2. Logan
Logan Pierce had faced structural fires, mountain-road accidents, panicked tourists, one overturned cider truck, and a raccoon trapped inside a chimney during Christmas week.
None of them looked at him the way Sparks did.
Like he was an inconvenience. A challenge. Possibly a tax audit.
He chuckled at Sparks.
He stepped out of the observatory into the falling snow and pulled in a cold breath, hoping the mountain air would clear the lingering smell of overheated plastic from his lungs.
It did not clear Sparks.
That was less convenient.
Behind him, the observatory glowed with warm light, silhouettes moving past the frosted windows.
The event had been well run. He had noticed that immediately because he noticed things for a living.
Clear walkways. Marked exits. Volunteers stationed where they needed to be.
Guests redirected without panic. The faulty cocoa machine isolated before it became a bigger problem.
Harper had done almost everything right.
Almost.
That was the problem with competent people. They got comfortable standing too close to trouble because they thought speed and control could outrun consequence.
Logan knew better.
Consequence did not care how organized you were. It did not respect clipboards. It did not wait for permission.
“You coming, Cap?” Nate called from the engine.
Logan glanced back.
Nate Rawlins, one of his firefighters, leaned against the passenger door with the smug expression of a man who had witnessed too much and planned to become unbearable about it.
“I’m coming,” Logan said.
Nate opened the door. “Take your time. Maybe stare at the observatory some more. Make sure it doesn’t flirt back.”
Logan stopped walking.
Nate’s grin widened.
“Problem?” Logan asked,
“No problem.”
“Then why are you smiling like an asshole?”
“Because you called the event coordinator Sparks.”
Logan opened the engine door. “The cocoa machine was smoking.”
“Sure.”
“It was a situational nickname.”
“Very professional.”
Logan gave him a look.
Nate’s grin widened.
Logan climbed into the truck and shut the door harder than necessary.
Nate slid in beside him, still grinning. In the back, Marco tried and failed to hide a laugh behind a cough.
Logan turned the engine over. “Something funny?”
“No, Cap,” Marco said immediately.
Nate looked out the windshield. “Not funny. Educational.”
Logan pulled away from the observatory. Snow dusted the road ahead, turning the mountain curve pale beneath the headlights.
He focused on the drive.
Road conditions mattered. Visibility mattered. Brake distance mattered.
Sparks’s mouth did not matter. Her voice did not matter. The way she had said, if you wanted my phone number, you could have just asked, did not matter.
Her number should matter on his speed dial. His subconscious screamed at him.
He tightened his grip on the wheel.
Nate, unfortunately, had survival instincts only during actual emergencies.
“So,” Nate said. “Safety review tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“You need backup?”
“No.”
“You sure? The clipboard looked armed.”
Marco lost the battle with his laughter.
Logan gave both of them a look.
The truck went silent for eight satisfying seconds.
Then Nate said, “She handled it well.”
Logan kept his eyes on the road. “She did.”
“Fast.”
“Yes.”
“Calm.”
“Yes.”
“Pretty.”
Logan’s jaw tightened. “Irrelevant.”
“Didn’t say it was relevant. Just making a full report.”
“I will shove your report up your ass.”
“Noted. Removing ‘pretty’ from official record.”
“Remove yourself from the conversation.”
Nate leaned back, smugness radiating off him like heat from bad wiring.
Logan drove the rest of the way to the station without giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Mostly.
The Maple Peak Fire Station sat near the center of town, a squat red-brick building with two bays, a small office, a bunk room, and a kitchen that had survived more crimes than any emergency scene Logan had ever investigated.
By the time they returned, the night crew had fresh coffee on.
Bad coffee.
Firehouse coffee always tasted like someone had brewed it through a work boot, but it was hot and therefore acceptable.
Logan hung his jacket, logged the observatory call, and made notes on the equipment issue. Rented cocoa machine. Internal wiring fault. No extension cord. No injuries. No flame spread. Event coordinator acted quickly.
He paused over the sentence. Then added: Recommend review of safe-distance protocols for event staff.
His phone buzzed before he could close the report.
Mayor Elaine Whitcomb.
Logan considered ignoring it. Then remembered ignoring the mayor usually resulted in her appearing in person with muffins and a request that sounded friendly until it ruined his week.
He answered the phone. “Pierce.”
“Captain,” Mayor Whitcomb said warmly. Too warmly in fact. “I heard we had a little excitement at the observatory.”
“A rented beverage unit overheated. There were no injuries or structural risk.”
“Excellent. Harper handled it, then.”
Logan looked at the report on his desk. “She acted quickly.”
“Good. She’s doing wonderful work for the town.”
