Chapter 2
LOGAN
Two hundred and ten dollars?
Logan Mathews gawked at his cell phone screen. He’d just given Archie Higgins permission to spend beaucoup bucks on a sugar bowl. A sugar bowl! Had he lost his mind?
Okay, so it wasn’t just any sugar bowl. It was the sugar bowl. The one Abby had been hunting for months. She’d been talking about throwing some sort of fancy-schmancy tea party for their guests at the inn, and for some reason, the miniature bowl with a matching lid played a critical role. He didn’t understand the details, but the instant Abby saw it listed on Herman’s auction brochure, she hadn’t stopped gushing about it. Which gave him an idea.
In hindsight, likely a very bad idea.
He set his phone on the white quartz countertop, face-up, so he’d see Archie’s next text the second it came through, and went back to work slapping labels on small glass jars. The scent of frou-frou rash balm filled the kitchen with hints of coconut, mint, and lime, but Logan barely noticed.
There’s no way the bid price could go any higher, right? How many people wanted an old sugar bowl?
Logan shot another glance at his phone. Nothing . Anxiety vibrated through his body like an idling jet engine. He’d counted on spending fifty or sixty bucks. Maybe seventy-five. But this was wild. Was Abby the one upping the bid so high?
He groaned, regret slamming against his chest. What kind of genius thought it was romantic to bid against his own girlfriend? Granted, his last relationship had bombed eons ago, and he was out of practice in the romance department. But he didn’t think he was this rusty. He could hear his old Air Force buddies now. Way to go, Nugget. You rolled in with your hair on fire and overshot the target.
“Hey, twitchy fingers. It’s upside down.” Evan Blake’s teasing tone broke through his thoughts.
Logan blinked, redirecting his attention to the jar clasped in his hands. The words Evan Blake’s Epic Rash Balm stared up at him, but backward. Drat .
“Sorry, man. I was distracted.” He carefully peeled off the label and reapplied it right side up.
“Yeah, no kidding.” Evan chuckled. “What’s up?” He set a fresh batch of newly filled jars on the counter.
“Waiting on a final word from Archie. And the anxiety might kill me.” The erratic pulse and heart-hammering-in-your-throat sensations were all too familiar from his time flying an F-16, but somehow, this felt more intense.
“Oh, right. Today’s the auction. How’s that going?”
“Could be better. I’m already out over two hundo, and I’m just now realizing Abby might not appreciate being outbid.”
“I think she’ll forgive you once you give it to her and she sees what you put inside.”
“Good point.” Some of the pressure eased in Logan’s chest. He sure hoped Evan was right.
“Who needs to forgive you and what for?” Evan’s dad, Michael Blake, strolled into the kitchen clutching an enormous Tupperware container.
“Don’t worry, Mr. B. Nothing nefarious.” Logan sniffed the air. The perpetual scent of pi?a colada now carried a distinct whiff of cinnamon and spice.
“That’s a relief. Then I can, in good conscience, offer you one of Bonnie’s special cinnamon rolls.” Mr. B peeled back the lid, releasing a rush of aromatic steam.
Logan’s mouth watered. Bonnie Larsen sure knew how to bake.
“I gotta say, Dad”—Evan grabbed three plates from the cupboard—“as happy as I am that you and Bonnie are dating, all these snack breaks are bad for business.”
“It’s the price you pay for running Epic Inc. out of my kitchen,” his dad teased.
“Touché.” Evan flashed a lopsided grin.
Since Evan lived in a seashell-sized bungalow on the beach, his dad offered to let him run his new startup from his sprawling midcentury modern home. With its impressively detailed craftsmanship—including a seamless wall of windows overlooking the ocean that defied logic—and state-of-the-art fixtures, it was exactly the sort of place you’d expect from the owner of M.B. Construction. A little too modern for Logan’s tastes. But then, he was hardly objective. Not even Buckingham Palace could compare to the inn he ran with Abby. She made Blessings on State Street paradise simply by being there, and he didn’t care how sappy that sounded.
From the moment they met last Christmas, she’d completely changed his life. He’d gone from a self-proclaimed recluse to someone who not only left the house once in a while, but a guy who actually had friends. Friends like Evan, who’d offered him a part-time job when he’d needed a little extra cash. A job he enjoyed way more than he’d expected.
