4. Logan
Logan Pierce had caught people before.
Children falling off sleds. Tourists slipping on black ice. Drunk groomsmen trying to climb decorative fences. One elderly man who had insisted he could “still jump like a deer” and then proved conclusively that he could not.
Catching Harper Lane should not have stayed with him. It was practical, reflexive, and necessary. She slipped and he stopped her from hitting the ground. That was the whole astronomical event in a nutshell.
Except his hand still registered the delicate curve of her waist. His chest still remembered the press of her palms. And his brain, the traitorous piece of equipment, had replayed the moment three times while he carried her ridiculous box of signage into the storage tent.
He set the box down harder than required.
Harper stepped inside behind him, brushing snow from the sleeve of her coat.
“I heard that,” she said.
“Heard what?”
“The box landing with judgment.”
“The box deserved it.”
“The box is contributing to the community.”
“The box contains a ceramic fox.”
“Again, he has a role.”
“What role?”
“Moral support.”
Logan straightened and faced her. “You brought a moral-support fox to a firelight festival?”
Harper lifted her chin. “Children respond well to whimsy.”
“Children respond well to sugar and poor decisions.”
“Which is why Marshmallow Mountain exists.”
“Supervised roasting station.”
“Still no.”
He should not have liked arguing with her.
Arguing was not the right word. Arguing implied irritation. This was worse. Harper threw absurdity at him like sparks off a grinder – bright and quick and impossible to ignore. She had a comeback for everything, even when her cheeks were still pink from almost falling into him.
Especially then.
Logan moved toward the open flap of the storage tent.
“We need to walk the site.”
“Wonderful,” she said. “A romantic stroll through municipal anxiety.”
“Not romantic.”
“Not with that attitude.”
He looked back at her.
She smiled.
Damn it.
The snow had slowed to a soft fall, leaving the festival grounds washed in clean white light.
Booth frames lined the east side of the field.
The main walking path curved between pine trees.
Farther out, the empty bonfire pit waited in the wrong location, which Harper was still pretending did not offend him on a cellular level.
She stepped carefully this time.
He noticed.
She noticed him noticing.
“Don’t say it,” she warned.
“Site boots.”
“I said don’t.”
“You wore office boots to a site inspection.”
“I wore transitional boots.”
“You transitioned into a hazard.”
“Do you wake up this charming, or do you warm up first?”
“I warm up after confirming all exits are clear.”
Harper stopped walking and looked at him with open delight.
“That was almost funny.”
“It was factual.”
“Your denial makes it better.”
He kept moving because if he stood there long enough, she would make him smile again. Then she would know. Then Nate would somehow know. Then Logan would be trapped in a town-wide incident of romantic speculation, which was second only to fire in its capacity to spread.
They reached the vendor lane.
Logan pointed to the first booth frame. “Food trucks need to be angled outward. Generators behind them, not between them. Cords covered and routed away from foot traffic.”
Harper pulled a pencil from behind her ear and marked the map on her clipboard.
“Already planned,” she said.
“You had them facing inward.”
“For atmosphere.”
“For congestion.”
“For cozy movement.”
“For people carrying soup into each other.”
She sighed and marked the change. “Fine. Angled outward. But if the festival loses charm, I’m blaming you.”
“If charm depends on generator placement, charm is weak.”
“Charm is fragile.”
“Then keep it away from open flame.”
She made another note. “You have a disturbing answer for everything.”
“It’s part of the job.”
“No. Your job is fighting fires. This is extra effort.”
“My job is preventing them too.”
The words came out sharper than he intended.
Harper’s pencil slowed.
Logan looked toward the tree line, jaw tight.
There it was. The line he tried not to cross in conversation.
People liked the dramatic version of firefighting.
The sirens. The smoke. The rescue. They did not think much about the work before the emergency—the inspections, the warnings, the boring corrections nobody thanked you for because nothing happened afterward.
Nothing happening was the point.
Nothing happening meant people went home.
Nothing happening meant there was no locked door, no bad wiring, no delayed call, no family standing in the snow while everything they loved turned black against the sky.
Harper’s voice softened. “You really hate preventable risks.”
He looked at her.
The joke was gone from her face.
He preferred the jokes.
“Yes,” he said.
She did not ask why.
Somehow that made it worse.
They kept walking.
At the outdoor heater area, Logan crouched near one of the marked placement spots. Harper stood beside him, flipping through her notes.
“Heaters here, here, and here,” she said. “Ten-foot clearance from fabric, weighted bases, volunteer checks every twenty minutes, shutoff instructions taped to the back of each unit, and a backup warming tent in case weather gets rude.”
“Weather is always rude.”
“Exactly why I planned for it.”
He looked up. “Who checks the heaters?”
“Volunteers.”
“Which volunteers?”
She flipped a page. “Ethan’s trail volunteers for the first shift. Jace and Hunter offered to help after they finish with the wood delivery. Mason said he would help if Lily stops calling him Doctor Bonfire.”
Logan paused. “Doctor Bonfire?”
“I believe there was a medically suggestive joke involved.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“No one ever does, and yet Lily tells us anyway.”
He stood and took the clipboard from her hand before he could think better of it.
Harper blinked. “Excuse me.”
“I’m checking your list.”
“You could ask.”
“I could.”
“You chose theft?”
“Temporary seizure.”
“Of my clipboard?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a brave man.”
He scanned the volunteer schedule.
It was excellent.
Annoyingly excellent.
Every heater had assigned checks. Every table had a number. Every lane had a volunteer. There were backup flashlights, extension-cord covers, radio assignments, first-aid rotation, and a note under Tim’s name that said: NOT ELECTRICAL.
Logan looked at her. “You labeled him.”
“I protected him from destiny.”
