Chapter 9 Elizabeth
ELIZABETH
When you want to save someone’s reputation, show them saving puppies or babies.
I decided to go with puppies.
I’m instant proof that accidentally killing a dog can ruin your career, so it stands to reason that saving one can only help.
It was textbook PR strategy—a simple, foolproof way to make Logan Richards look less like a tabloid train wreck and more like a man who could responsibly hold a leash without causing national controversy.
That’s why the perfect first date for Logan and Sophie was a dog adoption day in New Orleans City Park.
I stood off to the side at the small dog park, called City Bark.
My clipboard was in one hand, and I scanned the crowd for any signs of disaster.
The event was carefully orchestrated. A local shelter provided the dogs, a handful of strategically invited photographers had cameras at the ready, and Sophie Hartwell was positively glowing in the late afternoon sun, already cooing at a tiny corgi.
Sophie flashed a megawatt grin as she twirled slightly, positioning herself at the perfect angle for the cameras. She giggled. “Aren’t they precious?”
Logan, on the other hand, stood next to Sophie, looking as though he had just been sentenced to community service.
It was a good thing I had a direct line to his ear.
I activated my mic. “Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself. Maybe even smile.”
Logan didn’t glance my way.
And he sure didn’t smile.
I couldn’t help but be annoyed. Because no matter how much I’d prepped him, no matter how many last-minute coaching sessions we’d had, I knew Logan Richards was about as easy to control as a tornado in a leather jacket.
I clicked my mic again. “Logan, tilt your body toward Sophie a little. It’ll look more natural for the cameras.”
Nothing.
I tried again. “Logan, put your arm on Sophie’s shoulder. It tests well.”
Instead of turning to Sophie and playing the part of the doting boyfriend and securing the perfect photo-op, he pulled out his phone.
I clenched my jaw. Was he seriously about to check his texts right now?
I forced my voice to stay even. “Logan, put your phone—”
And then he yanked the earpiece right out of his ear.
Ripped it out and tossed it in his pocket like it was an annoying piece of lint instead of the only thing keeping him on script.
No earpiece meant no control. No control meant my client was about to go rogue in the middle of a carefully curated PR event that was supposed to be cute, wholesome, and entirely scripted.
I launched out of my hiding spot behind the staging area, ignoring the weird looks from the photographers and volunteers as I speed-walked toward him.
This was my job on the line. Logan Richards had already burned through a dozen second chances.
If this didn’t work, and if he managed to make adopting puppies controversial, then it was my reputation going up in flames right next to his.
I was halfway there when chaos hit.
A scrappy, wiry-haired mutt named Buttons, the problem child of the adoption event, came barreling out of nowhere, ears flopping wildly, leash trailing behind him like a rogue firehose.
Buttons had been the last pick, the dog nobody wanted.
Not because he wasn’t cute—he was all spindly legs, shaggy fur, and a face that somehow looked permanently surprised—but because he didn’t follow the rules.
Every other dog sat nicely, wagged politely, and did their job being adorable little PR props.
Buttons? Bolted every second he saw an opening.
Which, right now, was directly at Logan.
“Logan, move!” I shouted.
Too late.
Buttons collided full-speed with Logan’s legs, tangled in his leash, and the leash wound around Logan’s ankle three times in under five seconds.
Logan stumbled, windmilling his arms as he tried to catch his balance.
Sophie shrieked and leaped back onto a bench like she’d witnessed an actual crime. “Oh no, I can’t run in these shoes!”
I dove for the leash.
So did Logan.
Instead of grabbing the leash, we grabbed each other.
And then we were both falling.
Somehow, I ended up flat on my back, Logan’s weight pressing into me, my breath catching at the solid warmth of him.
For a second, neither of us moved.
His face was too close.
I could feel the warmth of him, his chest rising and falling against mine, his breath still uneven from the impact. His eyes locked onto mine, and it was like every nerve in my body lit up at once.
Nope. Absolutely not.
I shoved the feeling aside and immediately pushed myself up, untangling myself from him like I couldn’t get away fast enough. I smoothed down my skirt, ignoring the heat still prickling at the back of my neck.
And then Buttons, still vibrating with chaotic energy, lunged at Logan and attacked his face with enthusiastic, slobbering licks.
I braced for Logan to lose it. To shove the dog away, to curse, to give me one more problem to deal with in this absolute disaster of a day.
Instead…
He laughed.
A real, unfiltered, genuine laugh. Not the snarky, bitter kind he usually wielded like a weapon, but something warm, surprised, completely unguarded.
I froze.
Logan Richards, laughing.
Not at me, not at some sarcastic joke. He actually sounded happy.
