Page 9

Chapter Six

Emma

T he 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.

"No, no, NO! That's not a proper formation! You've got to keep the spacing even, or the whole thing falls apart!"

I look over to see Blake gesturing dramatically at the high school marching band, who are looking increasingly confused. Beside him, Eli Thompson marches in place, trying to play a kazoo with more enthusiasm than skill. The result is an off-key sound that could wake the dead.

A giggle escapes me. Logan glances down, and I catch the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"And that's our captain," he says dryly. "Always thinking he knows best."

"Someone should remind him this isn't the Stanley Cup," I laugh, watching Blake demonstrate proper marching technique to kids who aren't listening while Eli continues his kazoo assault.

Logan just shakes his head, but I can see the affection in his eyes. These guys really are family.

We reach the ring toss game, where the bored teenager running it looks like she'd rather be anywhere else. Logan reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a crumpled dollar bill.

"Three rings," he says, sliding the money across the counter.

I watch as Logan lines up his first shot. His focus is intense, those blue eyes narrowing as he aim at the glass bottles. The movement of his shoulders under that black shirt is... distracting. Very distracting.

He releases the ring. It sails perfectly toward the target… and bounces right off the bottle.

Logan's grunt of annoyance makes me bite back a smile.

For someone who probably earns more in a month than most people do in a year, he's surprisingly invested in a two-dollar carnival game.

"Want some tips from a professional?" I tease, leaning against the booth with exaggerated expertise. "I mean, I did win the county fair ring toss championship back in sixth grade. Had a little plastic trophy and everything."

I'm expecting Logan to roll his eyes or brush off my teasing, but instead, he turns to face me fully, those ocean-blue eyes lighting up with interest.

"A championship ring tosser, huh?" His voice drops lower as he hands me one of his remaining rings. "Show me what you got, Coffee Witch."

I step forward, but before I can take aim, Logan shifts in behind me, his broad chest pressing against my back. One of his hands slides around to rest low on my waist, his fingers grazing just above my hip. His other hand curls around mine, guiding my grip on the ring.

"Like this."

I can feel his breath against my neck and my entire body tingles from the contact.

My pulse thunders, and I can barely think with his front plastered against my back. His fingers tighten around mine, controlling the way I move my wrist as he coaches me with slow movements.

"The trick," he says, voice rough and deep. "Is not just in the wrist. It's in the way you focus. Block out everything else. Feel it."

His hand squeezes my hip gently, almost possessively, and I swallow hard. Shit. I'm fighting to keep my breathing steady.

"You know how to do that, right?" he rasps. "Focus?"

My mouth goes dry. "I—yeah."

I feel his thighs pressed to the backs of mine, his whole body caging me in as he guides my hand, his fingertips brushing mine.

I flick my wrist, and the ring sails through the air—missing entirely.

"Ah! Nevermind. These carnival games are usually rigged anyway."

I twist just enough to glance back at him, and his eyes are already on me. Hungry, dark, intense.

"So you're saying your championship might've been fixed?"

I feel myself inching ever closer to him, unable to look away from the trance he's got locked on me. But before either of us can do anything else, a loud shriek behind us makes me jump, breaking the tension like a splash of cold water.

"Emma! I thought that was you!"

The familiar voice makes me freeze.

And sure enough… I turn to see my sister Melanie approaching. She's pushing a stroller while two small children bounce around her feet like one of Mia's puppies that keep running away from her today.

She's wearing a pastel cardigan in a shade of pink that probably has a name like "morning rose" or "blush meadow," paired with mom jeans that actually work on her.

Her blonde hair is pulled back in a lazy ponytail, and she has that no-nonsense energy that comes from managing multiple small humans all day every day.

"Hey, Melanie," I say, forcing brightness into my voice and backing away from Logan's way too close body. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Yeah, well. Mom thought the kids would like the pet parade," she explains, lifting her baby from the stroller. "She said we should come support the community."

Of course she did.

Mom's idea of "supporting the community" usually involves showing up, being seen, and making sure everyone knows she was there.

Nice to know she thought of me, or perhaps even made the effort to come by my stall and support my business.

But I push down the cynical thought and focus on my niece and nephew, who are now eyeing the ring toss game and the assortment of prize plushies on display with undisguised interest.

"Can we play? Please?" Ben, my six-year-old nephew, looks between Melanie and the game with hopeful eyes.

Before Melanie can respond, Logan wordlessly drops another dollar on the counter and hands a ring to Ben.

"Go for it, kid," he says, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it.

Ben's first attempt flies wildly off target. His second bounces off the counter. By the third, his shoulders are slumping with disappointment.

Logan ruffles his hair, that same gentle gesture I've seen him use with younger players at the rink. "You'll get it, kid. Takes practice. Here, have another turn."

I watch, transfixed, as Logan slaps another five dollars onto the counter.

"This time, keep your elbow straight when you throw."

Ben's face lights up like Christmas morning. He takes the ring from Logan's massive hand, his small fingers barely wrapping around it.

"Like this?" Ben asks, mimicking Logan's stance.

"Perfect. Now focus on that blue bottle in the middle."

The ring sails through the air, missing by at least a foot, but Logan reacts like it was a near miss.

"Whoa! So close!" He clutches his chest dramatically. "I thought you had it!"

Ben giggles, delighted by the performance.

I can't tear my eyes away from Logan.

This towering figure who regularly terrifies adult men during hockey games, yet who moments ago seemed ready to press his lips against mine, now crouches beside my nephew, utterly absorbed in this playful fairground challenge.

Ben's second throw curves left, still missing but closer.

"Oh man!" Logan staggers backward, hand over his heart. "That was INCHES away! The wind must have caught it!"

