Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(63)

“I’m going to go make myself scarce,” he said. “Talk to the other tour guides who are here from the distillery, keep busy, stay out of the way. You know, just so I don’t give your father an aneurysm, or anyone else in this town ammo for Sunday morning church gossip.”

I laughed, looking around the room at the eyes that were on us. “Might be too late for that, but yes, good idea.”

“I’ll see you around.”

“Wait,” I said before he could turn away. “Can you stay after?” I swallowed. “There’s something I want to show you.”

He cocked a brow. “I’d love to stay after, but I think your dad might actually murder me if I’m here when everyone else is gone tonight.”

“Sneak upstairs in an hour. If anyone asks, I told you to check on Dalí. And just wait there until I call you down.”

Logan shook his head. “Sneaking around like teenagers. Why do I like it?”

“Because you’re a troublemaker.” I shoved him playfully. “Now go, be invisible.”

We both laughed like it was a joke, and it might as well have been. I wasn’t the only one who watched Logan for the next hour as he talked with families and couples and kids, showing them the different stations of the studio just like I would have if it were me talking to them. He handed out brochures, event schedules, showed pieces of my art on the walls and spoke of my education like he’d been the one to give it to me.

Logan treated that grand opening like it was his own.

And I wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Mom’s friends were tittering around the cocktail tables, eyeing Logan with suspicious glares. Dad hardly ever took his eyes off him, and even the other tour guides from Scooter were leaning in close, whispering conspiracies as they watched him.

I managed to call a toast near the end of the night, holding my champagne high as I thanked everyone for a memorable evening. It was the only way I could get the attention off Logan, and I watched out of the peripheral of my eyes as he slipped away and up the stairs while I talked. When the glasses were clinked and a hearty hear, hear! rang out, one by one, people began to leave, the band died down and started to pack up, and though everyone seemed to be looking around for Logan again, he was nowhere to be found.

“Proud of you, young lady,” my dad said at the end of the night, when everyone was gone other than me, him, and Mom. Malcolm had ditched after an hour, and even Chris had finally left, at my insistence that I could clean up on my own. Dad pulled me into a stiff hug, one that felt foreign and awkward. “It was a great night.”

“It was,” I said. I gave Mom a hug, too, and kissed her cheek. “Thank you both for coming, and for doing all this,” I said, gesturing to the lights, the tables of leftover food, the corner where the band had been. “I never would have made it so special.”

“We’re just so happy you’ve found your place in this town,” Mom said, eyes welling again.

Dad looked around me, as if he was sure Logan was hiding in a corner somewhere. “That Becker boy was sure here a long time.”

I shrugged, pretending like I didn’t notice. “Was he? I was so busy making the rounds, I guess I didn’t realize.”

Dad narrowed his eyes at me, and I knew without him saying so that he didn’t believe me for a second. Thankfully, he didn’t press, just patted my arm. “Well, we’re going to head home. Don’t forget, Monday is Christmas Eve, and we have the annual Christmas Party at the distillery with all the employees and their families. I’d like you to be presentable,” he said, waving a hand over my dress. “Wear something nice like this again.”

“This is literally the only dress I own, Dad. Other than the one I wore to brunch on Sunday.”

“It doesn’t have to be a dress,” he said. “Just… I want you to make a good impression. Okay? Can you please do that for me?”

I sighed — and I’ll admit, it was a bit of a dramatic sigh, even for me. “Yes, yes, got it. I won’t show up in jeans.”

“Thank you.” He leaned in, kissing my forehead before he placed his hand on the small of Mom’s back and led her toward the door. They gave me one last wave after their coats were on, and then they were gone, and the door was locked, the lights were out, and the studio was finally empty again.

Well.

Almost empty.





Logan


Dalí was curled up in his favorite place — directly in the middle of my chest — when Mallory called for me to come downstairs.

I lifted a brow, scratching behind his ear as he closed his eyes and purred, leaning into the touch. “You’re going to hate this, but I gotta go.”

The cat creaked one eye open, as if he was telling me our relationship was over if I left that spot.

I chuckled. “I know, I know. But, there’s a pretty lady calling me downstairs, and I can’t make her wait.”

“Are you talking to my cat?”

Mallory leaned against the frame of her front door, smirking at where I lay on her couch with Dalí. As if he sensed there was no use in trying to keep me in my spot, Dalí stretched on my chest, his claws kneading my skin, then he hopped down and trotted over to his food bowl.

“He’s been the best conversation of the night,” I said, sitting up.