My jaw drops.
I blink. Once. Twice.
The world tilts sideways for a moment, my brain stuttering as it tries to reconcile the astronomical improbability of this event. My heart slams so hard against my ribs I’m afraid it might leave a bruise.
No. Freaking. Way.
Standing in the doorway, looking rather proud of himself, is Logan Humphries.TheLogan Humphries. Maplewood Springs’ very own celebrity son. Pop sensation. National heartthrob. Former glue-dumping playground menace turned chart-topping singer-songwriter. Also, apparently, my neighbor.
“Recognize me now?” he says with a casual smirk.
Logan stands on the porch, tall and imposing, his messy black hair framing a face that looks like it was painted by an artist who knew exactly what they were doing. His jawline is well-defined with a sharp chin, covered by a five o’ clock shadow that looks deliberate rather than lazy. When he crosses his arms, chest muscles bulge beneath his t-shirt, making me swallow hard. And his eyes—those piercing blues now make something flutter in my core. Even the slight crookedness of his nose (broken in an altercation with a manager, if the rumors were accurate) only enhances his appeal, giving a rugged edge to features that would otherwise be too perfect, like an exhibit in a museum that visitors aren’t allowed to touch. His lips are fuller than mine will ever be, curved with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how good they look, and his teeth are so unfairly perfect and white that toothpaste companies should be gunning for his secret.
My pulse spikes for reasons entirely unrelated to anger.
A car hums past behind me, and Logan ducks his head, turning away from the street as he steps behind the doorframe. After the car drives out of earshot, he casually leans against it, one foot crossed over the other, every inch of him relaxed in a cool way.
I close my mouth; the sound of my gulp is embarrassingly loud in my own ears. I don’t want to be perceived as one of those screaming teenagers who camp outside his hotel.
He’s wearing a black Foo Fighters t-shirt stretched perfectly across his lean, muscular body, dark navy jeans that are snugenough to make a girl wonder how they look from behind, and white Nike sneakers—no laces, of course. One wrist sports a thick leather bracelet; the other holds a sleek-looking smartwatch.
His presence is magnetic—the photos in tabloids don’t do him justice. He’s somehow morerealand moreunrealup close. No wonder his fans are feral.
I examine myself. Here I am, in my grading clothes—leggings with a suspicious chocolate stain and an oversized Colton Hayes Elementary sweater—standing before the man whose face has been plastered across billboards and magazine covers. I should’ve at least brushed my hair.
“Celebrities,” I finally mutter loud enough for him to hear.
Perplexion crosses his face, his brows pulling together like he’s trying to do long division in his head.
“They wear sunglasses indoors,” I say matter-of-factly as if that alone should clarify it. “That’s how you spot a celebrity in the wild.”
He scratches the back of his head, lips twitching like he doesn’t know if he should smile or not. The gesture is disarmingly boyish for someone who’s oozing so much swagger.
“Never mind.” I wave it off, embarrassment roasting my cheeks. “What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be . . . I don’t know, performing at sold-out stadiums or breaking up with pop princesses in public?”
Immediately, regret washes over me as I realize how rude that sounded. But something about finding my childhood nemesis as my new neighbor has turned off my filter.
“I needed to get away for a while,” he says casually.
I tilt my head. “So you’re hiding?”
“Something like that.”
“From the trouble you’ve caused?” I arch a brow, folding my arms again as the morning radio segment comes to the forefront of my brain.
He pushes off the doorframe and takes a step toward me, suddenly serious. The shift in his aura makes my shoulders tense. “Don’t believe everything you hear on the news. I’m not the same guy you knew when we were kids.”
I snort. The sound escapes before I can stop it, and I grimace from yet another embarrassing moment. “I doubt that.”
From what I’ve heard—the tantrums, the walkouts, the eye-roll-worthy interviews—he’s still the Logan I remember: unpredictable, attention-seeking, and totally exhausting. Just with a bigger audience and more expensive toys.
“I’m serious,” he insists. A flash of vulnerability crosses his face so quickly I almost miss it. “It’s been what . . . ten years? You don’t know me anymore.”
“Oh yeah?” My teacher’s instinct to challenge a bluff kicks in. I step up onto the porch and the closer I get to him, the more apparent it becomes how impossibly good-looking he is. He sure sprouted, too—he’s a neck and head taller than I. “I bet you a hundred bucks your socks don’t match.”
He scoffs. “Seriously?”
“Pull up your jeans and prove me wrong.”
