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Chapter Fifteen

Emma

T he next morning, my café smells like espresso, warm muffins, and low-level panic.

“Okay, the filters are here.”

I point to the labeled drawer beneath the barista station for the fourth time this morning.

“If it starts blinking red, just reset the machine and check the water line. Oh, and Mrs. Henderson likes her flat white with oat milk—not almond. She says almond makes her mouth ‘feel furry.’”

Lucy leans against the counter, sipping a caramel latte with all the bored drama of a teenage girl who’s heard this speech a dozen times.

“Emma,” she deadpans, “it’s a coffee shop, not open-heart surgery.”

"Lucy. Seriously, she will spit it in your face if you mess it up. Mrs. Henderson may look nice, but trust me, she has a wild side."

Grandpa Walt grunts from behind the counter where he’s currently wrestling with a bag of beans. He’s wearing one of my Chapter & Grind aprons over a flannel shirt and khakis, and it’s… a lot.

"You okay, Grandpa?"

The beans almost spill out on the floor, and I lunge forward, catching the bag just as it tips from Grandpa Walt's grasp.

"I've got it," I say, steadying both him and the precious cargo. "Maybe let me handle the heavy lifting?"

"Nonsense." He waves me off with that stubborn Carter pride we both share. "Been lifting heavier things than coffee beans since before you were born."

I place the bag on the counter, my heart squeezing with affection and worry. When he overheard me telling Lucy about the fishing trip with Logan, he immediately volunteered to help run the shop.

I couldn't exactly tell him no, could I?

Not when his eyes lit up at the chance to be useful, to be part of something I built.

"You don't have to do this," I say softly, measuring out beans for the grinder. "I can always ask Melanie to—"

"Your sister wouldn't know a pour-over from a pothole." He huffs, adjusting his apron strings. "Besides, I taught you how to roast. Who better to mind the shop?"

I smile, because he's right.

"Just promise you'll take breaks," I tell him, handing him a muffin. "And call me if anything goes wrong."

"Nothing will go wrong," he says with absolute certainty. "You deserve this trip, Emma. It's about time someone took care of you for a change."

His weathered hand covers mine, warm and steady like it's been my whole life. I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat.

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Grandpa."

The bell over the door jingles, and I glance up to see Ethan Daniels walk in. He's freshly showered, clean-shaven, and looking—if not entirely at ease—at least solidly like himself again.

“Hey,” he says quietly, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “I think I'm… uh… reporting for barista duty?”

Lucy nudges him with her hip. “Yup. Don’t break anything, will you?”

He smirks, eyes flicking to me.

“Thanks for getting me out of rehab for the weekend, Em. I hear Logan’s been in a good mood lately. It’s freaking everyone out.”

I blush immediately, busying myself with straightening the napkin holder. “It’s just a weekend.”

Lucy snorts. “A weekend in the mountains. With a hot hockey player. Who literally looks at you like you’re the last cinnamon roll on the tray.”

I open my mouth to argue, but there’s no point.

She’s not wrong.

“Just… make sure Grandpa Walt doesn’t roast the beans again. And don’t let Mrs. Jenkins con Ethan into donating free biscotti to her book club. She’s sneaky like that.”

“We’ve got this,” Lucy says, softening her tone. “You need to let yourself have fun. For once.”

I roll my eyes.

Fun feels like a foreign concept when your brain runs entirely on coffee and anxiety. But just before I can rattle off one more instruction about the pastry rotation schedule, the front door swings open.

Logan walks in wearing a flannel jacket and jeans, carrying that calm, quiet confidence that makes every nerve in my body flicker to attention. His hair’s tousled from the wind, his cheeks a little pink from the cold.

“Mornin'. Truck’s ready,” he says, his deep voice making my skin tingle with excitement.

I nod, suddenly tongue-tied as he crosses to the counter and scoops up my duffel bag like it weighs nothing.

“Go,” Lucy says under her breath, stepping around the counter to hug me. “Enjoy it. You’ve earned this.”

I blink hard and hug her back, then give Ethan a small smile and even manage to squeeze Grandpa Walt’s elbow.

As Logan leads me to the door, Lucy calls after us, “If you’re not pregnant when you get back, I’m gonna be disappointed!”

I nearly trip over the mat.

“ Lucy !” I hiss.

Grandpa Walt just winks at me. Winks at me .

Logan watches me as my cheeks go bright red, like a damn beet. He chuckles low in his throat, opens the truck door like a gentleman who heard nothing, and casually says, “Better not disappoint her, eh?”

I groan, bury my face in my scarf, and climb in.