There's no wind outside the brewery, but Ben nods solemnly, buying the excuse completely.

"Last one," Logan says, handing Ben the final ring. "Remember, straight elbow, eyes on the target."

Ben's little face scrunches with concentration. He throws, and this time, the ring actually catches the edge of a bottle before bouncing off.

"DID YOU SEE THAT?" Logan roars, lifting Ben onto his shoulders in one swift motion. "You almost had it! That's a winner in my book!"

The booth attendant, clearly charmed by the whole scene, reaches for a small stuffed penguin and hands it to Ben.

"Close enough," she winks.

Ben clutches the penguin to his chest, beaming from atop Logan's shoulders. "Mom! Mom! Did you see? I almost got it and the nice lady gave me a prize anyway!"

Logan does a weird little shimmy of a dance as he lowers Ben back to the ground and gives him, and the penguin, a high five.

I glance at Melanie, who's watching the scene with raised eyebrows. "So... who's your friend?"

Logan's already busy helping four-year-old Maddie aim her ring with the kind of patience I wouldn't expect from Iron Ridge's most feared enforcer.

"This is Logan," I stumble through the introduction. "He... helps out at the café sometimes. Plays for the Icehawks."

It's not exactly a lie, but it's not the full truth either. How do I explain that Logan has become... what, exactly? A good friend? A business partner? The source of my increasingly inappropriate fantasies about burly hockey players?

"Helps out?" Melanie raises an eyebrow, clearly seeing more than I'm saying.

I'm saved from further explanation when Logan lifts Maddie up so she's level with the bottles. He whispers something in her ear that makes her giggle, the cute noise a sound like tiny bells.

The bored teenager running the game perks up, handing Maddie an extra ring.

"For being cute," she says with a grin.

Maddie winds up with more force than a small child should possess and hurls the ring. It sails past the bottles entirely, landing somewhere in the grass beyond the game.

"I missed," she says, bottom lip starting to quiver.

"Hey," Logan says seriously, setting her down. "Hockey players miss all the time. The guys on my team? They miss shots, passes, opportunities. But you know what they do?"

Maddie shakes her head.

"They keep trying. Because every miss teaches you something about the next shot."

Maddie brightens immediately. "Like practice!"

"Exactly. Like practice."

Melanie watches this exchange with obvious surprise.

"He's good with them," she murmurs to me.

Her phone buzzes, and she glances at it with a sigh. "Mom wants to leave. Something about beating traffic." She starts gathering her kids, but pauses. "It was nice meeting you, Logan. Emma, we should catch up soon."

As they walk away, Ben waving enthusiastically over his shoulder, Logan returns to the game and lines up his final shot.

This time, he doesn't just hit the bottle. He nails it perfectly, the ring settling around the neck with a satisfying clink .

The teenager hands him his choice of prizes, and without hesitation, Logan picks a scruffy wolf plushie with mismatched button eyes and a slightly lopsided grin.

He turns to me, holding out the wolf. "Here. It's no trophy, but you still like cute shit, right?"

My heart pounds as I take the plushie, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The wolf is soft and ridiculous and perfect, and I'm probably reading way too much into this gesture, but...

"Thank you," I whisper, clutching the toy to my chest.

Logan's eyes darken as he watches me. "Don't thank me yet."

Before I can ask what he means, we're moving toward the parade route where pets and their owners are lining up. The proximity to Logan as we find a spot to watch is making my skin tingle.

Who the hell was that guy back there? And why am I suddenly thinking about what he would be like with his own kids?

Lucky for me, the pet parade is charming chaos. And a good distraction from my spiraling thoughts.

Dogs in costumes that range from adorable to absurd mingle with cats being carried by owners who clearly value their lives. There's even someone with a bearded dragon wearing what appears to be a tiny cowboy hat not too dissimilar to Connor's.

Logan's shoulder brushes mine as we shift for a better view, and suddenly the parade becomes background noise as he slings his arm around my shoulders. The scent of his cologne floods my senses, my skin heating to a burn.

When I glance up, Logan's eyes are already on me, intense and searching. The noise of the crowd fades as his gaze drops to my lips.

Oh. Oh.

My heart might actually burst as Logan leans closer. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with devastating gentleness.

"Emma," he murmurs, and my name has never sounded like that before—like a prayer, like a promise.

Just as his lips are about to touch mine, Blake and the high school marching band suddenly bursts past us. The crowd is cheering, cymbals are crashing and drums thundering all around us.

It's a cacophony of noise that makes me jump back with a startled yelp.

Logan's face glows red, looking like he wants to personally dismantle every instrument within a five-mile radius.

"EMMA!"

Now Lucy's voice is cutting through the din as she rushes over, clutching a bag from Clara's booth.

"Oh my God! You have to try these lemon cookies!" She stops short, looking between Logan and me. "Uhhhh… did I interrupt something?"

"No," I say quickly. Too quickly. "We were just... watching the parade."

Lucy's eyes narrow suspiciously, but she doesn't push. Yet.

Logan clears his throat, the sound rougher than usual.

"I'll be right back," he says abruptly, already moving toward the brewery line where Coach Brody is chatting with Natalie over a beer.

"Logan, wait—" I start, but he's already walking away, his shoulders tight and tense.

I'm left holding the wolf plushie, my pulse still racing from our almost-kiss. Lucy gives me a look that promises questions later, but for now, I just watch Logan's retreating form.

What the hell just happened? And why did he leave so abruptly?

The wolf plushie's button eyes seem to mock me as I clutch it closer. One moment he's playing father-figure with my niece and nephew, then he was about to kiss me… and the next… he's walking away like I have the plague?

What the hell?