Page 21 of Defensive Desire

Connor's voice cuts through my Logan-induced haze. He's approaching with Lucy in tow, and I nearly snort coffee when I see he's wearing what appears to be a cowboy hat that's at least three sizes too big.

"Nice hat, Walsh," Logan says dryly.

Connor adjusts it with exaggerated pride. "Thank you. Lucy says it makes me look distinguished."

"I said it makes you look ridiculous," Lucy laughs, unable to keep a straight face. "But you wear ridiculous well."

"Good luck today, guys!" Connor calls out as they skip by.

Lucy's tugging on Connor's arm affectionately, and the easy intimacy between them makes my chest tight with longing. They just... fit. Like they were made for each other.

I catch Logan watching them too, his expression unreadable.

"They're weird," he mutters grumpily.

"They're happy," I counter, unable to keep the wistfulness from my voice.

Logan's jaw tightens slightly, and he turns back to arranging my display with unnecessary detail.

The morning flies by as more people arrive, the brewery filling with the sounds of laughter, live music, and the sizzle of the fire department's pancake station. Logan doesn't leave my side, helping whenever I need something without making a big deal of it.

He's like my own personal fortress, deflecting the chaos of the event.

When someone bumps into my table, he steadies it.

When I can't reach something, his hand appears with exactly what I need.

Around noon, the Icehawk judges start making their rounds. Sophia leads the way with her tablet, Big Mike looking surprisingly jovial behind her, and Greg the CFO scowling at everything that might cost money.

"Ready for this?" Logan asks quietly as they approach.

I nod, heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with judges or competitions.

"Yeah," I whisper, feeling Logan's hand brush mine as he reaches for a sample cup. "I'm ready."

Chapter Six

Emma

The morning has already been a whirlwind of coffee sampling, nervous smiles, and trying not to let Sophia's intense note-taking shake my confidence.

Big Mike seemed pleased enough when he tried my specialty blend earlier, even complimenting the "kick" at the end—a callback to our promotional video that's apparently now the talk of the festival.

But now, after the judges have made their rounds twice, Logan touches my elbow and nods toward the games area.

"Come on. You need a break," he says simply, like he knows exactly how I'm feeling before even I do.

How does he do that?

I glance at my booth, where I've sold nearly half my samples already. The branded cups are disappearing faster than I expected, a nice little bonus that I didn't expect today.

"Fine. Five minutes," I agree.

We weave through the crowds toward the games section, and I can't help but notice how Logan subtly guides me through the chaos.

His hand hovers just behind my back, not quite touching but close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his palm. When someone bumps into me, he shifts closer, creating a protective barrier without making a big deal of it.

Blake's voice suddenly booms across the event space, barking orders like he's commanding troops instead of coordinating with local high schoolers.