But the second the door shuts, muting the sounds of the café behind us, I feel it.

Freedom. The open road. And Logan.

It’s a dangerous mix.

He climbs in beside me, starts the engine, and glances over.

“You good?” he asks, his hand finding mine across the console.

I look down at our fingers, laced together. And… smile.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “I think I am.”

Soon, we're out of town and the road is coiling through the pines like a ribbon of gray silk, each curve tugging us deeper into the wilderness.

Outside, the world is postcard-pretty. Frost-laced evergreens, glints of morning sun off the snow-capped ridgelines, the occasional blur of a deer bounding through the trees after a morning feed on dewy grass.

Inside the truck?

Well, I don’t know what I expected when Logan said “truck,” but this isn’t it.

It’s rugged, sure. With black leather seats, matte dashboard, oversized tires that growl every time he takes a bend too sharp.

But it’s also… luxurious.

Heated seats that are so warm I could fall asleep. Built-in navigation that keeps beeping loudly every few seconds, the noise making Logan growl and smack the buttons on the screen a little too hard.

There's also a high-end sound system playing some mellow alt-rock song that thuds low through the speakers.

It's the kind of vehicle that says, I can wrestle a bear and still afford a monthly bourbon subscription.

Logan looks unfairly good behind the wheel, too. One hand resting casually at twelve o’clock, the other claiming my thigh like we've done this a million times before.

He’s got sunglasses on, jawline sharp beneath a few days of scruff, his dark jacket unzipped just enough to reveal the white t-shirt that clings to every inch of his muscular chest.

Honestly? It’s rude.

I glance down at his hand. His thumb makes small, absent-minded movements above my knee, and I try very hard not to squirm at how nice it feels.

I try to distract myself from how… normal this all feels and check in on the café.

“You’ve checked your phone, like, four times,” he says without looking over, his tone amused. “We've been gone an hour. What are you expecting? A café fire?”

I give him a hard look. “Lucy once tried to microwave soup in a metal container. I just… like knowing everything’s okay.”

He hums, lips twitching. “So you're saying you're a control freak.”

“I’m not a control freak,” I protest, even as I refresh my texts for the fifth time.

"Are you sure?" His fingers slide higher up my leg, moving under the hem of my skirt. "Shall I test that theory?"

My breath catches as his touch creeps higher and higher. He grins when I look across at him, but my legs spread wider voluntarily if only to help his cheeky escapade.

I glance at him, eyes narrowing. “Don’t you dare take your hands off the road.”

“Relax,” he murmurs, voice low and wicked. “I’ve got control right now. Not you.”

His fingers continue their slow exploration, brushing higher along my inner thigh until they reach the edge of my panties.

I inhale sharply, pressing my thighs together—and failing, because he’s already between them.

He grazes his knuckles against the damp cotton and my whole body lights up. My head tips back against the seat, lips parting on a shaky exhale.

“I think I liked it better when you were flustered over a muffin order,” he says, voice dark with satisfaction.

“Stop talking.”

“Mm. But you’re wet.”

A sound escapes me that is absolutely not fit for polite company.

His finger slips under the edge of my panties, just the barest teasing stroke along my clit, and then—

“Shit!” he hisses, both hands suddenly gripping the wheel.

"LOGAN!"

The truck skids, tires crunching over a patch of invisible black ice. The rear fishtails for half a second, and I let out a startled gasp, grabbing the door handle with one hand, his arm with the other.

He steers into the swerve, controlling the slide with the kind of smooth, practiced calm that should not be sexy in a near-death moment.

My heart pounds rapidly inside my chest as he steadies the wheel.

“We’re good.”

I blow out a shaky laugh. “Maybe you are. I think I saw my soul leave my body.”

Logan glances sideways. “Still want to be in control?”

I arch a brow, pulse still racing. Only now, for very different reasons than before.

“Oh, I absolutely do.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I sit up straighter, sliding one hand onto his thigh. “You wanna play games while we’re driving?”

“Only if I win.”

“Oh, I think you'll win alright.”

I trail my fingers up his leg, teasing the button of his jeans, and that smug grin finally falters.

“Emma…”

“Yes?”

“If you’re doing what I think you’re doing—”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have started it, control freak .” I slip my fingers under the waistband and feel the sharp inhale he takes as my hand brushes against hard, hot skin.

His breath hitches, knuckles whitening on the wheel. “You’re evil.”

I smile sweetly. “You love it.”

I lean down, lips brushing the fly of his jeans. I release a seductive moan that makes him growl, low and primal in his throat.