Page 22 of A Good Egg

"I've been checking for updates from the health inspector," I protested, feeling heat rise in my cheeks.

Piper popped a pickle into her mouth, grinning. "For what it's worth, Logan looked different today. Less pressed and polished. Almost human."

I ignored the implications of her observation, focusing instead on our dwindling timeline. "The forecast is calling for a major spring storm to hit this weekend," I said, changing the subject. "We need to make sure the roof is completely sealed before then."

"Smooth deflection," Piper commented, but allowed the topic change. "Carter said he finished the waterproofing yesterday. We should be storm-tight."

We spent the afternoon testing recipes in the newly installed equipment. The commercial oven—a refurbished model—performed beautifully, turning out trays of blueberry muffins, cinnamon scones, and savory breakfast pastries that filled the barn with mouthwatering aromas.

Henrietta supervised our efforts with professional interest, offering occasional clucks of what I chose to interpret as approval. When a timer dinged, she startled dramatically, flapping to the top of a storage shelf.

"That chicken has management potential," Piper observed, sliding another tray of scones into the oven. "All supervision, no actual labor."

I laughed, then froze as the barn door swung open to reveal Logan Westbrook. He'd clearly come directly from some professional engagement—his charcoal suit impeccable as always, though he'd loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves in concession to the warm spring afternoon.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, hovering in the doorway. "I smelled baking from the driveway. Couldn't resist investigating."

Piper shot me a meaningful look. "What a coincidence! I was just leaving to... make those calls. Very important calls. Elsewhere." She wiped her hands, grabbed her purse, and was out the door before I could protest, pausing only to stage-whisper, "You're welcome," as she passed Logan.

We stood in awkward silence for a moment, the air between us charged.

"You're right on time for taste testing," I said finally, gesturing to the cooling racks laden with fresh pastries. "If you're interested."

His expression brightened. "Very. Though I should warn you, my culinary expertise stops at knowing which restaurants have Michelin stars."

"We're aiming more for 'delicious' than 'decorated by the culinary elite,'" I replied, selecting a blueberry muffin and placing it on a napkin. "Try this."

He accepted the offering, taking a careful bite. His eyes widened appreciatively. "This is exceptional," he said, sounding genuinely surprised. "The blueberries—they're so intense."

"Frozen from last summer's crop," I explained, unable to suppress a flicker of pride. "We pick them at peak ripeness and preserve them properly, not like the bland supermarket versions."

"I can taste the difference." He finished the muffin with surprising speed. "You're going to draw crowds with these alone."

I busied myself with arranging more pastries on a plate, unsure how to navigate this unexpectedly cordial interaction. Part of me remained wary—Logan still represented Sheffield& Associates, still wanted our property for development. Yet another part remembered his vulnerability during our last conversation, the glimpse he’d given me of the man beneath the shiny veneer.

"Maisie." He said, his voice softened. "I’m here to help."

I spun back, my confusion and frustration bubbling over. "Help? Like your company 'helped' by pressuring the bank? Like you're 'helping' by constantly reminding me that we're probably going to fail?"

"I told you before, I had nothing to do with that," he countered, a flash of anger in his hazel eyes. "And I'm not here to undermine you. Quite the opposite."

"Then why? Why do you keep showing up, offering advice, looking at me with that... that expression?"

"What expression?"

"Like you're concerned! Like you actually care what happens to us!" I threw up my hands, flour dusting the air around me. "It doesn't make sense, Logan. You're here to acquire our property for your company. Our success directly conflicts with your interests. So why pretend to be on our side?"

His jaw tightened. "Who says I'm pretending?"

"Experience," I shot back. "Men in fancy suits with charming smiles and ulterior motives. I've had my fill of those, thank you very much."

"You mean your ex." It wasn't a question. "The one who cheated on you."

"Among others." I crossed my arms defensively. "Brad was just the final lesson in a long education about trusting smooth-talking men who want something from me."

Logan stepped closer, his expression intense. "I am not your ex-boyfriend, Maisie. And contrary to what you mightbelieve, not every man with a career in business is morally bankrupt."

"Says the man trying to steal my family's farm."

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