“You protected the festival from Tim.”
“Same thing.”
His eyes dropped again to the list.
“You planned all this before the observatory incident?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Harper shifted her weight.
It was subtle. Most people would have missed it. But, Logan did not.
“Because events go wrong,” she said lightly.
“They do.”
“And I prefer to be ready.”
“Ready is one thing.”
“Captain.”
He looked up at the warning in her voice.
Her smile was still there, but thinner now.
“Do not inspect my personality.”
“I’m inspecting your plan.”
“My personality is holding the plan.”
He should have let it go. He knew that. But he had spent years learning the difference between caution and fear. Harper’s plan was built like a fortress. Not because she loved walls, but because someone had made her afraid of what happened when one came down.
He handed the clipboard back.
“Who blamed you?”
The question landed between them like a dropped match.
Harper’s face went very still.
For one second, he saw past the polish completely. No smile. No quick line. No bright event coordinator with pink pens and ceramic foxes.
Just a woman who had been handed someone else’s disaster and told to carry it.
Then the smile returned.
Too fast.
“Wow,” she said. “Your site inspections are invasive.”
“Harper.”
“No, really. Do you ask all coordinators for their traumatic origin stories between heater placement and generator review?”
“No.”
“Lucky me.”
She turned toward the bonfire pit.
Logan followed, hating himself a little.
He had pushed too hard. He knew better. People did not open because you pried at the hinge. They opened when they trusted the room would hold.
The bonfire pit sat near the center-left of the field, exactly where he did not want it.
Harper stopped beside it.
“Here we are,” she said brightly. “The soul of the event. Please begin your eulogy.”
He studied the clearance, the slope, the wind direction, the vendor lane. “It moves west.”
“How far?”
“Twenty feet.”
“Twelve.”
“Twenty.”
“Fifteen, and I add additional rope barriers.”
“Twenty, rope barriers, and a dedicated volunteer.” Then he added, “Not Tim.”
“Obviously not Tim. Tim thinks batteries are spicy candles.”
Despite himself, Logan smiled.
Fully.
Harper saw it.
Her expression changed, softening with a kind of surprised triumph that hit him in the chest with unreasonable force.
“There it is,” she said quietly.
“What?”
“You smiled.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I moved my mouth.”
“In a joyful direction.”
“It was a reflex.”
“Those can be treated with exposure.”
“Harper.”
She stepped closer, her boots sinking slightly into the snow.
Not too close, but close enough.
“What?” she asked.
Snow rested on a loose strand of her hair. Her cheeks were pink from the cold. She smelled faintly like vanilla and coffee, ridiculous things to notice in a field full of potential code violations.
He lifted a hand before he could stop himself.
Stopped halfway.
Her eyes flicked to it.
Then back to his face.
“Safe distance,” she said softly.
The words should have broken the moment.
They made it worse because her voice had changed. The tease was still there, but beneath it was something slower. Warmer. A question wrapped in a dare.
Logan looked at her mouth.
Mistake.
A serious operational failure.
He should have stepped back. He should have pointed to the map and said something about wind direction. He should have remembered exactly why getting involved with a woman whose work he was reviewing was a potentially disastrous idea.
Instead, he reached up and brushed the snow from her hair.
Just that.
A touch so small he could have defended it in court.
Harper went still.
His fingers lingered a fraction longer than necessary.
Her breath caught.
Logan heard it.
Felt it.
Wanted, with sudden brutal clarity, to know what she would do if he lowered his mouth to hers right there beside the condemned bonfire pit.
She would probably kiss him back.
She would probably make a joke afterward.
He would probably be ruined.
“Logan,” she said.
Not Captain.
Logan.
That was worse.
His control shifted under his boots like ice.
He lowered his hand but did not step away.
“Harper–”
“Miss Lane!”
The shout came from across the field.
Harper jerked back.
Logan turned sharply.
Tim jogged toward them from the community hall, waving both arms with the urgency of a man announcing either disaster or lunch.
“Miss Lane!” he called again.
Harper closed her eyes briefly. “If he has touched anything electrical, I’m moving to another country.”
Tim stopped in front of them, breathless, cheeks red from the cold.
“The lantern delivery is here,” he said. “But there’s a problem.”
Logan’s spine straightened. “What problem?”
Tim looked from Logan to Harper and back again.
“They sent real candles.”
Harper’s face changed.
Logan’s blood pressure rose.
“Real candles,” he repeated.
Tim nodded miserably. “A lot of them.”
For three seconds, no one spoke.
Then Harper turned slowly to Logan.
“Before you say anything–”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“No.”
“I was going to say we can fix this.”
“With battery candles.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She blinked. “Oh.”
“You thought I was going to lecture.”
“I prepared emotionally.”
“You’ll still get one later.”
“There he is.”
Logan looked toward the community hall, then back at Harper.
The almost-kiss still burned in the space between them. Inconvenient and unfinished.
He could see that she felt it too.
That was dangerous. That was not why he looked away first. It was because he wanted too much, and want made people careless.
He could not afford careless. Not on this festival. Not with this woman.
“Come on, Sparks,” he said, voice rougher than he liked. “Let’s go save your lantern walk from becoming evidence.”
Harper tucked her clipboard against her chest.
“My lantern walk is innocent.”
“Your lantern walk ordered real candles.”
“My lantern walk was betrayed by a vendor.”
“Convenient defense.”
“It has worked before.”
He looked at her.
This time, when she smiled, there was something unsteady beneath it.
Something real.
Something that made him want to know every story she kept hidden behind jokes and emergency ribbon binders.
He turned toward the hall before he did something stupid.
Behind him, Harper followed.
The safe distance between them was back.
Measured.
Respectable.
Completely useless.
Because Logan could feel her beside him with every step.
***