Page 28 of A Good Egg

"Doubtful," he acknowledged. "Victor views deviation from established strategy as betrayal. But other firms might embrace the concept, or..." He paused, revealing vulnerability I'd never imagined him capable of. "I could establish my own consultancy."

The significance struck me with full force. This wasn't merely abandoning a specific property deal but potentially dismantling his entire professional identity. "Why risk everything?"

His expression opened, defenses lowered. "Because watching you fight for this place—for your heritage, your community—made me question values I've accepted without examination for fifteen years. Besides, maybe it’s time for me to find out what putting down roots feels like."

A knock interrupted his words as Carter appeared at the half-door. "Need your input on the floor replacement."

The moment suspended between us, potent with unvoiced possibilities, as we rejoined the renovation effort. Puddles weremopped, damaged boards were replaced, walls refreshed with paint. The Little Red Hen emerged from its baptism stronger than before.

As twilight approached and workers departed, satisfied with their communal achievement, Logan drew me aside near the apple orchard's edge, where distant blossoms caught the day's waning light.

"While in town, I spoke with Arthur Jenkins at the bank," he said, his tone deliberately casual though his eyes revealed the statement's significance.

My pulse quickened. "What did he say?"

"He's agreed to extend your deadline two weeks beyond Easter, giving the café time to establish consistent revenue before requiring the next mortgage payment."

"How?" The question emerged barely audible.

"I suggested Sheffield & Associates maintains interest in the property's development potential should foreclosure proceed." He grinned. "But that we'd prefer seeing current owners succeed with their local venture first, as a demonstration of corporate responsibility."

Astonishment rendered me momentarily speechless. "You leveraged your position to help us?"

"Consider it practical application of my new professional direction." He took my hand, his thumb tracing patterns across my palm that sent currents racing up my arm. "I can't be the instrument of your loss."

The sincerity in his voice, the gentleness of his touch—contradicted every assumption I'd held about commercial developers in general and Logan Westbrook specifically. Physical passion might be dismissed as crisis-induced madness,but this calculated risk-taking suggested a transformation far more profound.

"I don't know how to respond to this," I admitted, emotions colliding like weather fronts within me—gratitude, lingering wariness, and something dangerously close to affection. Was my heart healed enough for me to risk having it broken again?

"No response needed yet." His fingers intertwined with mine, warm and certain. "I didn't act expecting immediate trust or reciprocity. Some actions simply demand doing, regardless of outcome, because they’re the right things to do."

The fading light gilded his features, revealing openness I'd never witnessed during his earlier, carefully constructed presentations. This was a man stepping beyond familiar territory into unknown terrain, and his courageous took my breath away and made my head spin. Was I to believe what he said was real? Or were they just pretty words behind an ulterior motive?

"Three days until the grand opening," I noted, mind shifting to practical concerns. "So much still needs doing."

"Three days until The Little Red Hen proves what determination can accomplish." His confidence bolstered my wavering spirits. "After what I've witnessed—your resilience, this community's support—how could anyone doubt your success?"

As darkness settled around us, we returned to the barn for final assessments. The café stood poised for its weekend debut—the checkered tablecloths arranged on repaired tables, shelving displaying preserved farm goods, vintage décor accenting freshly painted walls. The space radiated charm and resolute optimism despite its recent trial.

Logan departed as night deepened, called away by work demands. At the barn door he paused, conflict evident in his expression. "I'll return tomorrow to help with whatever's needed."

"Focus on your career," I urged, though the prospect of his absence created an unexpected hollow beneath my ribs. "You've contributed more than enough."

After he left, I wandered through the quiet space, gratitude and pride filling my heart.

Henrietta appeared from her evening hiding spot, strutting through the refurbished café with her characteristic dignity. She paused where Logan and I had shared our passionate interlude, fixing me with a knowing stare that seemed far too perceptive for a mere chicken.

"Judge not," I murmured to her, absurdly embarrassed under her beady gaze.

She responded with a dismissive cluck before continuing her own inspection tour.

Outside, stars emerged in the clearing heavens, the chaos of the earlier thunderstorm replaced by tranquil clarity. As I secured the barn and crossed the yard toward the farmhouse under April's constellations, I permitted myself something I'd vigilantly guarded against since Brad's betrayal: hope for good things to come.

The grand opening approached, the café waited to prove its worth, and my heart—so carefully fortified against further injury—had begun to slowly yield, like spring vegetation emerging from winter's retreat.

Chapter Ten

Logan

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