Page 8

"Everything okay?" I ask, lowering my voice.

Clara shrugs, but there's a tightness around her eyes. "Just life stuff, you know? Fifteen years is a long time to do anything. Let's just say I'm… watching this space."

I nod, not entirely sure what to say.

The idea of Clara not being behind the counter at Summit, greeting everyone by name and remembering their orders, seems impossible. Like someone suggesting the mountains might decide to relocate.

"Anyway," she continues, brightening with what seems like deliberate effort, "it's good to see some fresh energy in the competition. Your coffee is exceptional, Emma. I've been meaning to tell you that."

I blink in surprise. "You've tried it?"

"Of course. That 'Hat Trick' blend you did for the charity game? Half my regulars came in talking about it the next day." She gives me a wink. "Nothing like a bit of competition, right?"

A warm flutter of pride blooms in my chest.

"Thank you," I say, meaning it more than she could know. "That means a lot coming from you."

I retreat to my booth, the weight of her words settling over me like fog.

Walking back, I can't shake the feeling that Clara's quietly… sizing me up? Not maliciously, but warily. Like she's trying to figure out if I'm a threat to the established order of Iron Ridge's coffee scene.

Get a grip, Emma. This isn't about Clara. This is about you and your imposter syndrome.

As I settled back into setting up, I'm rearranging my muffins for the third time when everything suddenly feels easier.

"Can't let you drop those."

The deep voice behind me makes me jump, and I spin around to find Logan approaching in a black long-sleeved shirt rolled to the elbows, looking effortlessly rugged in that way that should be illegal before 9 AM.

Without waiting for permission, he lifts the heavy tray of samples from my hands.

"Logan, I can handle—"

"I know you can." His blue eyes meet mine, intense and searching. "Doesn't mean you should have to."

He sets the tray down carefully, then studies my face.

"You've got that look. Like someone just told you Christmas is canceled."

"What?" I blink.

"That look you get when you're spiraling." He crosses those big, impressive arms, leaning against my table. "What's eating at you?"

"It's nothing. Just... nerves."

"Emma." His voice is firm, seeing right through me. "Try again."

I fidget with a coffee packet, not meeting his eyes. "Really, it's just—"

I glance over at Clara's pristine setup, then back at Logan's patient expression.

"I'm an idiot," I blurt. "Look at this place. Look at me. Clara's been doing this for fifteen years… she's Iron Ridge royalty! I'm just the girl who opened a coffee shop because she couldn't figure out what else to do with her life."

Logan shakes his head, the scowl deepening on his brow.

"That's bullshit."

"Is it though? She's got... history. Reputation.

People trust her. She knows everybody's orders by heart, remembers their kids' names.

.." I feel tears threatening and blink them back furiously.

"What if I'm just kidding myself? What if all this work is for nothing because I'll never be what she already is? "

"Emma." Logan steps closer, his body blocking out the world. "Look at me."

I do, reluctantly.

"Clara's had fifteen years to become who she is. You've had three." His thumb brushes across my cheek, so quickly I almost think I imagined it. "You make coffee that gets people excited. You created blends that have the whole damn team talking. You built something from nothing."

"But—"

"No buts." His voice drops lower. "Clara's established. You're hungry. You're growing. You're..." He pauses, like he's searching for the right words. "You're becoming. That's scarier than being. It's also braver."

My breath catches. "Logan..."

"And you know what else?" he continues, the corner of his mouth twitching as he looks over his shoulder like he's about to tell me some big secret. "Clara doesn't make me want to stick around after practice just to watch her work."

Heat floods my cheeks.

The way he's looking at me, like I'm something worth protecting, worth believing in, makes my knees weak.

"You're good with words when you want to be," I whisper.

"Only with you." His blue eyes meet mine. "And good morning to you too, gorgeous."

Gorgeous?

Did Logan Kane just call me gorgeous? In that casual, throwaway way that suggests it's just a fact of life, like the sky being blue or hockey players being ridiculously attractive?

My cheeks warm. I try to play it cool even though my heart is doing gymnastics.

Logan, of course, just goes about his business as if the world didn't just shake.

He rearranges the cups in a more stable configuration with those big, surprisingly gentle hands, and I find myself mesmerized by the way his forearms flex as he works.

"Thank you," I manage, though it comes out more breathless than I intended.

He just shrugs like it's nothing. Like casually calling me gorgeous and helping with my booth is something he does every day.

"Emma! Logan!"

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."