He scrubbed a hand over Buttons’ wiry fur, grinning as the dog wagged his entire body in excitement. “Alright, alright, you win, little dude,” he murmured, scratching behind his floppy ears.
Logan scratched behind its ears, murmuring something low under his breath that I couldn’t quite catch.
My heart softened.
Against my will.
Against all logic, all sense, all previous experience with this man.
I should have been moving.
I should have been getting Sophie over here, making sure the cameras were capturing the right angles, doing my actual job.
But instead, I just stood there, watching.
Watching the way Logan’s rough, calloused hands moved carefully over the dog’s fur. Watching how his whole posture softened, how the tension he always carried around like armor disappeared. Watching how his smile wasn’t for the cameras.
It was for the dog.
And for a second, I forgot why I was even there.
I blinked hard, shaking the cobwebs out of my head. Focus. This wasn’t about Logan being sweet with a dog. This was about making sure the world saw it.
I spun on my heel, scanning the area until I spotted Sophie, who was standing off to the side, still looking vaguely horrified by the entire situation.
Fixable. Easily fixable.
I slipped into PR mode, crossing the distance in a few quick strides. “Sophie,” I said, plastering on a warm, encouraging smile. “This is perfect. Get in there. Laugh. Touch his arm. Look like you’re having fun.”
She hesitated. “With… the dog?”
I fought the urge to groan. “With Logan. And the dog. C’mon let’s go.”
To her credit, Sophie recovered quickly, pasting on her most charming, girl-next-door expression as she followed me over to Logan.
She looped her arm through his, pressing against his side. To my surprise, he didn’t flinch.
When the cameras snapped, he smiled.
And just like that, the moment was theirs.
The puppy, finally sensing that it had secured Logan as its new best friend, plopped itself right onto his foot, panting happily, wagging its whole body in delight.
Sophie clapped her hands. “Let’s take him for a walk! How cute would that be?”
She wasn’t wrong.
I tilted my head, murmuring: “If we advertise this puppy as the one you two walked, he’ll get adopted in a heartbeat.”
Logan froze. “What about the rest of them?”
I hesitated. “What do you mean?”
Logan gestured at the dogs that were older, scruffier, a little less picture-perfect than Buttons. “What happens to the rest of them?”
“I mean,” I started carefully, “that’s… kind of how it works. The cute ones get more attention, and—”
“Nope.” Logan stood up, dusting off his jeans. “That’s not gonna work for me.”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and started typing furiously.
I panicked. “What are you doing?”
“Using my biggest asset.”
At first, I bristled, thinking he was about to flaunt some reckless stunt that would've made headlines. My mind raced through all the PR nightmares his “assets” had caused.
I looked over his shoulder to see what he was doing on his phone. He was posting to social media, not only about Buttons, but about the whole shelter. A series of photos and videos with the caption: “Let’s get all these guys adopted. Who’s got room for a new best friend?”
I blinked. I didn’t expect this. Not from the guy who had spent the last few days mocking this entire process, acting like he was too cool to care, too above it all to play the game.
Sophie squealed, grabbing Logan’s arm. “OH MY GOSH, this is perfect! Your fans are going to love this! It’s such a good look for you.”
But Logan wasn’t listening. He wasn’t smirking or rolling his eyes or making some sarcastic remark about damage control. His focus was still on Buttons, absentmindedly rubbing behind the dog’s ears, like he hadn’t even considered what this meant for his image.
And his fans?
They went wild. Almost instantly.
Within minutes, the internet exploded. The posts that Logan had made to social media went viral before I could even process what was happening.
Likes, shares, and comments flooded in. Over the next couple of hours, New Orleans residents began to arrive at City Bark, eager to adopt and catch a glimpse of Logan and Sophie.
Fans offered to sponsor adoptions. Organizations jumped in to match donations.
The shelter’s website crashed under the sudden wave of traffic.
The media picked it up next. Journalists, in addition to the pre-arranged photographers that my office had hired, arrived at the dog park.
News outlets called the shelter, scrambling for interviews.
And the best part? None of it was manufactured.
This wasn’t a PR stunt, with strategy and manipulation.
It was just Logan being unexpected, unpredictable, kneeling in the dirt with a scrappy mutt who had chosen him.
I’d spent days believing I had him figured out as a rock star who didn’t take anything seriously, a reckless bad boy who didn’t think about consequences until it was too late.
But what if I’d been wrong?
What if he wasn’t reckless, but just unpredictable? What if he wasn’t careless, but just selective about what he cared about?
At that moment, he genuinely cared about these animals.
And for the first time, I realized that maybe Logan Richards didn’t need me to make him look like a better person.
Maybe he already was one.