Chapter 5 – Logan #2
"I know enough," I tell her. "I know you're kind.
I know you care enough to run toward a burning building to make sure I was okay.
I know you make the best cinnamon scones in three counties.
I know you bite your lower lip when you're concentrating and tuck your hair behind your ear when you're nervous. "
Her cheeks flush deeper, but she doesn't look away this time.
"I know I felt something from the second you held my hand," I continue. "And I know I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to."
Savannah's eyes search mine, as if looking for the catch, the hint that I don't mean what I'm saying. "It's just... I've never had anyone choose me so quickly. So certainly," she admits, voice small. "I don't know what to do with that."
"You don't have to do anything," I tell her. "Just... don't run away."
She exhales slowly, some of the tension visibly leaving her shoulders. "I'm not running," she says. "I was just... scared."
"Of what?"
"That this was one-sided. That I was reading too much into everything. That you'd wake up and wish you hadn't blurred the lines between fake and real." The words tumble out quickly, like she's been holding them back.
I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. When she doesn't, my hand cups her cheek, thumb brushing away a smudge of flour. She leans into my touch, eyes fluttering closed briefly, the gesture so unconsciously trusting it makes my chest tight.
"Nothing about this feels fake anymore," I tell her softly.
The timer on the counter beeps shrilly, making us both jump. Savannah laughs, a small, startled sound that breaks some of the remaining tension.
"That's the cranberry walnut bread," she explains, reluctantly stepping away to check the oven. "I need to get back out front soon. Marco can only handle the register for so long before he starts giving away free coffee to everyone who compliments his hair."
I smile, leaning against the counter as she quickly transfers golden loaves from the oven to cooling racks.
There's something captivating about watching her work, the sure movements of her hands, the quiet competence, the way she hums slightly under her breath.
"What time do you finish today?" I ask.
She glances at me, a strand of hair falling across her face. "Around one. Why?"
"I want to walk you home."
Her eyebrows lift slightly. "You do?"
"I do," I nod. "And maybe take you on an actual date sometime. One that doesn't involve fake dating or emergencies or rushing off to fight fires."
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, small but genuine. "I'd like that."
The swinging door pushes open, and Marco pokes his head in, his elaborately styled hair immediately identifying him as the coffee-giveaway risk Savannah mentioned.
"Savannah, Mrs. Holloway is asking about her special order, and I have no idea what she's talking about," he says, eyes darting between us with poorly concealed curiosity.
"I'll be right there," Savannah tells him. Marco nods, shooting me a speculative look before disappearing back through the door.
"I should go," she says, wiping her hands on her apron. "Duty calls."
"I'll see you at lunchtime," I tell her, not making it a question.
She nods, a hint of shyness creeping back into her expression. "I'll be here."
I want to kiss her badly, but the moment doesn't feel right, not with her rushing back to work, not with the morning's uncertainty still lingering at the edges. Instead, I reach out and squeeze her hand briefly, feeling her fingers curl around mine for just a moment before letting go.
Her smile widens slightly. "Don't be late."
…
I'm ten minutes early, waiting outside The Enchanted Bean. The day has remained clear but cold, the kind of crisp winter weather that burns your lungs a little with each inhale.
When she emerges from the shop at exactly one, something loosens in my chest. Her work clothes replaced by jeans and a soft-looking sweater in deep burgundy, her hair loose around her shoulders. She smiles when she sees me waiting, a real smile that reaches her eyes.
"You're here," she says, locking the door behind her.
"Eager," I correct, earning a soft laugh that sends warmth spreading through me.
The walk to her house is unhurried, our path taking us through the quieter residential streets of Whitetail Falls. Savannah lives in a small craftsman-style house about fifteen minutes away, she tells me, with a kitchen she renovated specifically for recipe testing.
We talk easily as we walk, the awkwardness of the morning fading with each step. Her hand brushes against mine once, twice, before I capture it in mine, threading our fingers together. She glances up at me, a hint of color in her cheeks, but doesn't pull away.
"Tell me something I don't know about you," I say as we turn onto Cypress Lane, a tree-lined street of modest homes.
Savannah considers this, her thumb absently tracing circles on the back of my hand. "I collect vintage cookie cutters. I have over a hundred of them."
"A hundred?" I laugh. "That's dedication."
"They're displayed all over my kitchen walls," she admits, looking slightly embarrassed. "It's a little overwhelming for first-time visitors."
"I'd like to see them sometime," I tell her, and mean it.
Her eyes meet mine, searching. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
We reach a blue house with white trim and a small, well-tended garden out front. A wreath of dried herbs hangs on the door, and lanterns flicker on either side of the three porch steps.
"This is me," Savannah says, stopping at the gate.
I follow her up the short path to her porch, our pace slowing as if by mutual agreement, neither wanting the walk to end. At the steps, she turns to face me, and I'm struck again by how beautiful she is.
"Savannah," I say, suddenly serious. "Go out with me tomorrow night."
She blinks. "What?"
"On a date," I clarify. "A real one. No pretending, no covering for anything, no chaos dragging us into each other's arms. Just dinner, or a movie, or whatever you want. But a real date."
A smile spreads across her face, slow and genuine. "Are you asking me out, Lieutenant Price?"
"I am," I nod. "Officially."
She pretends to consider it, but the effect is ruined by the way she can't stop smiling. "Well, since you asked so nicely... yes. I'd like that."
I step closer, hands finding her hips, drawing her gently toward me. "Good."
Her fingers curl into the collar of my jacket, her face tilting up to mine. When I kiss her, it's different from the desperate heat of last night—slower, softer, a promise rather than a demand. She sighs against my mouth, body melting into mine as if it belongs there.
We take our time saying goodbye, trading soft kisses and softer words on her porch as the afternoon fades toward evening. Each time I try to leave, she pulls me back for one more kiss, and I'm powerless to resist.
"I really should go," I finally murmur against her lips. "Or we're going to scandalize your neighbors."
She laughs, reluctantly stepping back. "Tomorrow night, then?"
"Tomorrow night," I confirm. "I'll pick you up at seven."
As I walk back toward town, the panic of the morning feels distant, replaced by a calm certainty that settles in my chest like it's always been there.
Yesterday, I grabbed Savannah's hand in desperate improvisation, a shield against my own embarrassment. Now, I can't imagine letting go.