“The press won’t linger if you’re not around.” The words fall like little pebbles of judgment. “Seems you’re quite the celebrity around here, Miss Lang.”
I never imagined him capable of sarcasm, but it doesn’t lessen the flaming embarrassment I feel. “Thank you for understanding,” I say before hanging up, then heave a sigh so long it could win awards for dramatic exhaling.
How did I get here? My life has turned into some bizarre rom-com I never auditioned for. One second, I’m grading math quizzes and writing silly songs about friendly frogs for my adorable first graders. The next, I’m dodging paparazzi and kissing a pop star on a festival stage while the entire town watches. I’m not built for this kind of drama. My idea of excitement is finding a new flavor of La Croix at Kroger.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I have to tell Logan how I feel. I dial his number.
“Morning, sunshine.” He sounds entirely too cheerful for someone who caused a public disaster yesterday.
“They’re still outside my school.” I make sure the urgency in my voice comes across loud and clear. “It’s a mess. I had to call off work.”
“Come over,” he says, no hesitation. “We’ll talk.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling into my driveway, then making the short walk next door, second-guessing myself with each step. Logan’s door stands unlocked. I let myself in.
The smell hits me first—warm maple syrup dancing with vanilla and something citrusy. My steps falter as I enter the kitchen and see what awaits.
Logan’s set the table like some Pinterest-worthy breakfast date. Pancakes stacked in a golden tower. Freshly squeezed orange juice glowing in crystal glasses I didn’t even know he owned. Two candles flicker in the center. No one has eversurprised me with a romantic breakfast before, which makes what I plan to say to him that much harder.
He pulls out a chair, looking like he belongs on a breakfast cereal commercial with his messy hair and sincere smile. “We should’ve done this sooner.”
I sit but can’t relax, my shoulders locked like a statue. “Are we doing the right thing?” No point in avoiding this conversation.
As he takes a seat across from me, Logan’s confidence goes out like someone blew out one of the candles. “You’re still thinking about yesterday?”
“How can I not be? This whole love-triangle media frenzy . . . even my job’s on the line now.” My fingers twist the napkin in my lap into a tortured fabric pretzel.
“Don’t worry about it. It’ll blow over.” He says it like it’s supposed to make me feel better.
Would it be inappropriate to throw a pancake at his gorgeous face? “You should be more concerned,” I say. “This is my life we’re talking about.”
He leans forward with a half-smile. “You mean our life?”
I can never tell if he’s serious or not. “Is that what this is?”
“It could be.” He glances at me momentarily before his eyes fall to the pancake he’s cutting into tiny pieces.
“We barely know each other,” I tell him.
“That’s not true,” he says, leaning back against his chair. “We grew up together.”
“I knew you then,” I say, crossing my arms. “But you’re not that kid anymore. You told me so yourself.”
“Then ask me. Whatever you want to know.” His gaze now holds mine, not even a blink.
“Tell me about Victoria.” I force the words out before courage deserts me. “She keeps popping up at the worst times.”
He stiffens, taking a moment before replying. “Ask me anything except that.”
“You always do this.” I push my plate away, appetite vanishing. “You joke your way out of everything. I need to understand what I’m getting into, but you keep dodging.”
His jaw flexes, muscles ticking beneath his stubble. I cross my arms tighter, letting him know he better choose his next words wisely.
“She’s my ex. Is that what you wanted to hear?” His words come clipped and sharp.
Something tells me there’s more to it than he lets on. “Exes don’t just show up at small town festivals. And now there’s talk of a tour?”
“I’m not going on any tour.” I must’ve hit a sensitive spot with all the anger in his tone. “And this has nothing to do with us.”
