“What about you?” he asks when he finishes. “How did you get into design?”
The question catches me off guard. “I’ve always loved creating things,” I begin hesitantly. “As a kid, I was constantly drawing or making elaborate decorations for every holiday. But... my family didn’t really understand it. They’re all very practical, you know? They saw my art as a waste of time.”
Logan’s brow furrows. “That must have been hard,” he says softly.
I nod, surprised by how easy it is to continue. “It was. For a long time, I tried to be what they wanted me to be. I even dated this guy who was the manager at my old firm. He...” I trail off, the memories still painful.
“He what, Bailey?” Logan prompts gently.
In the soft glow of the tea lights, with the storm raging outside and the rest of the world feeling far away, I find the courage to continue. “He was verbally abusive and manipulative,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “He made me feel like my ideas were worthless, like I was worthless.”
Logan’s expression darkens, a flash of anger crossing his face. “Bailey, I’m so sorry you went through that,” he says, his voice low and intense. “No one deserves to be treated that way. If that jerk ever shows his face in this town, I’ll run him out—or run him over with the fire truck.”
Despite the seriousness of the moment, I can’t help but laugh. “I appreciate the offer,” I say, feeling a warmth spread through my chest at his protectiveness. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
As the night wears on, our conversation flows more freely. I open up about my struggles to express myself how my fear of being misunderstood often leads me to push people away before they can get close. With each shared confidence, I feel a little piece of the wall I’ve built around my heart start to crumble.
The storm continues to rage outside, wind howling and snow pelting against the windows. But here in our little cocoon of quilts and soft light, I feel safer and more at peace than I have in years. The night grows late, and our conversation begins to slow; I feel my eyelids growing heavy. Logan must notice because he shifts slightly, his hand finding mine in the darkness.
“We should try to get some sleep,” he says softly. “But... would it be okay if I held your hand? I don’t want to be alone in the dark.” His words are casual, but I can sense the deeper meaning behind them. He’s offering comfort, not just for himself, but for me. And for once, I don’t feel the need to push it away.
“I’d like that,” I whisper, intertwining my fingers with his.
As I drift off to sleep—the warmth of Logan’s hand in mine and the soft glow of the tea lights creating a bubble of peace around us—I realize something has fundamentally shifted. For the first time in a long time, the thought of being vulnerable, of letting someone in, doesn’t fill me with fear.
Fourteen
BAILEY
The key in my hand feels heavier than usual as I trudge up the stairs to my apartment. Logan and I woke up this morning and got to work. Logan had to leave to help the firefighters make the rounds. I missed him right away and then decided it was a good thing he was gone because I was getting too used to having him around.
The scent of white chocolate and chicken broth from the Pampered Pooch Pantry below wafts up and follows me inside. My fingers, still stiff from the cold, fumble with the lock for a moment before I manage to push the door open.
As I step inside, the warmth of the apartment envelops me like a comforting hug. The Christmas lights strung around the windows cast a soft, welcoming glow that immediately eases some of the exhaustion in my shoulders. I breathe in deeply, expecting the usual musty smell of an apartment that’s been closed up all day. Instead, my senses are assaulted by an aroma so rich and inviting that my stomach growls in response.
“Hello?” I call out tentatively, confused by the unexpected scent of home-cooked food.
“In here, dear,” Gladys’s cheerful voice rings out from the small kitchenette.
I round the corner to find Gladys stirring something on the stove. The sight of her in my kitchen, an apron tied around her waist and a wooden spoon in hand, is so unexpected that I can only stand there, blinking in surprise. I’m so grateful she had a place to stay last night. The storm was brutal. With the power back on now, the town is getting their feet back under them.
“Gladys, how did you get in?”
She turns to me with a bright smile, seemingly unperturbed by my bewilderment. “Mrs. Pennington let me in. I hope you don’t mind. I thought you might need a hot meal after being snowed in at the Inn and then working all day.”
The mention of the Inn brings a flood of memories from the past twenty-four hours—most of all, the long conversations with Logan in the soft glow of the tea lights. I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks and quickly look away, hoping Gladys hasn’t noticed.
“That’s very kind of you,” I manage, still a bit overwhelmed by her unexpected presence and generosity. This is the kind of life I didn’t know I was craving. Coming home to a warm and welcoming presence. Having someone to talk to. I didn’t feel lonely before, but now I realize that I was.
Gladys waves her spoon dismissively. “It’s what friends do. Take a seat.”
I sink into one of the chairs at the small dining table. As Gladys bustles about the kitchen, humming a Christmas carol under her breath, I find myself relaxing into this homey feeling.
“Here we are,” Gladys announces, placing a steaming bowl of soup in front of me. The rich aroma of vegetables and herbs fills my nostrils, making my mouth water. I didn’t have these ingredients in my fridge. She must have picked them up on her way over.
“Eat up. You look like you could use it.”
I take a spoonful, the warmth spreading through me as I swallow. It’s delicious, reminding me of lazy Sunday afternoons at my grandmother’s house. “This is amazing. You’re a miracle worker.”