“She’s thorough.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
Logan leaned back in his chair. There it was – the trapdoor inside an innocent sentence.
“What do you need, Mayor?”
“I need you to be charming.”
“No.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“I’ve heard enough.”
A soft laugh came through the phone. “The Maple Peak Winter Firelight Festival is in two weeks.”
“I know.”
“I also know you’ve seen the proposal.”
“I have.”
“And?”
“It contains an alarming number of ways to create flame near civilians.”
“It’s called the Firelight Festival, Logan.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It makes it thematic.”
“It makes it evidence.”
The mayor sighed. “This is exactly why I’m calling. After tonight, I think it would be wise to have you officially assigned as safety liaison.”
Logan closed his eyes.
Outside his office, Nate’s voice drifted from the kitchen. “Ask him about Sparks!”
Logan opened his eyes.
Murder was illegal.
“Safety liaison,” Logan repeated.
“Yes.”
“For Harper Lane.”
“For the festival.”
“That she’s coordinating.”
“Yes.”
Logan stared at the wall calendar. The Firelight Festival date was circled in blue. Someone had drawn a tiny flame beside it. He suspected Nate.
“Mayor, my department already reviews the final safety plan.”
“I’d like you involved earlier.”
“How early?”
“Tomorrow.”
Of course.
Logan rubbed a hand over his jaw.
Harper’s face flashed through his mind again. Bright eyes. Sharp smile. That ridiculous confidence wrapped around a private thread of panic he had noticed when she first turned toward him.
He had seen fear under her polish. It wasn’t the fear of fire, but the fear of blame. That bothered him. A little too much.
“Captain?” the mayor prompted.
“I’ll review the plans.”
“Excellent.”
“I’m not approving unsafe features because they’re cozy.”
“I would never ask you to.”
“You would.”
“I would ask politely.”
“No.”
“Wear the nice uniform tomorrow.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Nothing. Thank you, Logan.”
The call ended. He stared at his phone. Then at the report. Then at the closed office door, beyond which his crew was suspiciously very quiet. That meant they were listening.
Logan opened the door and saw three men fascinated by random objects that were rather very unfascinating. Nate was inspecting a banana, Marco was stirring coffee that did not need stirring, and Davis was reading the same evacuation-poster headline twice.
Logan crossed his arms. “Something to say?”
Nate lifted the banana. “Potassium saves lives.”
“Office. Now.”
Nate pointed to himself. “Me?”
“All of you.”
They stepped into the office with the solemn expressions of men pretending they had not been gossiping five seconds earlier. Logan pulled the Firelight Festival proposal from the folder on his desk and dropped it open.
“Since everyone is interested, we’re reviewing the festival plan.”
Nate leaned in. “Is that the one with the lantern walk?”
“Yes.”
Marco whistled softly. “Pretty event.”
“Pretty events still burn.”
Davis peered at the page. “Bonfire at six-thirty.”
“Controlled bonfire,” Nate said.
Logan looked at him.
Nate cleared his throat. “Theoretically controlled.”
“Outdoor heaters near vendor tents,” Logan said.
Marco winced. “That’ll need spacing.”
“Food truck generators.”
“Cord management,” Davis said.
“String lights along the east walkway.”
“Depends on load,” Marco said.
“Children’s marshmallow station.”
The room went silent.
Nate lowered the banana.
“Children,” Logan said, “with sticks.”
Davis nodded gravely. “Sticky sticks.”
“Near fire,” Marco added.
Nate said, “Thematic.”
Logan gave him a flat look.
Nate held up both hands. “Terrible. Dangerous. Joy must be inspected.”
Logan sat behind his desk and scanned the plan again.
Harper’s notes were everywhere. Neat. specific. Better than he expected. Vendor call times, power needs, volunteer assignments, weather alternatives, emergency paths, crowd-control estimates.
She was not careless – she was ambitious. Ambition could be just as dangerous when paired with pressure, especially if someone had something to prove.
His gaze caught on a section labeled Controlled Urgency Protocol.
He stared at it.
Nate leaned over his shoulder. “What’s controlled urgency?”
“Something people say right before losing control.”
“Sounds like her.”
Logan looked up.
Nate smiled with deeply poor judgment.
Logan tapped the paper. “We’re doing a full inspection tomorrow morning. Grounds, electrical access, vendor positions, heater placement, crowd flow.”
“Want us there?”
“No. I’ll do the first pass.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“With Harper?”
“Yes.”
Nate grinned.
Logan pointed at him. “Do not.”
“I said nothing.”
“You thought loudly.”
“That’s not in the manual.”
“It will be.”
The crew scattered before Logan could assign equipment cleaning.
Smart men.