Page 5

Chapter 5

Lucy

T he Pine Harbor Community Center is alive with color and energy. Bright banners featuring adorable shelter animals flutter near the entrance. Strings of fairy lights loop along the railing, twinkling even in the daylight. Tables covered with cheerful checkered tablecloths are arranged neatly in rows, each boasting everything from homemade baked goods to shelter brochures. The scent of cinnamon rolls from Kate’s table drifts through the air, mingling faintly with the lingering hint of fresh paint.

I stand at the center of the action, clipboard in hand, as volunteers bustle around me. It’s organized chaos—my kind of chaos—but there’s an undercurrent of nerves humming through me. This event is a big deal for the shelter, for the Timberwolves, and, apparently, for Logan Mitchell.

My stomach flutters at the thought, but I shove it aside. "Focus, Lucy," I mutter to myself, scanning my to-do list. This isn’t the time to dwell on my overly complicated feelings about Pine Harbor’s resident broody hockey star.

Kate appears at my side, balancing a tray of cupcakes that somehow match the banners perfectly. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes sparkle with the satisfaction of someone whose aesthetic vision has come to life. "See? Coordination is an art," she says with a playful wink. Of course, they do—Kate’s aesthetic radar is infallible.

"You’re in full control mode," she says, her tone teasing. "Have you even stopped to breathe today?"

"Breathing’s overrated," I reply with a smirk. "These tables aren’t going to set themselves up."

Kate sets down the cupcakes, brushing an invisible speck of icing from her sleeve. "You’ve got this. Everyone’s buzzing about how great this event is. You should enjoy it a little."

I glance around, taking in the festive atmosphere. Kids are already swarming the craft station, a group of seniors is inspecting the raffle prizes, and the Timberwolves’ logo is proudly displayed on a banner behind the main stage. The small-town spirit is tangible, wrapping around the event like a warm hug.

Still, my gaze keeps drifting toward the entrance, where I know Logan will make his grand appearance any minute now. My nerves twist, half from anticipation and half from the uncertainty of what to expect. Would he bring that same guarded energy, or would I catch another rare glimpse of the man he hides so well?

When he does arrive, it’s not exactly grand…but it’s effective. Logan walks in with Lewis trotting happily beside him, the dog’s leash in one hand and what looks like a bag of dog treats in the other. His face is set in a straight, almost severe expression, making it impossible to tell if he outright hates this campaign or if brooding is just his natural state. And yet, for all his gruffness, Logan’s clearly made an effort—his Timberwolves jacket is clean and crisp, his dark jeans fit perfectly, and his hair is just tousled enough to look effortless.

But it’s the way he interacts with Lewis that catches my attention. The dog barks happily, pulling slightly on the leash to greet a group of kids, and Logan kneels to calm him, his voice low and steady.

"Good boy," he murmurs, scratching behind Lewis’s ears. The kids giggle as Logan hands one of them a treat to give to the dog, and I catch a glimpse of something I don’t expect: Logan smiling.

The sight is disarming, and for a moment, I forget what I’m supposed to be doing. Kate nudges me with her elbow, a knowing grin on her face.

"Earth to Lucy," she says. "You’re staring."

"I am not," I reply quickly, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks.

Kate’s grin widens. "Sure, you’re not."

The event unfolds beautifully. Logan’s presence draws a steady crowd, and his interactions with Lewis are a hit. At one point, a shy little boy approaches hesitantly, clutching his mom’s hand. Logan kneels to Lewis’s level, handing the boy a treat to give to the dog. “He’s friendly,” Logan says gently, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. The boy’s face lights up as Lewis wags his tail and takes the treat delicately. Logan glances up with a rare smile, the kind that seems to melt his usual stoic demeanor. It’s a small moment, but it draws a collective ‘aww’ from the onlookers and leaves me momentarily breathless. Parents snap photos of their kids petting the dog, and a few teenagers hover nearby, clearly impressed by Logan’s status as a local celebrity.

Logan and I find ourselves sorting through a pile of raffle tickets at the main table. As we both reach for one at the same time, our hands brush, sending a sudden jolt through me. Goosebumps prickle along my arms, and I immediately blame the chill of the AC kicking on at that exact moment. Logan, however, pulls his hand back quickly, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. I barely have time to process what just happened before he clears his throat and mutters, "Seriously," holding up a ticket with nearly illegible scrawl. "Is this supposed to say Sarah or Sasquatch?"

"Definitely Sasquatch," I reply, biting back a grin. "Maybe it’s a new fundraising demographic we didn’t consider."

Logan’s mouth quirks into a half-smile, and the sight catches me off guard. It’s fleeting, but it’s there—a glimpse of the man behind the brooding exterior. Together, we manage to untangle the ticket mess, our teamwork seamless despite the banter.

