Logan lowers his sunglasses. “How do you always know it’s me?”
She hands him a cone piled impossibly high with chocolate and says, “I’ve watched every kid in this town grow up—including the ones who used to sneak cookies when they thought I wasn’t looking.”
A pink flush appears on Logan’s cheeks. I never imagined I’d witness such a rare phenomenon.
“Aww,” I tease, delighted. “Baby Logan used to steal cookies?”
He shrugs. “They were really good cookies.”
Granny Jo winks. “Still are.”
I order a strawberry cone, and we wander through the festival grounds, ice cream dripping down our fingers as the sun beats down on our shoulders. It feels natural. Easy. Like something we could be if this weren’t all pretend.
But then my phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with Mom’s alarming text:Emergency at the main stage. Need you now!!!
Chapter 17
Ilet Logan read the message and say, “Duty calls.”
I don’t like the sound of this. Mom’s emergencies at festivals usually involve clipboards, malfunctions, and me volunteering for things I never agreed to.
I jostle my way through the festival crowd, Logan keeping pace beside me. “Any guesses what disaster awaits?” he asks.
“Knowing my mom? Someone quit the funnel cake booth, or the porta-potties look like they exploded.”
Mom waits for me near the information booth, clipboard clutched like a life raft, frowning at a cluster of confused volunteers. Her hair—usually styled to perfection—has escaped its clip, and there’s a smudge of what might be face paint on her cheek. Definite emergency vibes.
She spins as we approach, shock visible in her eyes. “Logan!” I shoosh her immediately. “Oh, sorry.” She looks around to make sure no one’s heard. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Lang,” he says, flashing his world-famous grin, which seems to work on unsuspecting mothers, too.
“What’s the big emergency?” I ask.
Mom’s eyes find me, clearly frazzled. “Venessa, who was supposed to give the prize for the hoop competition caught a stomach bug and can’t make it. We need someone to step in.” Her eyes narrow on me with laser-like focus. “Guess who’s the lucky pick?”
I groan so loud I hope she changes her mind. “No, Mom. Isn’t there someone else? The last thing I want is a kiss on the cheek from someone three times my age.” Could she possibly have picked a worse time—right when I’m sorting through these overwhelming feelings for Logan?
“Maisie,” Mom says, her voice taking on that tone that’s won her arguments since I was five, “it’s tradition.”
“I thought the dunk tank was tradition.” My last-ditch effort at deflection.
“That too,” she says, dragging me by the elbow toward the hoop arena. “But peoplelovethis one. And you’re . . . renowned around here as of late.”
“That should make me the last person you’d consider for this,” I counter.
“I think it’ll be good for everyone to see you’re not bothered by any of this celebrity nonsense.” She shoots Logan an admonishing look over her shoulder, and I hear him clear his throat.
“Fine.” I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.
Mom is beyond herself, already racing to the stage to spread the good news.
Logan’s shoulder brushes mine. “It’s just a little fun. Besides, think of the public service you’re doing for Maplewood Springs.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you.”
He just looks away, licking his ice cream cone with innocence.
Minutes later, I’m seated on the stage, which now has a sign reading: DON’T MISS AND WIN A KISS! My cheeks warm to approximately the temperature of molten lava. I do not like the spotlight.
