Page 23 of A Good Egg

"I haven't pushed for the sale in over a week," he pointed out, exasperation evident in his voice. "I've been respecting your decision, offering insights where I can, and yes, hoping you succeed with this café."

"Why?" I demanded. "Why would you want that?"

"Because seeing you out here in this barn, creating something from nothing through sheer force of will—it's..." He paused, seemingly struggling to articulate his thoughts. "It's making me question things I've taken for granted."

The rawness in his voice caught me off guard. This wasn't the practiced charm of a professional negotiator; it was something far more genuine.

"Like what?" I asked, my anger fading.

"Like whether property holds more than just monetary value. Like whether emotional attachment is actually irrational." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. I liked it better tousled.

"And what do you think now?" I asked quietly, meeting his gaze.

"You're making me question everything, Maisie. And it’s inconvenient as hell."

A timer dinged, startling us both. From her perch, Henrietta clucked what sounded suspiciously like commentary on our conversation. I turned to remove the scones from the oven, using the moment to collect my scattered thoughts.

"I don't know what to do with that information," I admitted, setting the hot tray on a cooling rack. "I'm still not selling the farm."

"I'm not asking you to." He leaned against the counter, a safe distance away. "I'm trying to be honest about where I stand. Which, at the moment, is somewhere very confusing."

The unspoken implications of that statement hung between us, charged with possibilities neither of us seemed ready to acknowledge. Through the windows, I noticed dark clouds gathering on the horizon—the leading edge of the forecasted storm.

"There's bad weather coming," I said, gesturing toward the windows. "You should probably head back to town before it hits."

Logan glanced outside, then back at me. "Will the barn be secure?"

"Carter waterproofed the roof yesterday. We should be fine." I busied myself with organizing the pastries, needing physical activity to process the emotional complexity of our conversation.

"Call me if you need anything," he said, moving toward the door. "I mean it, Maisie. Regardless of our situation, I..."

"You what?" I prompted when he didn't continue.

He shook his head, a rueful smile touching his lips. "I do care what happens to you and your grandmother. To this place. More than I should for that matter."

Before I could respond, he was gone, leaving me standing amid the scents of blueberries and spices, and the lingering impression of eyes that had looked at me with far too much understanding.

Henrietta fluttered down from her perch, landing with surprising grace for a plump old bird. She pecked experimentally at a fallen crumb, then looked up at me with what I could have sworn was a raised eyebrow.

"Don't start," I told her.

She clucked dismissively, apparently unimpressed by human romantic entanglements.

Outside, the wind was picking up, rustling through the apple blossoms, and carrying the distinct scent of approaching rain. In the distance, thunder rumbled—a warning of the storm to come. I began securing the barn, checking windows and equipment, ensuring everything was protected from potential leaks.

The café was nearly ready. The ingredients were ordered, the menu finalized, the space transformed. In just over a week, Easter Sunday would arrive, bringing with it either salvation or the end of life as we'd known it.

And somewhere between those two possibilities stood Logan Westbrook—no longer a simple villain in my narrative, but a complication I hadn't anticipated and couldn't easily dismiss.

As I walked back to the farmhouse through the first spattering of raindrops, I found myself caught between caution and a serious growing attraction. The storm on the horizon mirrored the one brewing within me—powerful, unpredictable, and potentially my undoing. I hoped we'd all still be standing when it passed.

Chapter Eight

Logan

Victor’s voice crackled through my phone with the intensity of approaching thunder. "What do you mean, 'reconsidering our approach'? We don't reconsider, Westbrook. We acquire. That's our business model."

I paced the confines of my hotel room, watching through the window as storm clouds gathered over Starlight Bay's harbor. The fishing boats had all returned early, battened down against the approaching tempest. Weather alerts had been pinging on my phone all afternoon, warnings of high winds and potential flooding.

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