Chapter 16 Logan
LOGAN
We continue walking down Main Street, but the dynamic between us has shifted completely. Jessica's observation hangs in the air like a challenge neither of us is ready to address directly, and I'm hyperaware of every step, every breath, every sideways glance Savannah sends my way.
Her vanilla bourbon scent has gotten richer, more complex, carrying undercurrents of something I don't dare name.
When I place my hand on the small of her back to guide her around a patch of ice, she doesn't pull away, and the brief contact burns through the layers of clothing between us like a brand.
"Miller's Market?" I suggest, nodding toward the familiar storefront ahead. "We could grab some groceries for dinner."
"Sure," Savannah agrees, but her voice is slightly breathless, and she's looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. Her cheeks are flushed from more than just the cold, and she keeps tucking strands of auburn hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture I remember from when we were younger.
Miller's Market looks the same from the outside, but when we push through the automatic doors, it's clear that it has undergone subtle changes.
The produce section has been expanded and reorganized, with more organic options and locally sourced items. The aisles are wider, the lighting is better, and everything looks cleaner and more modern.
We haven't even cleared the entrance before Mrs. Henderson materializes from behind a display of organic vegetables, her omega scent sharp with curiosity and the kind of barely contained excitement that comes from spotting fresh gossip material.
"Savannah, dear! And Logan!" Her eyes practically sparkle with speculation as she takes in our proximity, the way I'm standing slightly behind Savannah with my hand still hovering near her back. "How wonderful to see you two together again!"
Together again. Like we're a reunited couple instead of two people getting coffee and running errands.
"Hello, Mrs. Henderson," Savannah says with admirable composure, but I catch the way she unconsciously moves closer to me, close enough that her shoulder brushes against my chest. "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm wonderful! Just wonderful!" Mrs. Henderson's gaze bounces between us like she's watching a tennis match, taking in every detail of our body language. "And you look lovely, dear. City life must agree with you. That sweater is just beautiful."
Translation: you look expensive, are you successful, and what's your relationship status with the attractive alpha standing next to you?
"Thank you. You look well too," Savannah responds politely, but I notice the way her fingers are gripping her purse strap tighter, the slight tension in her shoulders.
"And Logan, how nice of you to show Savannah around town. Such a gentleman!" The way she says it suggests that gentlemanly behavior is the last thing on her mind. Her eyes dart between us with obvious delight. "I was just telling Margie Patterson that you two always made such a striking couple."
My leather and cedar scent spikes with embarrassment, and I catch Savannah's vanilla bourbon doing the same thing. Heat crawls up my neck as I see where this conversation is heading.
"We're just..." I start, but Savannah cuts me off.
"Catching up," she finishes smoothly, though her voice is strained. "Logan's been showing me how the town has changed."
"Oh yes, so many changes! Some good, some..." Mrs. Henderson's voice trails off diplomatically. "Well, change is part of life, isn't it? Though I must say, some things never change. The way you two look at each other, for instance."
I see Savannah's jaw tighten almost imperceptibly, her brown eyes flashing with something that might be pain or frustration. Her scent shifts, becoming sharper, more defensive.
"We should..." I begin, recognizing the warning signs.
"Savannah Hale, as I live and breathe!"
I turn to see Margie Patterson approaching from the dairy section, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of our interaction. Her scent carries the particular excitement that comes from stumbling across Grade A gossip material, and I can practically see her mental wheels turning.
"Margie," Savannah says with forced cheerfulness, but I notice the way her hands have curled into fists at her sides. "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine, dear. Just fine. But look at you! You look absolutely radiant." Margie's voice gets louder, drawing attention from other shoppers. "Doesn't she look radiant, Logan?"
All eyes turn to me, and I feel like I'm being cross-examined by a jury of small-town busybodies. The fluorescent lights overhead feel too bright, too harsh, and I can see other customers starting to drift closer, drawn by the familiar drama of small-town gossip in action.
"She looks good," I manage, but my voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Good?" Mrs. Henderson asks, moving closer with predatory enthusiasm. "Logan Pierce, you can do better than 'good.' She looks beautiful."
