“Aren’t you—“ she begins.
My heart jolts. “He’s my cousin,” I say quickly, linking my arm through Logan’s and dragging him toward the dress racks before his ego exposes us to the entire staff.
Logan’s greeting as we walk away consists of a hand thrown up and a barely concealed smirk.
“Cousin? I don’t think she bought it,” he says against my ear as I pull him between two tall racks of formal wear.
“That’s why we’re walking away.” The back of my neck prickles with awareness that the clerk’s eyes are still firmly fixed on us. “You’re like Maplewood’s own royal scandal. Everyone loves you here and follows your every move, so try not to be too friendly.”
He strokes his chin thoughtfully, and I can practically see his ego inflating like a hot air balloon. “Maybe I should move here permanently.”
“Get serious.” I file through a row of dresses. “We need to find a dress and leave before the Logan Humphries Fan Club assembles in aisle three.”
At every turn, he ducks his head, pretending to be engrossed by the fabric of a navy blazer to avoid Marjorie’s increasingly obvious staring. I focus on the dresses, trying to find something appropriate for a wedding where I will have the distinguished pleasure of watching my ex marry my former best friend.
The bell over the door chimes again, and several voices float through the store. Logan’s head snaps up like a startled deer, panic flashing across his face as he spots three teenage girlsentering. Without warning, he bolts for the changing rooms like a man fleeing hungry lions.
“You can’t just—“ I hurry after him, abandoning a promising emerald dress mid-examination. “You can’t hide back here.”
Before I can process what’s happening, his hand closes around my wrist, and he pulls me in after him, shutting the curtain with a swift yank. The small space instantly feels too warm, too close, as we stand facing each other in what is definitely a one-person changing room.
“What?” he whispers, his breath warming my forehead. “You said I look suspicious. Better suspicious and hidden than suspicious and mobbed by everyone walking in.”
“This isn’t any better. What if someone thinks we’re up to no good?”
The corner of his mouth curls up. “Define ‘no good.’”
I know exactly the thoughts responsible for that teasing smirk of his. I know because I’m thinking them, too. “Logan.” I glare at him, trying to ignore my galloping heart in this confined space that is seemingly getting smaller by the second.
“Maisie.” He mimics my indignant tone.
What am I going to do with him? Sometimes, he acts like Tom Hanks in the movieBig. I sigh. Here I am, chaperoning yet another kid.
When I hear the girls leave, I slide the curtain open and step out, realizing how good the store’s cool air feels against my hot face.
I grab three dresses to try on while Logan hovers near a mirrored column. The first is a pale-yellow chiffon number with cascading ruffles from the neckline to mid-thigh, a fabric belt cinching the waist, and a hem that floats just above my knees. The second, a rich forest green velvet, features a square neckline and sleeves so voluminous they might qualify as flotation devices in an emergency. My final selection is a navy blue silk-blend with a subtle shimmer woven into the fabric—floor length with a modest slit up one leg, and a sweetheart neckline that manages to be both classic and current.
Logan plants himself in the corner near the three-way mirror, arms crossed over his chest. “Go ahead. Show me what Maplewood Springs’ most stylish teacher has picked.”
“You’re taking this whole fashion judge role pretty seriously.”
“I’ve been to enough award shows to have opinions.” He gestures toward the changing room with a theatrical wave. “The runway awaits, Ms. Lang.”
My eyes roll automatically. He wouldn’t know haute couture if it smacked him in the face. The man wore jeans and flannel to the Billboard Music Awards last year.
Five minutes later, I emerge in the yellow dress, the ruffles somehow multiplying under the fluorescent lighting. The fabric swishes as I walk, making a sound like someone shuffling a deck of cards.
“Well?” I turn in a small circle, already knowing the answer from his pained expression.
“Are you auditioning for a Little House on the Prairie reboot? Because you’ve got the prairie wife look down.”
“That bad, huh?” I smooth the excessive ruffles.
“Let’s just say if you wear that to the wedding, people might think you’re there to set the tables, not drink champagne.”
I let out a small laugh. “Fine. I’ll try on the next dress.”
I retreat back to the changing room, slipping into dress number two. The forest green velvet drapes heavily across my frame. The sleeves billow out like I’m storing emergency supplies inside them. When I emerge, Logan’s eyes widen before he clamps his lips together, clearly suppressing a laugh.
