3. Harper
Harper Lane had been inspected before. Health inspectors. Venue managers. Corporate clients with clipboards of their own. One terrifying mother of the bride who wore pearls like ammunition and once asked whether Harper had “considered controlling the weather.”
But no inspections had ever looked quite like Captain No-Fun standing in her office, frowning at her festival map as if the paper had personally endangered the town.
He tapped the bonfire location with his black pen.
“No.”
Harper stared at him. “That is not feedback.”
“It’s concise feedback.”
“It’s murder in one syllable.”
“The bonfire is too close to the vendor lane.”
“It is thirty feet away.”
“Twenty-eight.”
She leaned over the map. “Did you just measure that with your eyes?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you did.”
He looked up. “I’ll confirm on-site.”
“Wonderful. Maybe the ground will confess under pressure.”
Logan ignored that and drew a clean line across her map.
Harper’s soul left her body.
“You did not just cross out my bonfire.”
“I crossed out the proposed location.”
“With no warning.”
“You were present.”
“That is not emotional preparation.”
“It’s a map, Harper.”
“It was a balanced visual experience.”
“It was a hazard.”
She snatched up her own pink pen and drew a circle farther to the west.
“There. New location. More clearance. Still visible from the cider station. Still atmospheric. Still legal.”
He studied it.
Harper waited patiently. The man had weaponized silence. It should have required a permit.
“Better,” he said.
The word landed with irritating satisfaction.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” she said.
“I’m not surprised.”
“You look surprised.”
“I looked thoughtful.”
“You looked like a man discovering women can read tape measures.”
His mouth twitched.
Small. Invisible. Infuriatingly attractive.
“I never doubted your tape-measure literacy,” he said.
“How generous.”
“I doubted your willingness to sacrifice ambiance.”
Harper placed one hand over her heart. “Ambiance is the fragile bird of event planning.”
“Ambiance is combustible when hung too close to portable heaters.”
“You talk like a man who has never once appreciated fairy lights.”
“I appreciate them when they’re rated for outdoor use, secured properly and plugged into a safe power source.”
She stared at him.
“You made fairy lights boring.”
“I made them less likely to kill someone.”
“That is your brand, isn’t it?”
“Public safety?”
“Romantic oppression.”
The time, he did smile. Not fully, but enough to make the office feel warmer than it had any right to be.
Harper turned away first because she had survival instincts and a festival to defend.
They spent the next forty minutes battling over the map.
Logan wanted the food trucks moved six feet farther from the generator area.
Harper wanted them close enough to the seating section so that guests would not wander across the lantern path carrying chili in paper bowls.
Logan wanted fewer outdoor heaters near the craft stalls.
Harper wanted guests to retain all ten fingers.
Logan wanted the children’s marshmallow station renamed.
“Renamed?” Harper asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s called Marshmallow Mountain.”
“That sounds like an invitation to chaos.”
“It sounds adorable.”
“It sounds like children with sticks and sugar near heat.”
“That is literally the concept.”
“That’s the problem.”
Harper leaned back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. “What would you call it?”
“Supervised roasting station.”
She stared at him for three long seconds.
Then she wrote it down.
Logan blinked. “You’re using that?”
“No. I’m documenting it for evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“That you are emotionally unwell.”
He folded his arms. “Says the woman with a binder labeled ‘Emergency Ribbon Options.’”
Harper glanced at the shelf behind her.
“That binder is private.”
“It’s visible.”
“It’s still emotionally private.”
His gaze moved over the office again, taking in her labels, color-coded tabs, floor plans, call sheets, vendor contracts, weather alternatives, and the small sticky note on her laptop that read: brEATHE FIRST. FIX SECOND.
He noticed too much.
That was becoming a problem.
Most people saw the polish and assumed she was fussy, dramatic, overprepared. Someone who loved control because she was bossy.
Logan looked at her plans like he understood they were armor.
Understanding was dangerous. It made a person harder to dismiss.
He picked up the vendor list. “You have backup vendors.”
“Yes.”
“For cider, lights, tents and portable toilets.”
“Romance may survive without fairy lights, Captain. It cannot survive without toilets.”
Another twitch of his mouth.
She was starting to hate that twitch. She was also starting to chase it, which was worse.
“You planned alternative power routes?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Volunteer fire watch near the bonfire?”
