Page 16 of A Good Egg

We stood facing each other, the tension between us crackling like electrical current. I was vividly aware of Carter and Piper watching warily, of the dust motes swirling in sunlightbetween us, of the conflicting emotions battling within me—rage at his presumption, fear that he might be right, and a completely inappropriate awareness of how his rolled sleeves revealed forearms corded with subtle strength.

"You should go," I said finally, my voice tight. "We have work to do."

"Maisie—"

"No." I cut him off. "You've made your position clear. And I've made mine. There's nothing left to discuss."

At that moment, Henrietta chose to make her grand entrance, strutting between us with imperious dignity. She circled Logan's leather shoes once, twice, assessing them with her beady gaze before emitting a loud, assertive squawk that seemed to render final judgment.

"Your security detail has spoken," Logan remarked, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips despite the tension.

"Henrietta's an excellent judge of character," I replied, crossing my arms. "Though she does have a weakness for shiny objects, so don't read too much into her interest in your fancy footwear."

Henrietta punctuated my statement with another indignant cluck, then settled herself directly on Logan's right shoe, apparently claiming it as her new roost.

Despite everything, a laugh bubbled up from my chest. "She likes you. God knows why."

The absurdity of the moment—standing in a half-renovated barn, arguing with an infuriatingly handsome developer while a chicken claimed his shoe—momentarily defused the tension between us.

"At least someone around here doesn't think I'm the devil incarnate," Logan replied, carefully extracting his foot without disturbing Henrietta, who protested with an offended squawk.

Our eyes met, and for a fleeting instant, something passed between us—not quite understanding, but perhaps a reluctant recognition. Under different circumstances, in another life...

I shut down that dangerous thought immediately. "Goodbye, Logan."

He held my gaze a moment longer, then nodded. "For what it's worth, I hope I'm wrong about the café."

"You are," I stated with more confidence than I felt. "You'll see."

After he departed, Piper sidled up beside me, a knowing look in her eyes. "Well, well, well. Talk about heated exchanges."

"Don't start," I warned.

"I'm just saying, for mortal enemies, you two generate enough electricity to power the entire café."

"It's called righteous anger," I insisted, turning back to my work with perhaps more force than necessary.

"If that's what the kids are calling it these days," she muttered, grinning as she dodged the dish towel I threw at her.

But as I returned to painting, I couldn't shake the unsettling awareness that had gripped me during our confrontation. Logan Westbrook was supposed to be the enemy—the corporate predator circling our struggling farm. So why did my heart race when he was near? Why did his words—even the challenging ones—linger in my mind?

And why, despite everything, did part of me wish he'd stay?

Shaking my head to clear these traitorous thoughts, I attacked the wall with my paint roller. We had less than twoweeks until our grand opening. Thanks to Logan's company, our deadline had just become nearly impossible. The stakes couldn't be higher, and distractions—especially tall, handsome ones with irritatingly valid concerns—were a luxury I couldn't afford.

Yet as afternoon faded into evening, I found myself revisiting our conversation, replaying the moment when something more than antagonism had flickered between us. Against my better judgment, I pulled his offer from my drawer that night, breaking the seal on the envelope.

The figure on the page made my breath catch. It was significantly more than the property was worth—enough to pay off the mortgage, settle all debts, and leave a substantial cushion besides.

I closed the folder, conflicted emotions warring within me. The practical part of my brain whispered that this was the safe choice, the rational path. The emotional part—the part connected to this land through generations of O'Malleys—rebelled at the very thought.

As I drifted off to sleep, I dreamed of hazel eyes and red-and-white checkered tablecloths, of chickens judging Italian shoes, and of Easter miracles that might—or might not—come in time to save us all.

Chapter Six

Logan

"Westbrook, this is becoming problematic." Victor Sheffield's voice sliced through my hotel room's quiet like a scalpel—precise and painful. "The bank has accelerated their timeline as requested. The O'Malleys should be feeling the pressure. Why haven't they accepted our offer?"

---