Whatever Logan has in mind will lead to trouble . . . I’m sure of it. And yet, I’m intrigued, to say the least.
My fingers tighten around the edge of the door, the wood pressing into my palm as curiosity battles with every self-preservation instinct I possess. The logical part of my brain is screaming to shut the door, but another part—the reckless part I usually keep at bay—wants to hear what he has to say. Not even in my wildest dreams did a celebrity show up on my doorstep, so I might as well hear him out.
“All right,” I say, swinging the door open just enough for him to retract his foot and step back.
He leans casually against the frame, his arms crossed, looking like this is all going exactly as he planned. The fading sunlight catches the angles of his face, highlighting cheekbones that definitely weren’t this defined in elementary school when he was pulling pranks on us.
“It just so happens that I need someone to kill time with while I’m here,” he says smoothly, “and you need a last-minute boyfriend.”
“Excuse me?”
Logan’s brow raises. “You know, for the wedding.”
My eyes flare wide, and judging by his expression, he must find the shock on my face amusing. Heat rushes to my cheeks so fast I might as well be a human thermometer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Is that why you lied to him about having a boyfriend?”
My chest clenches with mortification. Did he overhear us at the diner?
“What’s happening right now?” I ask, mostly to myself.
“Relax, Maisie, it wasn’t that hard to figure out there’s something between you three.” Logan shrugs with pride from having surmised my morning disaster correctly, which makes me want to flick his forehead with my finger. “The tension in that diner almost ruined my breakfast. So who is he? Ex-boyfriend? Jilted fiancé?” His eyes narrow at me in that tell-me-everything sort of way.
I scoff, arms crossing on reflex. “First of all, that’s none of your business. Second, pretending to dateyouwill hardly solve anything.”
“Think about it.” He leans in slightly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial undertone like we’re in the midst of planning a heist. “What better way to stick it to them than to show up to the wedding with”—he grins and egotistically points both thumbs at himself—“me as your date?” His eyebrows wiggle.
And there it is. The full Logan Humphries experience: ego, charm, and unsolicited self-promotion in one tidy package. I should slam the door right this second.
Still . . . it’s not a terrible idea. The thought slips through my defenses before I can beat it back with the mental equivalent of a broom.
“I mean,” he adds, clearly sensing the smidgeon of consideration on my person, “we already know each other, so you don’t have to invent some elaborate story about how we met. Saves us both a lot of effort.”
I pause, hands still on the door, fingers tapping the edge as my mind spins faster than my first-graders after a cupcake party. As far as offers go, this has to be the craziest one a small-town girl like me would ever receive. This could invite trouble beyond my wildest imagination, but I don’t have a single prospect for the wedding, and with the dwindling population of eligible bachelors in this town, I might not find anyone in time. I’ve already promised myself I would go through with this to save face. Plus, to see Lindsey’s expression when I show up with a pop star on my arm would be the mother of all icings on a cake.
On second thought, itisa bad idea—an extremely, unquestionably bad one. The kind of idea that gets people into a colossal mess. But this entire day’s been a hot mess anyway. Why not add one more blaze to the bonfire of my dignity?
“I guess . . . we could give it a try,” I say reluctantly, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears.
“Perfect,” Logan says, way too pleased with himself. “All that’s left is to discuss the details of our arrangement.”
I step back and motion him inside. “Come on in but be quiet.” I take his hand—warm and calloused from guitar strings—and glide upstairs as fast as I possibly can before Dad or Noah notices him.
When he walks into my room behind me, his gaze sweeps over my belongings with undisguised curiosity. My bedroom remains frozen in time—pale blue walls adorned with framed sheet music and photos, a small keyboard tucked in the cornerbeside a bookshelf crammed with novels and teaching materials. Everything sits in its proper place—color-coded markers in their holder, books arranged by height and subject, shoes paired neatly under the bed.
My eyes catch on a splash of color on my comforter that makes my blood turn to ice—three pairs of underwear I’d sorted for laundry and completely forgotten about and—oh god—the one red lacy pair I splurged on during a rare moment of optimism.
I lunge forward with the grace of a startled penguin, snatching them up and stuffing them under the covers before Logan has a chance to properly see. But his widening smirk tells me I’m too late.
If my blood was ice before, it’s now lava burning my cheeks. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“No particular reason.”
His gaze holds, so I turn and use my hands to iron out the nonexistent creases in my bed covers.
“Wow,” he says. “Your room is exactly what I’d expect—everything has a designated spot. Color-coded bookshelf, perfectly made bed, not a speck of dust.” He runs a finger along my dresser. “Except for that little underwear situation. Secret wild side, Maisie Lang?”
My face burns hotter than a Bunsen burner on high. “It’s laundry day,” I mutter, smoothing the comforter obsessively.
