The sundress slips from my fingers and lands in a soft heap on the bed. "I can't believe she's really coming back." My mind jumps to Sarah and the way she left our town four years ago andnever looked back. "After what happened with her ex, I honestly thought she'd never step foot here again."
"Apparently, she's got a real opportunity lined up." Claire’s voice drops into the half-whisper we’ve been using since middle school, the one that turns any sentence into juicy news. “Some marketing position at a big firm, which, by the way, pays actual money. Unlike my restaurant.”
“I can’t believe she’s coming back.” I stuff my toiletry bag between two pairs of jeans and press down until the zipper threatens to protest. “I’d love to meet up after Logan and I get back.”
"How long will you lovebirds be gone?" Her voice carries a teasing note of satisfaction.
“A week.” I smooth a hand over Logan’s favorite dress, the one that always makes his gaze turn darker when I wear it. “We’re driving all the way to Tennessee.”
"Great. Sarah will be here in two. I'll let her know."
"Sounds good." A sock tries to escape the suitcase, and I shove it back in with great determination. “Just imagine it, though. All of us together again after everything that’s happened. Are we turning into the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants?”
"If you substitute the pants with your rock star boyfriend, then yes," Claire says.
A smile blooms on my face. "Life's weird like that."
"Weird in a good way," Claire replies.
I glance out the window at the street below, where Logan is sliding a guitar case into the back of his Camaro. “Okay, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you when I get there.”
***
The warm summer wind keeps shoving my hair across my face as Logan cruises along I-40, the sun a molten disk sinkingtoward the horizon. Without looking away from the road, he reaches over and taps the window button. The glass glides up just enough to change the airflow, and my wild brown hair finally streams back instead of slapping across my eyes.
I steal a glance at him in the deepening amber light. His profile is a clean line against the blushing sky, jaw easy, one hand relaxed on the wheel, like this drive is the most natural thing in the world.
If someone had told me a year ago that I’d fall headlong for Logan Humphries, I would have laughed until I peed my pants.
And yet here we are, chasing Tennessee with the windows down, two small-town dreamers racing along an endless ribbon of highway.
He mentioned a musician in Nashville, raw talent he has his eye on for our fledgling label, and the way he said it made it sound less like a plan and more like a promise.
This past year feels unreal, like something stitched together from moments that shouldn’t fit. After the wedding, after everything shifted, Logan carried his guitar case and a duffel bag into Mom’s guest room and stayed. Our kitchen became his workspace, cluttered with notebooks and half-finished melodies, the walls learning the sound of laughter and lyrics in the same breath.
His split with the last label was ugly. Lawyers. Threats. Accounts frozen without warning. A new hit to his reputation every week, like someone kept lighting matches just to see what would burn. They took everything they could on paper, and what they couldn’t take, they tried to destroy.
Once the dust finally settled, Logan was left with a signature Gibson, his Camaro, and an unbroken spirit. It was enough.
When "Pretend" dropped online, we huddled around my laptop screen watching the number of views with pounding hearts.
Seven days later, we were still staring at the screen, only now the numbers were climbing too fast to count. They didn’t just rise. They surged, a groundswell of support that caught us both off guard and left us blinking like we’d stepped into sunlight.
Speaking of which—
My fingers find the volume dial as the unmistakable opening notes of our song fill the car's interior. Logan catches me with a sideways glance, one eyebrow arching above cheerful eyes.
"Seriously? Again?" His lips twitch with barely contained laughter.
I tilt my chin up, fighting back my own smile. "It's about me, you know. And I co-wrote it." I tap my chest with exaggerated pride. "These lyrics don't just fall out of the sky."
This is us now, a beautiful mess powered by creativity and very little restraint. Melodies end up scrawled on coffee-stained napkins. Lyrics get whispered between kisses that derail entire afternoons.
Heat creeps up my neck when I think about yesterday’s “songwriting session.” We managed two usable lines.
We also lost several hours in ways I have no intention of forgetting.
Logan's eyes drift from the road to my flushed face, the corner of his mouth lifting. "What's happening in that beautiful mind?”
