah replies.
There's something in Savannah's tone that makes me bite back a grin. Polite on the surface, but with enough steel underneath to cut glass.
"Logan, you simply must bring Savannah to the New Year's Eve party at the resort. It's going to be absolutely divine. Everyone who's anyone will be there," Jessica insists.
"We'll see," I say noncommittally, because the last thing I want to do is spend New Year's Eve making small talk with transplants who think authenticity is something you can buy at Whole Foods.
"Wonderful! Well, I should dash. Hot yoga class in twenty minutes." Jessica's gaze flicks between us with obvious speculation. "You two make such a lovely couple. There's something so... primal about the way you look at each other."
Heat floods my face, and Savannah's vanilla bourbon scent spikes with embarrassment.
"We're not..." Savannah starts.
"Old friends," I finish quickly.
"Of course you are." Jessica's smile suggests she doesn't believe a word of it. "Well, I'll see you around town, I'm sure. Pine Hollow is wonderfully small that way."
She clicks away on designer boots that probably cost more than my monthly salary, leaving us standing on the sidewalk with the weight of her observation hanging between us.
"Primal?" Savannah asks, her voice carefully neutral.
"She watches too much reality TV," I reply.
"Is that what it is?" Savannah presses.
I turn to look at her, noting the way the cold air has brought more color to her cheeks and made her eyes water slightly. "What do you think it is?"
"I think Jessica Hamilton has very good instincts," Savannah admits. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," she confirms.
And just like that no more do I want to do the tour, but press my lips against her and beg her for forgiveness.
Why is this so fucking hard?