“Yes.”
“Crowd-flow lanes in case the west path freezes?”
“Yes.”
“Backup warming station?”
“Yes.”
He turned another page.
Harper waited for the next correction.
It did not come.,
Instead, he said, “This is good work.”
The office went annoyingly quiet.
Harper’s fingers tightened around her pink pen.
There it was again. That plain, unvarnished praise. No performance. No flattery. Just Logan Pierce looking at her work and seeing the work.
She cleared her throat. “Careful. You’ll injure yourself.”
“I can recognize a solid plan.”
“Can you? Does it hurt?”
His eyes lifted to hers. “You always joke when someone compliments you?”
Harper looked down at the map too quickly.
“No.”
“Yes.”
She drew a meaningless star beside the cider station because her hand needed something to do. “I joke when people get sentimental over event logistics.”
“That wasn’t sentimental.”
“Your version was.”
“Harper.”
The way he said her name was not a warning this time.
It was quieter.
Worse.
She looked up despite herself.
His face had changed. The sternness was still there because apparently Logan had been born with it and saw no reason to return it, but something steadier sat beneath it now.
“You know what you’re doing,” he said.
Her chest tightened.
Ridiculous.
Three sentences from a firefighter and she was ready to act like she had been handed a national award.
“I do,” she said, lighter than she felt. “Which is why your campaign against Marshmallow Mountain feels unnecessary.”
“It still needs supervision.”
“It has supervision.”
“It has Tim.”
“Tim is growing.”
“Tim labeled lantern batteries ‘spicy candles.’”
“That was one time.”
“That was this morning.”
Harper sighed. “Fine. I’ll assign an additional volunteer.”
“Someone not named Tim.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“I drive an engine.”
“Do you practise these lines in the mirror?”
“No.”
“You should. Some of them almost work.”
His gaze held hers for a beat too long.
Then a knock sounded on the open door.
Stella Reed appeared in the doorway holding a stack of printed programs, her dark hair falling over one shoulder and her smile far too innocent.
“Am I interrupting?”
“Yes,” Harper said.
“No,” Logan said at the same time.
Stella looked between them.
Harper pointed at her. “Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought loudly.”
“That seems to be going around,” Logan muttered.
Harper looked at him. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
Stella’s smile grew more innocent. “I just came to drop off the updated observatory guest list for the festival. Dr. Blackwood also wanted me to mention that the astronomy booth needs access to power.”
Logan’s head turned slowly toward Harper.
Harper lifted a finger. “Before you begin grieving, the astronomy booth is low draw, independently routed, weather-safe, and nowhere near anything flammable.”
“Define nowhere near.”
“Far enough that even your blood pressure can relax.”
“My blood pressure is fine.”
Stella made a soft sound.
Harper did not look at her.
Logan, however, did and found her completely engrossed in the files in her hands.
“I’ll leave these here,” she said brightly. “Harper, Sophie called. She and Jace are bringing the extra folding tables later. Claire said Ethan has traffic cones if you need them. Lily asked if the medical tent needs supplies.”
“Tell Lily yes, and tell Mason not to send anything terrifying.”
Stella laughed. “Define terrifying.”
“Anything that makes the first aid station look like people came to the festival to lose a limb.”
Logan’s eyes moved to Harper. “Medical tent?”
“Marked on page six.”
He flipped to page six.
Paused. Then nodded once.
“Good placement.”
Harper tried not to preen.
She failed internally.
Stella, unfortunately, saw everything. “I’ll let you two continue saving the town from joy.”
“Thank you,” Harper said.
Logan said, “That phrase is inaccurate.”
Stella waved the comment away and disappeared down the hall.
Harper reached for a box beside her desk labeled SIGNAGE – WEST PATH.
Logan’s hand came down on the lid before she could lift it.
“No.”
Harper looked at his hand.
Large. Scarred across one knuckle.
Then she looked at his face.
“Are you saying no to signage now?”
“I’m saying no to you carrying that.”
“I carry boxes all the time.”
“That box is heavy.”
“You determined that with your eyes too?”
“Yes.”
“Your eyes are very busy.”
“They’re accurate.”
She lifted the box anyway. Or attempted to. The box rose approximately three inches before her spine issued a strongly worded complaint.
Logan did not say anything.
That was considerate.
