Chapter 3 – Logan
"Price, are you even listening?" Paul's voice cuts through my mental fog. He's standing in the station kitchen, arms crossed, waiting for a response to a question I didn't hear.
"Sorry, Chief. What was that?" I straighten up from where I've been staring at the same incident report for fifteen minutes without reading a single word.
Paul narrows his eyes. "I asked if you finished the equipment inventory from yesterday's training. Twice."
"Right. Almost done." A complete lie. I haven't even started it.
Paul studies me for a beat too long, that penetrating look he gets when he's deciding whether to press an issue. "Get it to me by end of shift," he finally says, mercifully letting it go.
As he walks away, I drop my head into my hands. I'm supposed to be reviewing safety protocols, not replaying a kiss that's carved itself into my muscle memory like it's trying to rewrite my DNA.
It was supposed to be practice. A technical exercise. It wasn't supposed to feel like getting hit by lightning.
"Earth to Logan." Austin waves a hand in front of my face. "You're staring at the wall like it insulted your mother."
I blink, refocusing on the present. The station hums with familiar energy—the clank of equipment being checked, the soft static of radios, Bradley's voice floating from the apparatus bay as he walks Nathan through some maintenance issue.
"Just tired," I mutter, gathering the scattered papers in front of me.
Austin drops into the chair opposite mine, grinning like he's just figured something out. "This wouldn't have anything to do with you and Savannah Bailey holding hands all over town this morning, would it?"
My head snaps up. "How did you—"
"Dude." Austin laughs. "Eddie stopped by to drop off supplies and asked if we were throwing you guys an engagement party soon."
Jesus Christ. Small towns.
"We're not engaged," I say, which is possibly the stupidest response in the history of conversations.
Austin's eyebrows shoot toward his hairline. "But you are dating?"
I open my mouth, close it again. The lie should come easily, that was the whole point, after all. But something sticks in my throat.
"It's... new," I finally say, which isn't a lie. It's just not the whole truth.
"Huh." Austin leans back in his chair, studying me with unexpected seriousness. "Never pictured you with someone like her."
Something defensive flares in my chest. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He holds up his hands. "Nothing bad. Just... she's not your usual type. She's more..." He struggles to find the right word. "Real?"
Savannah is real, authentic in a way that makes most people seem like they're trying too hard. No artifice, no agenda, no performance. Just genuine warmth and a quiet strength she probably doesn't even recognize in herself.
"Yeah," I say softly. "She is."
Austin gives me a strange look, then breaks into another grin. "Well, she makes the best damn scones in town, so don't screw it up."
He leaves me with my thoughts, which immediately spiral back to this morning. To the weight of her hand in mine. To the way her cheeks flushed when people noticed us together. To the softness of her body pressed against mine when I kissed her.
Bradley walks in as I'm staring at nothing, startling me when he drops a clipboard on the table.
"Inventory check," he says, then pauses, studying my face. "You okay? You look... distracted."
"I'm fine," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. "Just thinking about the... safety inspection."
Bradley's eyebrow lifts slightly. "Right. The safety inspection."
Heat rushes to my face.
Nathan walks in with a stack of patient charts, settling at the long table across from us. "Leave him alone. He's nervous."
"I'm not nervous," I protest, even as I check my reflection in the window for the fourth time in ten minutes.
Nathan glances up, his expression mild. "Logan, you asked Arthur if your hair looked 'aggressively styled.' You've been pacing like a caged animal."
"He's got a date with the baker," Austin announces, strolling back in with his typical lack of subtlety. "Logan is in LOVE and I've been waiting for this moment!"
"I'm not in love," I snap, hating the heat that rushes to my face. "It's just a date."
Bradley folds his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "With Savannah? The one you walked around town with this morning?"
I silently curse the Whitetail Falls gossip network, again.
"Yes," I admit. "With Savannah."
Nathan returns to his charts, a faint smile playing at his lips. "She's good people. Makes those raspberry things my Gloria loves."
"She also makes those chocolate espresso brownies the Chief pretends he doesn't eat," Bradley adds.
"And the cinnamon rolls that—" Austin starts, but I cut him off.
"Yes, she bakes. For the whole town. I'm aware." I check my watch. "I need to go."
As I grab my jacket, I hear Nathan murmur to Bradley: "He's not faking this time. Look at him."
