So when Logan asks if I’ll hand out flyers on Main Street for the Blackstone Legacy Poetry and Futon Drift Concert, I don’t hesitate.
“You can start with the new businesses, I’ll take the old ones,” Logan says, splitting the stack of flyers down the middle. “We can do the first one together.”
The nearest shop is a Southwest knick-knack place. Native American pottery and baskets line the windows, copper jewelry and Sagebrush and Arizona T-shirts coat every surface.
“Logan!” The woman behind the counter rushes out. She’s in her late sixties, her short silver hair styled to perfection, silver and copper bracelets stacked on her arms like medieval arm guards.
“Clarice,” Logan greets her warmly. “How’s your day going?”
“Better now that you’re here! To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“We’re promoting a new poetry event,” he says. “This is Sierra, my assistant.”
“Hello, dear. A poetry event, you say? How wonderful. I’ll take a few of those for the counter.”
“Would you mind if we put one up in the window too? We brought tape.”
“Ofcourse, of course! You know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the parking situation down here. There needs to be some limitations. I had to walk all the way from Collins Street today! You’ve got such sway with Mayor Ortiz, and of course, you’re the reason the town has such a healthy budget. I think you could really convince her—”
And just like that, we’re trapped. Clarice launches into a list of grievances and gossip about every business owner on the block. Logan listens patiently, all charm and empathy, trying every polite exit—“Lovely to catch up,” “So many stops to make”—but she barrels on.
He flicks a subtle look my way.Help.
“Logan, sorry to pull you away,” I say quickly, “but we need to get going or you’ll be late to that meeting.”
He checks his phone. “You’re right! Clarice, always a pleasure.”
“You’re welcome anytime, dear!” she says, shoving a handful of business decals into my hand.
The plan to divide and conquer dissolves fast. Clarice isn’t the only one who fawns over Logan. It’s like walking around with a celebrity. We get treated to Thai teas at the Thai place. Scones at Little Lotte’s Lattes.Every shop owner has a story, a complaint, something only for Logan LaSalle’s golden ears.
The crystal shop owner, Tim, is the most effusive. “I can’t get over your aura, Logan. It takes my breath away every time. You were born for greatness.”
Logan is gentle, patient, charming. He sympathizes with complaints, laughs at funny vignettes, and listens attentively to everyone. No one can resist him, and I can feel myself falling under his spell too.
Whenever Logan glances at me, I know it’s my cue to stepin like a paid bodyguard. I take advantage of the opportunity to guide him out with a touch. Fingers on his forearm, a hand on his back. Every brush feels dangerous and electrifying, his body a powerful aphrodisiac. I find myself swaying toward him, cheeks burning when he dips his head closer to mine for a quick murmur of thanks. I force myself to step away for fear of anyone watching and suspecting our less-than-chaste relationship.
I don’t know who we’d be fooling, though. Forget my reaction to him. The way Logan looks at me, for anyone paying attention, it’s obvious. He can’t seem to help himself. And I can’t bring myself to tell him to stop.
“How on earth did you put up all the Candlelight Tour flyers by yourself last time?” I ask as we barely escape the third antique store.
“It took two days.”
I laugh. “You poor thing. How does it feel to be universally beloved?”
“Exhausting,” he admits. His hand brushes mine as we walk, but I don’t move away. “But it makes everyone so happy to see me. They see me as an extension of Sagebrush’s success, so it’s rewarding. Do you feel vindicated?”
“Vindicated?”
“You used to get so mad at me when I called this place Sagetrash. ‘It just needs a second chance and someone to believe in it,’ you said.” He gestures around us. “You always saw so much potential, and you were right. Behold: the fresh start.”
My throat goes dry. It’s bittersweet, seeing this place finally get its second chance.
I want one too.
The thought hits me hard, and it takes a second for the fear to abate. There’s only one way to see if it’s even possible, and it’s to be seen.
“Let’s go in there,” I say, pointing to the hair salon, Sahaira, one of the oldest establishments in Sagebrush.