Just as we finish, Mayor Collins joins me near the raffle table, his usual charismatic smile in place. "This is quite the turnout," he says. "And I have to say, you and Logan make quite the team."

I laugh nervously, brushing off his comment. "It’s all about the animals."

"Of course," he replies, though his knowing tone makes my stomach flip. "Still, the synergy is undeniable. The crowd loves it."

As he walks away, I find myself glancing toward Logan again. He’s talking to a reporter now, his hand resting lightly on Lewis’s head. The sight sends a strange mix of pride and unease through me. This is what we wanted—visibility, connection, progress. So why does it feel so complicated?

Kate corners me near the coffee stand later, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she stirs her coffee with exaggerated focus. "So," she says, dragging out the word, "what’s going on with you and Mr. Broody over there?" "The mayor’s not wrong, you know. You and Logan do have good chemistry."

"It’s not chemistry," I insist, pouring cream into my cup. "It’s…logistics. Professionalism. Coordination."

Kate raises an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. Sure. Keep telling yourself that."

I groan, pressing the heels of my hands to my temples. "Even if there was something—and I’m not saying there is—it’s not a good idea."

"Why not?" she asks, genuinely curious.

"Because it’s messy," I say, gesturing vaguely. "He’s Logan Mitchell. Grumpy, guarded, and…kind of infuriating."

Kate tilts her head. "And?"

"And," I add reluctantly, "he’s also…surprising. In ways I didn’t expect."

Kate smiles. "There it is."

I glare at her, but she just pats my shoulder and walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

The sun is beginning to set when the event reaches its peak. Logan and I find ourselves near the main stage, preparing to announce the raffle winners. The crowd’s energy hums like electricity, their eager chatter filling the air. My heart races, a mix of anticipation and the strange, undeniable awareness of sharing this moment with Logan. I steal a glance at him, wondering if he feels the same current of expectation that seems to bind us in this instant. The crowd has gathered, and there’s an air of excitement buzzing around us.

"Ready?" I ask, glancing up at him.

Logan smirks. "Are you?"

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips. "Let’s just get through this without scaring anyone off."

The announcements go off without a hitch, though there’s a moment of unscripted hilarity when Lewis decides to "help" by barking every time Logan speaks into the microphone. The crowd eats it up, and even Logan’s stoic demeanor cracks as he laughs along.

As we step off the stage, a reporter snaps a photo of the two of us laughing, Lewis standing proudly between us. The moment feels light, unguarded, and…right. But as the flash fades, reality creeps back in, and I can’t help but wonder what stories that photo will spark.

By the time the event wraps up, I’m exhausted but exhilarated. The turnout exceeded expectations, the shelter received a wave of donations, and the Timberwolves’ involvement brought in an entirely new audience.

As I finish packing the last brochures, my gaze drifts to the glass doors at the far end of the community center. There, through the fading light, I spot Logan. He’s standing by a car—Emma’s, I realize—helping her load boxes into the trunk. He’s quiet and methodical, easily lifting heavy crates while Emma chatters away, her laughter carrying faintly through the glass. Logan doesn’t seem to mind her endless commentary. In fact, I catch a small, fleeting smile tugging at his lips as he adjusts the last box in the trunk.

Something in the scene tugs at me, making me pause mid-motion. Logan Mitchell, the grumpy, guarded hockey star who’s spent most of this campaign begrudgingly following orders, looks so at ease in this moment. There’s no performance, no pretense—just a man helping his sister without a second thought.

I swallow hard, a strange warmth blooming in my chest. Maybe he’s not as bad as I’ve told myself he is. Maybe today wasn’t just about putting on a show for the cameras or the town. There’s a sincerity in his actions, a quiet kindness that feels at odds with the prickly exterior he’s so good at maintaining.

It’s disarming, really. And unsettling.

My thoughts race as I watch him close the trunk and pat Emma on the shoulder, his expression softening briefly before he turns to walk back toward the center. I quickly look away, pretending to busy myself with folding a tablecloth, but my mind is buzzing.

Why does this matter so much? Why does he matter so much?

It’s not like I’ve never worked with difficult people before. I’ve managed volunteers who were more stubborn than mules and board members who couldn’t agree on the color of the shelter walls. But Logan… he’s different. And for the first time, I find myself wondering if there’s more to him than the guarded, reluctant persona he shows the world. If there’s more to this partnership than just a campaign.

The thought is equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

Shaking my head, I push the feelings down, telling myself it’s just the exhaustion talking. But as I load the last box into the storage closet and turn out the lights, I can’t quite shake the image of Logan outside, the way he’d looked so unguarded, so genuine.

Maybe I’ve been wrong about him. Maybe.