I pretend not to hear, but the words follow me out the door, settling somewhere beneath my ribs as I climb into my truck and head toward town. Not faking. That's the problem, isn't it?
The Enchanted Bean glows golden in the early evening darkness, a warm beacon against the winter chill.
Through the large front windows, I can see Savannah moving around inside, even though the CLOSED sign is already turned, she's still working, wiping down counters with efficient movements, her hair pulled back, sleeves pushed up to her elbows.
My heart does something complicated in my chest, a skip-stutter-rush that makes me pause on the sidewalk, flowers clutched too tightly in my hand.
I bought them at the last minute, nothing fancy or presumptuous, just winter blooms in soft blues and whites that reminded me of morning frost. The kind of flowers that feel like Savannah: understated, beautiful without trying to be.
I tell myself they're just part of the act, a prop for our fake date. The tightness in my stomach calls me a liar.
Taking a deep breath, I knock on the glass door. Savannah looks up, startled, then breaks into a smile that hits me like a physical force. She hurries over, unlocking the door with slightly fumbling fingers.
"Hi," she says, stepping back to let me in. "Sorry, I lost track of time. I'm still finishing up."
"No rush," I tell her, suddenly aware of how small the space feels with both of us in it. "These are for you."
I hold out the flowers, and Savannah's eyes widen. She takes them delicately, as if they might break, a flush spreading across her cheeks.
"They're beautiful," she says softly. "Thank you. You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to," I interrupt, then clear my throat. "For... authenticity."
"Of course," she nods, turning to find a vase. "For the cover story."
She reaches for a container on a high shelf, stretching up on her toes.
Her sweater rides up slightly, revealing a strip of skin at her lower back, and I have to force myself to look away.
When she turns back, there's a streak of flour on her cheek that she hasn't noticed, and without thinking, I reach out to brush it away with my thumb.
Savannah freezes, her eyes meeting mine.
We stand there, suspended in a moment that feels too intimate for the pretense we're maintaining, my hand lingering near her face longer than it should.
A measuring cup clatters to the floor, breaking the spell.
Savannah jumps, laughing nervously as she bends to retrieve it.
"Sorry, I'm—I knock things over when I'm..." She doesn't finish the thought, busying herself with arranging the flowers instead.
"When you're what?" I ask, genuinely curious.
She glances up, a strand of hair falling across her face. "Nervous, I guess."
"I make you nervous?"
"Not you specifically," she says quickly, then winces. "That came out wrong. I meant… this whole situation. Pretending. I'm not very good at it."
The word 'pretending' lands like a stone in my stomach.
"You're better than you think," I tell her, and mean it more than she realizes.
Twenty minutes later, we're settled at a corner table with mugs of hot chocolate and a plate of cookies Savannah insisted I try.
The shop is closed, the lights dimmed except for our corner and the small holiday lights strung along the windows.
Outside, snow falls in fat, lazy flakes, coating the street in fresh white.
It feels intimate. Real. Nothing like the calculated dates I've been on in recent years.
"So," Savannah says, wrapping her hands around her mug. "Tell me something about Lieutenant Logan Price that the rest of Whitetail Falls doesn't know."
I laugh, surprised by her directness. "Trying to gather intel for our cover story?"
She smiles, but there's something cautious in it. "Something like that."
I consider the question, wanting to give her something genuine, not the surface-level charm I usually deploy.
"I'm tired," I admit finally. "Of dating women who look perfect on paper but don't make me feel anything real.
Of being set up by well-meaning friends with their single cousins who are 'perfect for me' but never are.
Of relationships that are more about how we look together than how we feel together. "
I hadn't meant to say all that. The words just spilled out, raw and honest in a way I rarely allow myself to be.
Savannah watches me with those perceptive eyes. "That sounds lonely."
"It is," I nod, staring into my mug. "What about you? Tell me something I don't know."
She hesitates, fidgeting with a napkin. "I've never been anyone's first choice," she says finally, so quietly I almost miss it. "Not in relationships, not in friendships, not even in my family. I'm the person people settle for when their first option falls through."
I think about how quickly she agreed to help me this morning, not because she wanted to, but because she's used to being the backup plan. How many times has she been overlooked? How many people have failed to see what I'm seeing right now?