He simply took the box from her arms as if it weighed nothing.
That was annoying, and also unhelpfully attractive.
“I had that,” Harper said.
“You had a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
“I do not sue myself.”
“Your back might.”
He carried the box toward the hallway.
Harper followed, irritated by his ease and the deeply unfair view of his shoulders.
“I don’t need rescuing, Captain.”
“I noticed.”
He did not turn around.
“The box still looked stupid.”
Harper stopped.
That should not have made her smile.
It did.
She caught up to him. “For the record, the box was innocent.”
“The box was overpacked.”
“The box contained necessary directional signage.”
“The box contained three staplers, two rolls of duct tape, and what looked like a ceramic fox.”
“That fox is part of the children’s scavenger hunt.”
“Why was it with directional signage?”
“It needed community.”
He looked at her over his shoulder.
There it was again.
Almost-smile.
She would break him eventually.
Not intentionally.
Probably.
They stepped through the side exit into the cold morning.
The festival grounds stretched behind Town Hall, a wide snowy field bordered by pine trees and the low wooden fences that marked the walking paths.
Booth frames had been erected along the east side.
Strong-light poles stood bare for now. The bonfire pit sat in the distance, soon to be relocated because Captain No-Fun had declared war on atmosphere.
Snow crunched under Harper’s office boots.
Logan noticed immediately.
“Those are not site boots.”
“These are transitional boots.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning they transition me from office dignity to outdoor suffering.”
“They have heels.”
“Small heels.”
“It doesn’t make them safe.”
“You know, some men compliment shoes.”
“I’m not some men.”
“No,” Harper said before she could stop herself. “You really aren’t.”
Logan looked at her.
The cold seemed to sharpen the silence.
Harper looked away first and pretended to inspect a stack of folded barricades.
“Where do you want the box?” he asked.
“Storage tent.”
She pointed across the icy loading area.
The path had been salted, but not enough. Harper made a mental note to assign additional ice melt before vendor arrival. She was so busy adding it to her internal list that she missed the slick patch near the ramp.
Her right boot slid.
Not dramatic.
Not a full fall.
Just enough to steal her balance and her dignity in one efficient motion.
Logan moved faster than thought.
One second she was tipping sideways. The next, his arm was around her waist and her hands were against his chest.
Solid. Warm. Very solid.
The box sat in the snow beside them, apparently abandoned to its fate.
Harper’s breath caught.
Logan’s body was hard beneath her palms, his jacket was cold from the air but the man beneath it was radiating heat. His hand spread across her lower back, firm and careful, holding her upright without crushing her.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Snow drifted between them in lazy, indifferent flakes.
His face was close. Too close according to every safe-distance protocol he had ever lectured her about.
His gray eyes dropped briefly to her mouth.
Harper’s pulse went stupid.
Absolutely stupid.
“Well,” she said, because silence had become dangerous, “that was an aggressive demonstration of your anti-heel agenda.”
His voice came low. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
“I’m upright, annoyed, and still in possession of most of my pride.”
“Most?”
“Some escaped.”
His mouth curved.
Not almost this time.
A real smile.
Small, but real.
Harper forgot what she was about to say.
That was unacceptable.
Logan seemed to realize he was still holding her at the same time she realized she had not moved her hands from his chest.
His grip loosened.
Not fully.
Just enough to give her the choice.
That was somehow worse because now she had to choose to step away.
And she did.
Professionally.
Mostly.
Her hands fell to her sides. Cold rushed into the space between them.
Logan bent, picked up the box again, and looked at her boots.
“Site boots,” he said.
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting. I’m continuing.”
“You are impossible.”
“You slipped.”
“You caught me.”
“Yes.”
“Then the system worked.”
His eyes lifted to hers.
Something warm and dangerous moved through his expression.
“The system,” he said, “needs improvement.”
Harper’s heart kicked.
She should have made a joke. She always made a joke. But this time, the words betrayed her.
He turned toward the storage tent before she could find one.
Harper followed him across the snow, her pulse still hammering in a way that had nothing to do with almost falling.
Safe distance.
That was what he had said last night.
He had been right.
Not about the cocoa machine.
About him.
Because Captain Logan Pierce was rapidly becoming the most hazardous feature of the Firelight Festival, and Harper had no contingency plan for what would happen if she stopped wanting to avoid the danger.
***