"She always looks beautiful," I say without thinking, and immediately regret it when both women practically vibrate with excitement.
Savannah's vanilla bourbon scent spikes with something warm and pleased, but when I glance at her, her expression is conflicted, like she's fighting between gratitude and frustration. Her cheeks are flushed pink, and she's biting her lower lip hard enough to leave marks.
"Well, of course she does," Margie says with obvious satisfaction, her voice carrying to the other shoppers who are now openly eavesdropping. "And you two have such lovely chemistry. Anyone can see it."
"We're not..." Savannah starts, but her voice catches slightly.
"Oh, honey, there's no need to be shy about it," Mrs. Henderson interrupts, reaching out to pat Savannah's arm in a gesture that's meant to be motherly but feels invasive. "Love is beautiful at any age. And second chances are even more beautiful."
Second chances. The words hit me like a physical blow, and I see Savannah flinch as if she's been slapped. Her scent goes sharp and brittle, carrying old pain and fresh frustration.
"We should probably..." I start, desperate to extract us from this situation before it gets worse.
"Let you get on with your shopping," Margie finishes with a knowing smile that makes my skin crawl. "But Savannah, dear, you simply must bring Logan to the church potluck next Sunday. Everyone would love to see you together again."
"Together again," Mrs. Henderson echoes with obvious delight, and now half the store is listening to our conversation. "It has such a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
Savannah's breathing has gotten shallow, her hands trembling slightly as she grips her purse. I can see her struggling to maintain her composure, the professional mask she wears starting to crack around the edges.
"That's very kind," she manages, her voice tight with barely controlled emotion. "We should go."
"Of course, dear. You two enjoy your... reunion," Margie says with a meaningful wink that makes me want to disappear into the floor.
The moment they bustle away toward the produce section, Savannah turns on her heel and heads for the exit without a word. I follow, grabbing a few random items from the shelves just to avoid looking like we fled entirely, and catch up with her outside.
She's standing on the sidewalk, breathing hard in the cold mountain air. Her vanilla bourbon scent is sharp with distress.
"Savannah..."
"Don't," she says sharply, not looking at me. "Just... don't."
But she's clearly upset, her professional composure completely shattered.
"Let's go," she says abruptly.
"Where?" I ask, confused by the sudden shift.
"I don't care. Anywhere that isn't here." Her voice is brittle with emotion she's trying to suppress. "Show me the rest of your precious town tour."
The drive to Murphy's Diner passes in tense silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts.
Savannah stares out the passenger window, her reflection in the glass showing the strain she's trying to hide.
At the diner, we order coffee and sandwiches, but the conversation is stilted, forced, both of us dancing around the elephant in the room.
When I suggest the overlook after we've finished eating, she agrees with a sharp nod that suggests she's looking for somewhere private to have whatever conversation has been building since the grocery store.
The drive up Miller's Overlook takes twenty minutes on winding mountain roads that have gotten more treacherous as the afternoon has worn on. Fresh snow has started to fall, creating a white curtain that makes the world beyond our headlights disappear into gray nothing.
Savannah sits rigidly in the passenger seat, her hands folded in her lap so tightly her knuckles are white. Her vanilla bourbon scent has gone sharp and defensive, carrying undertones of old pain and fresh frustration that make my chest tight with guilt.
"We used to come up here a lot," I say, trying to break the suffocating silence.
Her laugh is bitter, humorless. "Yeah. We did."
The words carry weight I don't want to examine, implications about shared history and broken promises that hang between us like smoke.
I park in the small gravel lot, and we climb out into air that's thin enough to make your lungs work and cold enough to make your cheeks sting immediately.
The silence up here is profound, broken only by the whisper of wind through pine branches and the soft patter of snowflakes hitting the frozen ground.
"Jesus," Savannah breathes, walking to the wooden railing that separates the overlook from a thousand-foot drop into the valley below.
Pine Hollow spreads out beneath us like a picture postcard, but the view is partially obscured by the falling snow. The town nestles between rolling hills and towering peaks that disappear into gray clouds, looking small and fragile against the vast wilderness.
"Still worth the drive?" I ask, joining her at the railing, though I'm watching her face instead of the scenery.