“Thanks for getting it,” I say, pulling the blanket tighter.
“You’re welcome,” he replies, teeth still chattering like tiny castanets.
After drying myself as best I can, I give him the blanket so he can do the same. Then I grab my belongings, and we sprint to the car in silence, and when we finally climb inside, we’re greeted by warm air that feels like absolute heaven against my chilled skin.
I rub my hands in front of the vent and turn the heat up another notch, sighing with relief.
Thank goodness he left the car running.
Chapter 14
The next day, honey-gold light spills through my curtains in ribbons as I lay in bed. A warm tingle stirs in my belly every time Logan’s half-naked image flashes in my head, effervescing out into my fingertips like electricity, scattering my concentration.
I hold my phone, and the fourth unanswered text to Logan stares back at me.Earth to Logan. Please let me know you’re still breathing.Four messages sent. Zero read. Just sad little “delivered” notifications popping at me.
My body flops backward onto my mattress with all the dramatic flair of a telenovela actress learning her evil twin isn’t actually dead. Professor Hootington—my stuffed owl with the permanently judgmental amber eyes—tumbles against my shoulder in silent solidarity.
Did I say something wrong? Maybe I splashed too aggressively. Was I staring too obviously at his abs? Orworse—what if he’s having second thoughts about our whole arrangement?
The guy hangs out with actual celebrities. Victoria Delacroix, for crying out loud. And here I am, a first-grade teacher who sleeps with a stuffed owl and has dinosaur-shaped mac and cheese in her pantry. Not exactly the glamorous lifestyle he’s used to.
I shove my phone under my pillow and push myself upright. No more wallowing. No more refreshing message screens like some lovesick teenager.
Wait. Not lovesick. Definitely not lovesick. Friendship-sick. Fake-relationship-contract-sick.
When I crack open my window, the breeze carries in the scent of fresh grass, apple blossoms, and blessed freedom from wool sock season. My winter-pale legs practically sing hallelujah.
I slip into a yellow polka dotsundress with delicate lace trim and a cinched waist, then put on white sneakers and drape a denim jacket over my shoulders—not because I’ll need it, but because it completes the cute vibe I’m attempting to pull off. The first proper dress day of the season deserves a full commitment.
My stomach growls, reminding me that emotional turmoil burns calories. In the kitchen, Mom sits perched on her usual stool, chamomile tea steaming beside her, eyes locked on the TV. Chrissy is at the table in her pajamas, also unable to avert her eyes from the screen. The only one uninterested in the TV is Noah, who slurps Honey Bunches of Oats beside Chrissy.
And then I see what they’re watching.
To my horror, Mom’s usual program, Blitz Kitchen, is replaced by an image of me—freeze-framed mid-blink, looking like I’ve been caught shoplifting in a drunken stupor—alongside grainy footage of Logan climbing into my car. Red ticker tape runs beneath us:SMALL-TOWN LOVE TRIANGLE? POP STAR, TEACHER, DRAMA HEATS UP.
Every organ in my body free-falls at once, leaving me hollow and weightless like I’ve plunged over the edge of a cliff. What I feared the most is coming true.
Mom’s tea hovers halfway to her lips, her maternal frown deepening as she turns to me—the exact expression she uses when I buy milk too close to its expiration date.
“Oh, honey.” Her voice carries a hint of disappointment. “Are you sure about this?”
I grab the orange juice carton, pouring while avoiding her eyes. “I know how it looks. But none of it is true. We’re just childhood friends catching up while he’s in town.”
Not exactly the truth, but I can’t come clean. I haven’t even told her the real reason behind my breakup with Andy.
I pour myself a glass of juice and that’s when I notice Chrissy hunched over her cereal, uncharacteristically silent. Usually she’s bubbling with morning energy and updates about Theo.
“Why so quiet over there?” I ask, eyebrows raised.
Chrissy’s cheeks flush pink. She pushes her spoon around the now-soggy cereal, avoiding eye contact.
“I think I know how the story got out,” she admits. “Stephanie let it slip to her mom. She was doing laundry and found her blouse—you know, the one Logan signed?”
After worrying about Logan’s silent treatment all night, I don’t have the energy to be angry.
“She almost had a heart attack when she realized the autograph was about to get washed away. Started screaming through the house. Her mom demanded to know why she would act this way.” Chrissy finally looks up. “Sorry, sis.”
I sink into a chair, head dropping into my hands. “It was bound to come out sooner or later.”
