Chapter 8 Chapter 7
Harper POV
I keep telling myself he’s a background character.
That’s what you do with distractions—you move them to the margins until they fade. Except Logan Shaw refuses to fade.
His name slides into every conversation, every group text, every corner of campus. Flyers for the charity clinic have his grin printed right next to mine—President & Co-Captain, the golden duo of good PR. It would almost be funny if it didn’t make my pulse race every time I saw it.
Becca notices, of course.
“Don’t tell me you’re nervous about working with Shaw again,” she says while we staple information packets in the Alpha Chi lounge.
“Nervous? Please. I just don’t want to waste time explaining things to him twice.”
She smirks. “You talk about him a lot for someone who doesn’t care.”
“I talk about the event.”
“Mhm.” She hands me another packet. “You also happen to mention how tall he is. And his shoulders. And his voice. Which, for the record, is a weird thing to complain about.”
I glare at her. “Becca—”
“I’m just saying, if you find him attractive, own it. He’s objectively gorgeous. You’re allowed to have eyes.”
“I’m also allowed to have standards,” I shoot back.
Becca laughs, tossing the stapler onto the couch. “Right. Standards. Because he’s definitely beneath your presidential dignity.”
She means it as a joke, but it lands too close to something real. I don’t answer.
Because the truth is, I do find him attractive—and I hate myself for it.
⸻
By the time the clinic orientation starts, my nerves are a tight coil under my skin. The meeting’s in a glass-walled conference room beside the rink. Hockey players, sorority volunteers, and faculty advisors fill every seat. The hum of conversation is loud enough to drown out my thoughts.
Then Logan walks in.
He’s late, of course, but somehow it works for him—the confident stride, the half-smile that suggests he knows everyone’s watching. Gray Henley shirt, sleeves pushed up, a trace of stubble that wasn’t there yesterday.
My stomach does a slow, traitorous flip.
He catches my gaze across the table and nods like we share a private joke. We don’t.
I straighten the stack of schedules in front of me. “Let’s get started.”
The meeting runs smoothly for all of three minutes before someone cracks a joke about team rivalries. Logan’s laugh rolls through the room—low, easy—and every hair on my arm reacts like static.
I keep my eyes on the agenda, but his voice keeps finding me, threading through the air no matter how focused I try to look.
When it’s time to pass out rosters, our hands brush. It’s nothing—skin against skin for half a second—but it lights up every nerve in my body like an exposed wire.
He must feel it too because he pauses. The air between us feels charged, stretched. I snatch my hand back first.
“Thanks,” I manage, cool and professional.
He leans a little closer. “You always this polite, or just when you’re trying not to yell at me?”
“Depends on the day.”
He smiles, soft around the edges. “Today seems like one of the good ones.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
⸻
For the next hour, I hear every shift in his chair, every time he clears his throat, every subtle scrape of his pen. When he leans forward to answer a question, I catch the clean scent of soap and cedar from his skin, and my pulse does that wild, inconvenient thing again.
I hate it. I hate that my body refuses to listen to logic.
Because logic says Logan Shaw doesn’t look at me that way. His type is polished, sun-kissed, confident in a way that invites attention. I’m none of those things. I’m structured chaos disguised as composure.
He flirts out of habit, not intention. And that makes it worse—because even his casual charm feels personal when it’s directed at me.
⸻
When the meeting ends, volunteers scatter, and I stay behind to collect sign-in sheets. Logan lingers too, pretending to check his phone.
“You know,” he says finally, “for someone who doesn’t like me, you sure spend a lot of time near me.”
I don’t look up. “Proximity is an unfortunate side effect of leadership.”
He laughs quietly. “So that’s what this is—leadership.”
“Yes.” I shove the last paper into a folder, forcing calm into my voice. “Some of us don’t get by on charm alone.”
“Charm only gets you so far,” he says. His tone’s lower now, serious in a way that makes me glance up despite myself.
For a moment, there’s nothing funny between us. Just the steady beat of silence and his eyes holding mine.
I should walk away. I don’t.
He moves closer, just a step, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his body. My heartbeat goes wild.
“Harper—” he starts, then shakes his head like he’s talked himself out of whatever he was about to say. “Never mind.”
“What?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.
He smiles faintly. “You’re impossible to read, you know that?”
“Good.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It is.”
He leaves before I can think of a comeback.
⸻
I stand there long after the door swings shut, trying to breathe.
Every rule I’ve built for myself is cracking. I’ve spent years avoiding this exact feeling—this loss of control, this pull toward something that can’t end well.
Because whatever this is, it’s not mutual. Not real. Not safe.
I gather my bag and head for the exit, muttering under my breath, “You don’t care, Harper.”
But the lie doesn’t hold up—not when his scent still clings to the air and the echo of his voice still hums in my chest.