“We’re leaving right this instance,” I say, my voice panicky.
“What?” Logan tilts his head in confusion.
I yank the tag around so he can see it. “Whoever came up with this price clearly did not take a teacher’s salary into account. This is why I never look at the premium rack.”
Logan laughs and pulls out his wallet with casual ease. “I’ll get it.”
Of course he would. What’s a few hundred dollars to a multimillionaire? “I can’t let you do that,” I say firmly. “Besides, the clerk will see your name on the credit card.”
I take him by the hand and guide him toward the exit before he can argue further. “Let’s go.”
“What about my suit?” He glances back at the men’s section we haven’t even approached.
“Order it online. Less risk of getting mobbed by well-meaning strangers with phone cameras.”
By the time we arrive back home, the sun begins to dip, casting a golden glow across our identical front porches as we climb out of the car. The whole shopping trip feels like some strange dream—hiding in changing rooms, dancing in expensive dresses, his hand on my waist.
Logan pauses on his steps. “How much time until the wedding?”
“Two months from today,” I say. “June tenth. You better not disappear on me before then.”
His eyes meet mine with unexpected intensity. “Not a chance.”
I steal a glance at him before entering my home, still unable to believe he’s hiding out next door.
He’s already halfway through his own door but turns just in time to catch me gawking, and I quickly dart inside, too aware of how flustered he makes me feel.
Maybe this whole arrangement wasn’t such a good idea.
Chapter 11
The following week with Logan passes in a flurry of excitement. Each day after I get off work, he waits for me at my doorstep wearing some version of a poor man’s disguise and every time I see him, I’m less worried about people recognizing him and more concerned someone will call the cops on the suspicious man loitering in large sunglasses and a hoodie.
Monday brings a black baseball cap pulled low, mirrored aviators, and a scarf wrapped around his lower face despite the warm spring weather. Tuesday features a fishing hat with a ridiculously wide brim that casts his entire face in shadow. By Wednesday, he’s added another fake mustache that keeps slipping off one side when he talks on our way to golf.
Maplewood Mini Golf becomes a showcase of Logan’s competitive streak and creative excuses. By the ninth hole, I’ve crushed him by nine strokes, and his explanations grow increasingly desperate.
“It’s definitely the wind,” he insists, watching his neon orange ball roll pathetically short of the windmill. Not a single leaf stirs on the brush surrounding us.
I give my ball a slight tap, and it rolls smoothly through the windmill and into the hole. “What wind would that be, exactly?”
“The spiritual wind.” He waves his hands mystically. “You can’t see it, but it’s there, manipulating my ball.”
“Right.” I mark my scorecard. “Is that the same wind that’s helping me destroy you right now?”
Logan narrows his eyes, pointing his club at me. “You never mentioned you were a mini-golf shark.”
Thursday brings us to one of the shorter Ouachita trails, where halfway through the loop, Logan collapses onto a fallen log, chest heaving like he’s performed three consecutive concerts.
“This is it,” he gasps, flinging one arm over his eyes. “This is how Logan Humphries dies. Not in a blaze of glory or crowd-surfing at Madison Square Garden, but defeated by a moderate incline in Arkansas.”
“Should I call for help?” I peer down at him, hands on my hips. “Maybe a bald eagle could airlift you back to civilization?”
He peeks at me from under his arm. “I couldn’t leave you here all by yourself. You’d miss me too much.”
There goes another wink.Unbelievable.
Monday morning, as I walk out the door for work, I nearly trip over a brown package sitting on the welcome mat. It’s fromBriar & Belle.
