In a blink, my morning plans evaporate. Not only does Mom promise we’ll have a basket with Nana’s cinnamon rolls ready for their early departure, but our guests choose our two best suites with fireplaces and Jacuzzis. By 6:05 a.m. I’ll be turning the rooms over so they’ll be ready for when the wedding party’s out-of-town guests check in by ten.

I grab my phone and text Logan. “Sorry. Can’t meet before school.”

Without waiting for a response, I power off my phone, then head to the lobby to offer to carry the guests’ luggage to their rooms and kindle fires in their fireplaces.

Chapter 8: Logan

What am I doing?

I’ve asked myself this question a hundred times since I crawled out of bed at four a.m., got dressed, and drove to the Lake Ontario Inn. My debate in favor and against barging in on Cade could fill dozens of notecards. Even as I trudge through knee-deep snow toward Cade’s lit first-floor bedroom window, there’s still no clear winner.

I’ve never shown up at his house this early, which is why I didn’t knock on their apartment door. I stop in my tracks, glance over my shoulder, and follow my trail past their entrance and the inn’s parking lot. There’s still time to flee. Cade never needs to know I was here.

My indecision is resolved by a bitter wind that blasts me from behind and pushes me forward. Okay, I’m going. I pull off my gloves, take my phone from my coat pocket, and text Cade. “Open your blinds. I’m outside.”

I watch for a shift of light, a sign of movement. Nothing. No surprise since my calls have gone straight to voicemail and my texts from last night have gone unanswered. Stepping forward, I tap his windowpane. My heart drums against my ribs as I wait and wait and wait for Cade. I hunch down so close that my breath forms ice crystals on the glass. A bent slat gives me a narrow view into his closet-size bedroom. His open bottom dresser drawer touches his footboard. The sheets on his twin bed are twisted into a mess. Did he sleep as badly as I did? Half the night, I went back and forth between worrying about the assignment and rehearsing what we would say to Mr. Bartley.

Now I’m worried Cade won’t return to his bedroom and I made this trip for nothing. Leave or stay? As I debate the merits of both sides, Cade strolls through his door wearing only a towel around his waist.

I’m frozen in place. Cade stops, scans his room. Did he hear me tapping on his window? He rubs his eyes, confirmation he didn’t sleep well.