I love that Logan gets a kick out of surprising me with these trips. Honestly, I’d be happy sitting in a parking lot with him, but I’m not going to tell him that and ruin his fun.
“How long are we in the car?”
“Almost five hours.”
“Five hours?” I settle back into my seat. “Okay. Road trip snacks are mandatory then.”
He laughs. “Already packed.”
Hours later, we’re on board a ferry bound for Mackinac Island. The cool breeze coming off Lake Huron feels incredible against my skin, cutting through the heavy August heat. I lean against the rail and look down into the clear blue water, then up at the massive Mackinac Bridge stretching across the straits in the distance.
“I’ve always heard about this place,” I say over the steady hum of the ferry’s engine. “But I’ve never been.”
“It’s one of the first places I visited when I got transferred to the Cranes,” Logan says, standing beside me with his arm around my waist. “There’s really nothing else like it.”
The ferry cuts through the water, and the island grows larger as we approach. I can already see the historic buildings dotting the shoreline, the massive white structure of the Grand Hotel perched on the bluff above town.
When we dock and step onto the island, it’s like walking into another era—if that era happened to be full of tourists in fanny packs. But even with the crowds, Mackinac Island is charming. No cars are allowed anywhere on the island, and people get around by walking, biking, or riding in horse-drawn carriages. The clip-clop of hooves on pavement and the jingle of harnesses create a soundtrack that feels impossibly old-fashioned.
Downtown is exactly what you’d picture from an old postcard—Victorian storefronts painted in cheerful colors, flower boxes overflowing with blooms, American flags snapping in the breeze. And the smell…God, the smell of fudge shops is everywhere. The rich sweetness of chocolate and sugar wafts through the air, so thick you can almost taste it.
“First things first,” Logan says, taking my hand and leading me toward a bike rental shop.
He gets himself a standard mountain bike and, without even asking, orders me a three-wheeled cruiser with a big metal basket on the back—just like the one he bought me for our first bike ride together. My chest warms at the thoughtfulness.
“Perfect,” I say, running my hand over the handlebars.
We load our luggage into the baskets—his duffel bag and my weekend bag barely fitting—and I look at him expectantly. “So where are we staying?”
His smile widens. “The Grand Hotel.”
My jaw drops. “The Grand Hotel? Logan, that place is?—”
“Worth it,” he finishes. “Come on.”
The ride up to the Grand Hotel is all uphill, and by the time we reach the entrance, my legs are burning, and I’m slightly out of breath. But the view makes it worth it.
The Grand Hotel is absolutely stunning. It’s been standing since 1887—over a hundred and thirty years—and it looks like something out of a fairy tale. The main building is massive, painted white with bright red geraniums lining every window box and balcony. But the most impressive feature is the massive front porch. Apparently, at 660 feet long, it’s the longest porch in the world. It’s lined with rows of white rocking chairs where guests sit and watch the sun set over the Straits of Mackinac.
“This place has hosted five US presidents,” Logan says as we walk our bikes up to the valet stand. “And they filmedSomewhere in Timehere. You know, that old movie with Christopher Reeve?”
“I’ve never seen it,” I admit.
“We’ll have to fix that.”
“Do you work for the tourism board here?” I tease.
The corners of Logan’s mouth tilt up into a shy smile. “I may have memorized a few facts about the island for you. I just want you to have the best time.”
I slide my fingers through his and squeeze his hand. “That’s already a given. My favorite moments are with you, no matter where we are.”
He bends and gives me a sweet kiss.
A hotel attendant takes our bags and assures us they’ll be delivered to our room shortly.
Logan offers me his arm. “Ready?”
We step through the grand entrance into the lobby, and I have to stop and just stare. The ceilings soar at least twenty feet, with ornate crown molding and massive chandeliers dripping with crystals. The floor is polished to a mirror shine, and fresh flower arrangements the size of small trees sit on antique tables. Everything is elegant and historic and utterly beautiful.