The tasks—jarring, labeling, packaging, and shipping—were rudimentary, but he got to work with Evan, listen to Motown as loud as he wanted, and, thanks to Bonnie, he ate like a king. Plus, the hours were flexible, which meant he could fit them in between his caretaker responsibilities at the inn and helping Abby with Max.
Mr. B handed them each a cinnamon roll. The plump mound of buttery goodness drenched in icing obscured most of the plate. Logan dug his fork into the soft, spongy dough, but paused midbite. “What are you guys doing?”
The father-son duo leaned against the opposite counter in the exact same position—right ankle crossed over their left, the plate held precisely at chest level. Side by side, they looked scary similar. As if they might be the same person, only one of them had traveled back in time thirty years. They had identical blond hair, blue-green eyes, and a small bump on the bridge of their nose. But that wasn’t the spooky part. In perfect rhythm, they both scooped out the center of their cinnamon roll.
“We’re eating,” Evan mumbled past the massive bite in his mouth. “What’s it look like?”
“I see that, Captain Obvious. But why’d you go straight for the center?”
“Why not?” Evan shrugged.
“Because it’s weird.”
“I didn’t realize I’d broken proper pastry protocol,” Evan joked. “Maybe I need to brush up on the handbook.”
“I’ll email you a copy,” Logan lobbed back with a good-natured grin.
“You’ll need to add an addendum for Bonnie’s cinnamon rolls,” Mr. B interjected. “She hides a creamy caramel in the middle of each one.”
“Ah, I see. So, you eat the best part first instead of saving it for last like a normal person? That’s definitely a code violation. I’ll have to take it up with the review board.”
“I’ll shoulder the penalties on behalf of my son since he learned the bad habit from me,” Mr. B offered, going along with the gag. “Sins of the father and whatnot.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Evan and his father shared a matching slanted smile.
As he watched the exchange, the hollow void in Logan’s chest expanded—the aching cavern where memories of his father lived. Every nuanced detail remained cemented in his mind. The deep lines around his eyes and mouth. The small scar on his jaw, by his left ear where he’d cut himself shaving. He was only seven when his parents died, but he’d held on to the mental images as tightly as the rip cord on a parachute.
His father should be here now, to give him advice. His mother, too.
That’s probably why he related so well to Max. He knew exactly how it felt to lose the two people closest to you. The two people who were supposed to help guide and protect you in a confusing, chaotic world.
The cinnamon roll forgotten, he stuffed his hand into the front pocket of his jeans, fingering the frayed edges of the tiny velvet bag—the one with his mother’s ring. He still remembered the way she’d spritzed it with Windex whenever she cleaned the windows. The solitaire diamond was simple, but thanks to the Windex bath he’d given it that morning in her honor, it sparkled brighter than anything he’d ever seen.
His phone buzzed, and he yanked his hand from his pocket to check the text.
Two words appeared on screen.
Got it.
Relief rippled through him, followed by exhilaration. But the euphoria didn’t last long.
An unsettling realization rammed into his brain, knocking the grin off his face.
“What happened?” Evan asked, noting his stricken expression. “You didn’t win the bidding war?”
“I did, but—” Logan hesitated to admit the gaping hole in his plan. “I have a minor problem. I know I want to give Abby the engagement ring inside the sugar bowl, but I don’t know how I should give Abby the sugar bowl . Do I wrap it? Tie a bow around it? Should I put sugar in it first? And what kind? The fancy little cubes? Or the regular granular stuff?”
Evan’s eyes widened, and he looked equally stumped.
“Proposals don’t have to be complicated.” Mr. B offered his wise counsel while licking the icing off his fork.
“Not according to my ex.” Logan snorted. Not only had his former fiancée, Kelli Clayton, picked out her own engagement ring, she’d told him exactly how to propose, down to the pair of shoes he should wear. The elaborate display took place at a popular Air Force event and involved a skywriter, fireworks, and a couple thousand of their closest friends.
Mr. B set his empty plate in the sink. “The key is keeping her interests in mind. What’s important to Abby?”
“Max. The inn. Her friends.” Logan rattled off the list without any reservation.
“Great. Then whatever you do, make sure it includes those elements, and you’ll do just fine.”
“Does that give you any ideas?” Evan asked.
“Yeah, actually. It does.” As the plan coalesced in his mind, he said a silent prayer for the one detail he couldn’t control.
Abby’s answer.