“I can take care of myself.” Though after today, I’m not too sure of that.
“Just be careful.”
“There’s nothing to be careful about, Mom. I got it handled.”
Chapter 10
Wednesday is parent-teacher conference day, which means I get off before noon. My phone buzzes with yet another text from Logan:Is watching paint dry considered a local pastime here?
I can’t help but smile at his dramatic complaints about small-town boredom. Can’t say I blame him, though. He’s used to performing in front of thousands of screaming fans. Coming back to his quiet hometown must be a bit of a shock.
After sending my first graders off with detailed progress reports clutched in their little hands, I text him back:Survived conferences. Heading over now. Try not to expire from boredom before I get there.
Spring sunshine warms my face as I drive the short distance to his temporary hideout. The Parker house looks different now that it’s occupied—less haunted mansion, more mysterious bachelor pad. My hand hovers mid-knock when the door suddenly swings wide open.
Logan stands there grinning, dressed in faded jeans and a vintage Foo Fighters t-shirt, looking far too restless. “So, what’s on the agenda for today?”
A weary breath escapes me. The parent conferences drained more energy than I expected, explaining to Mrs. Peterson for twenty minutes why little Timmy still needs to work on sharing. “Now that I have no choice but to go to the wedding I never wanted to attend, we have two missions: I need a dress. You need a suit.”
He folds his arms across his chest and lifts his chin in that cocky way that probably makes teenage girls faint at concerts. “And how do you know I didn’t bring a suit?”
“Suits were never really your style.” My lips quirk up as a particular Sunday comes to mind. “I distinctly remember you wearing a hoodie to church once.”
“Oh, yeah,” he exclaims. “I thought it would create more of an outrage, but no one said a word to me.”
“That’s because you sat in the front row and missed all the judgmental stares behind you.”
“Including yours?” His brow shoots up.
“I saw you as a disruptor of peace and a town menace.”
He tilts his chin, eyes gleaming with mischief. “But you gotta admit, there’s more to me than meets the eye.”
“Please. You’re not that complex.”
His hand flies dramatically to his heart as he staggers back a step. “Wounded.”
The theatrics coax a reluctant laugh from me as I step past him into the house. The space echoes around us, still sparsely decorated with a few essential pieces of furniture and some expensive-looking audio equipment sprawled across the living room. “We better leave now if we’re going to beat the lunch crowd.”
My gaze shifts toward the street, imagining the spectacle we might cause in public. This town doesn’t just love Logan; itworshipshim. Any teenager who happened to spot him would snap photos faster than I can say “viral.” It’d take seconds for the news to spread from the store clerk to the borders of Maplewood Springs—possibly beyond.
I glance back at him, anxiety tightening my chest. “If someone recognizes us—“
His hand shoots up to cut me off. “Say no more.” He spins around, disappearing into the hallway for maybe a minute before reappearing with an economical disguise—a fake mustache that looks like it came from a Halloween store, round glasses that Harry Potter would reject, and a Maplewood Mudcats baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.
“Voilà!” he announces with gusto, arms spread wide like he’s serenaded me with an astonishing magic trick.
My head shakes in disbelief. How did this man become a multi-platinum recording artist? “You look ridiculous.”
“Thank you,” he replies. “No one should recognize me now.” He strokes the fake mustache with exaggerated pride.
My weight shifts to one leg as I take another glance at him. “Lose the stache. I’m not going out with you dressed like a creepy Joe Jonas.”
He pouts but removes the facial accessory, tucking it into his pocket like he might need it later. The glasses at least stay on, which actually helps disguise those distinctive blue eyes with impossible long eyelashes.
Twenty minutes later, we pull into a strip mall on the edge of town. My sensible Volkswagen looks comically ordinary parked next to gleaming SUVs and trendy crossovers. I steer us toward a place calledBriar & Belle, which has a small but surprisingly good selection of dresses and suits. I’ve purchased dresses here in the past—affordable but still nice enough for specialoccasions. They have a more premium selection, but I never look at those.
The bell over the door jingles cheerfully as we enter, and the woman behind the counter—Marjory, if I remember correctly—glances up with professional interest that instantly transforms into wide-eyed suspicion the moment she sees Logan.
