Emily
I wasn’t sure what I expected when Logan told me we had somewhere to be this afternoon. A meeting, a press appearance, another forced smile to serve a Pack headline, maybe.
But when the car pulled into the cobbled edge of the arts district and I spotted watercolor banners, and the faint smell of roasted almonds and beeswax, I blinked at him.
“You’re bringing me to a craft festival?” I asked, one brow lifted.
Logan cut the engine, unbothered. “It’s a historic artisan fair. Local vendors, Pack history demonstrations. Cultural investment.”
“That’s a very official way of saying ‘craft festival.’”
“I thought you might like it,” he said simply, opening his door before I could say more.
I sat there for a beat longer, unsure what made me pause more: that he’d planned something casual
