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When I finished and walked back to my car, I felt his eyes tracking my movement. I tried to get a look at his face, but the glare on his windshield made it impossible.
Maybe he was just enjoying the view. Maybe he was on a work break. Maybe I’m losing my mind.
But Bobby always said coincidences were usually just patterns you hadn’t recognized yet.
This is the fourth time in two weeks I’ve noticed someone watching me work. Each time was a different location and a different vehicle. But it was always someone who didn’t belong to the landscape. Someone who was there for me, not the scenery.
I should tell Logan. I know I should. But every time I think about it, I imagine his reaction—the way his jaw will tighten, his eyes will go cold and assessing.
He’ll want to know details I don’t have, evidence I can’t provide. Then he’ll insist on accompanying me to shoots.
Or worse—he’ll suggest I take a break from the more remote locations.
My work would suffer. Whatever delicate thing has been growing between us—the careful glances, the almost-conversations, the moments when the air seems to shimmer with possibility—it will all be buried under his need to protect me.
I’m tired of being careful around him. Tired of pretending I don’t notice when he looks at me like I’m something precious he’s afraid to touch. Tired of acting like I don’t dream about what it would feel like if he stopped holding back.
At Simmy and Ranger’s wedding, when we danced, I felt something shift between us. For just a moment, his guard dropped completely, and I saw something raw and wanting in his eyes. Then it was gone, shuttered away behind that professional mask he wears like armor.
What is he hiding? What keeps a man like Logan—strong, decisive, unafraid of anything—from reaching for what he clearly wants?
Sometimes I catch him looking at me with such intensity that I think he’s about to say something important. His mouth will open slightly, his eyes will soften, and I’ll hold my breath waiting for words thatnever come. Instead, he’ll ask about my camera settings or mention an interesting case he’s working on.
Then the moment will dissolve like morning mist.
Bobby would have cornered Logan by now, demanded an explanation for all this careful distance.
“Life’s too short for maybe, Morgie,” he used to say. “Either jump or step back from the cliff. But don’t spend your whole life standing on the edge.”
I’m tired of standing on the edge.
Tomorrow is the award ceremony. Logan will be there, looking uncomfortable in formal wear but devastatingly handsome, nonetheless. Maybe it’s time to stop waiting for him to make the first move. Maybe it’s time to push past whatever wall he’s built between us and demand some honesty.
If Bobby taught me anything, it’s that some risks are worth taking.
But, first, I need to figure out why I feel like I’m being hunted. Why my safe, predictable life suddenly feels like a house of cards waiting for someone to blow it down.
I’ve started keeping my camera with me even when I’m not working. There’s a strange comfort in having it nearby. It’s like carrying a piece of my identity in case someone tries to steal the rest of me.
If you’re reading this, future me, I hope you’re laughing at these fears. I hope you’ve figured out what Logan is hiding and why it matters so much to him. I hope you’ve found the courage to jump.
And if you’re someone else reading this . . . if something has happened to me . . . look for the patterns. Bobby always said the truth was in the details most people ignore.
—M
CHAPTER
FIFTY-ONE
PRESENT DAY
Logan’s alarmwent off at 5:47 a.m., but he was already awake, staring at the ceiling of his small bedroom. He’d been lying there for the better part of an hour, running through today’s plan.
Today would be different. Today they’d be ready.
He swung his legs out of bed and moved to the kitchen, mechanically going through the motions of making coffee.
If Logan was right, tonight would be Chena Lake.
