Bailey (Angel Institute #3)

Chapter 2

Two

BAILEY

T he town square bustles with activity, people rushing about with arms full of presents and festive decorations. The scent of grease, cheese, and cinnamon wafts from Casa Rameriz, and the cheerful jingling of sleigh bells hung on door knobs, fills the air. It’s as if the entire town of Benton Falls has been transformed into a winter wonderland.

As I reach the grand entrance of the Holly Inn, I can’t help but feel a mix of excitement and trepidation. I’m determined to flesh out my design ideas for the decorating competition. The weight of my sketchbook in my bag feels comforting. I’ve spent the last two days creating image after image. I have narrowed my ideas down to seven.

It’s a lot, I know.

But this is the first thing that’s really inspired me in a while, and I guess I’ve been backed up.

The scent of old wood and polish mingles with the aroma of freshly cut pine trees. I pause for a moment, taking in the grandeur of the sweeping staircase. What I wouldn’t give to do a garland for that! It would cost ten thousand dollars for decorations, and it would totally be worth it.

As I make my way to the ballroom, I overhear a couple of staff members discussing the town’s tree lighting ceremony tonight. Their excited chatter reminds me of the event, and I feel a twinge of regret. I’d love to attend, to be part of that magical moment when the town square is illuminated with thousands of twinkling lights. But with so much work to do for the competition, I’m not sure I can spare the time.

I push open the heavy wooden doors of the ballroom, and once again, I’m struck by its sheer magnificence. It’s like stepping into a fairy tale, and for a moment, I allow myself to be swept away by the magic of it all and spin in a circle, imagining my golden dress flaring out around my legs.

I have a place for myself, which is just how I like it.

I haven’t seen Gladys since the other day. Not that I’ve given her much of a chance to run into me around town, but if she was really an angel and wanted to find me, I’m sure she could. Poor lady. I kind of feel bad that she’s so confused. Maybe she has family around that keeps an eye on her, and she slipped away or something.

Settling myself in the center of the room, I spread out my sketches and notes. The colorful sheets lie around me like the billowing skirts of a ball gown. The ideas that have been swirling in my mind are laid out before me, a modern twist on classic Christmas themes with sleek lines and unexpected color combinations. I lose myself in the creative process, the outside world fading away as I work with colored pencils.

“Back at it already, I see.”

The deep voice is like a cup of hot chocolate dumped over my head; it’s warm and delicious but unexpected and startling. I look up to find Logan Brown standing a few feet away, his tall frame casting a shadow over my work. His chestnut hair is slightly tousled as if he’s just run his hand through it, and his deep green eyes are fixed on my sketches with curiosity.

I instinctively move to gather my work closer, feeling exposed and vulnerable. “What are you doing here?” I ask, wincing at the accusing edge in my voice.

Logan holds up a sketchbook in a gesture of peace. “Same as you. Working on designs for the competition.”

I nod stiffly, unsure of how to respond. Part of me wants to engage, discuss ideas, and share the excitement of creation. But the larger part, the part that’s been hurt and dismissed too many times, keeps me silent and wary.

Logan moves closer, his gaze sweeping over the papers I wasn’t able to hide. “May I?” he asks.

I consider the question. It’s polite and professional. He’s curious, and his face is relaxed. Wolves hide in sheep’s clothing all the time. I glance at the images. They’re not my favorites, and that’s why they were so far out that I couldn’t grab them. I’d discarded them. I’m curious, though, about what he’ll do with them. After a moment’s hesitation, I nod. He picks up one of the drawings, his brow furrowing as he studies it. I brace myself for the picking apart.

“This is... interesting,” he says slowly. “Very modern.”

“You don’t like modern?” I blurt out, trying my best to get a read on him. If I know what angle he’s attacking from, my defenses can be fortified before the jabs come.

He gives me a lopsided grin. “What is Christmas without the nutcrackers and toy trains?” His words, though not unkind, strike a nerve.

My throat starts to close off, and I force air through my nose. At one point, I could talk circles around this drawing and make it come to life in a way that would excite even the likes of Logan Brown. But the past year has risen up in front of me, and I’m stuck behind a wall of fear and anxiety. My tongue is heavy, and the words stick together like candy canes left in the sun.

“Not everything has to be traditional,” I snap, the words coming out harsher than I intended because I have to push them out with so much force, or they’ll stay inside forever. “Christmas isn’t for old people.” I know what I’m saying doesn’t make sense. I want to tell him that experiencing Christmas is different for each person, and some of them feel it for the first time as adults.

Logan blinks in surprise. “I didn’t mean to offend,” he says quickly. “I just... well, I guess I’m more of a classic Christmas kind of guy.”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside me. “Well, that’s your perspective,” I say, my voice tight but my throat starting to loosen up again. “But this competition isn’t about recreating the same old scenes we’ve seen a thousand times before. It’s about bringing something new and fresh to the table.” Oh great. Now that I can talk, I’m going to insult his taste. I’m ready for a battle now. He’s going to come back at me, and I need to be ready. I clench my jaw.

Logan’s expression shifts from surprise to something that looks almost like admiration, which is disarming. “You’re passionate about this, aren’t you?”

The unexpected softness in his voice catches me off guard, and my grip on my sketches loosens. They flutter and scatter across the floor like feathers. For a moment, I see past the successful competitor, past the chiseled jawline and perfectly styled hair. I see a fellow creator, someone who understands the drive to bring beauty into the world. Someone who may take as much joy as I do in a freshly sharpened set of colored pencils and the possibilities of a blank sketchbook.

But then I remember who he is, Logan Brown, three-time winner of this very competition, and the person I need to be to get everything I want. He stands in my way. Whether he means to or not, he does. The walls go back up, higher and stronger than before.

“Of course I’m passionate,” I retort. “This isn’t just some hobby for me. It’s my future.”

Logan nods, a strange mix of emotions playing across his face. “I get that,” he says softly. “More than you might think.”

Wait, what? That’s not what he’s supposed to say. I find myself wanting to ask him what he means, but before I can say anything, he shakes his head as if clearing away a troubling thought.

“Listen, I’m sorry if I came across as nosy and critical,” he says. “That wasn’t my intention at all. Your ideas are unlike anything I’ve seen before. And that’s a good thing.”

I blink, surprised by the sincerity in his words. “Thank you,” I mumble, unsure of how to handle this unexpected praise. My eyes drop to my lap, and I keep them there. A feeling of not being worthy of his kind words washes over me. Impostor syndrome. I never had it before and, quite frankly, thought it was silly. Now, I get it because I live it. Thankfully, my mamma raised me with manners, so the thank you was automatic. At least I got that right.

Logan runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly nervous. “I’m not sure what happened here,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh. “Usually, I’m much more level-headed. It’s possible you stir my soul, Bailey.”

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. Stir his soul ? Who says things like that? What man has ever used a poetic phrase to describe me? None. Not one.

Why did I ever go out with those guys? It’s a mystery because now that Logan said that , I can’t ever forget it. And now that I know there are men out there who say such wonderful things, I won’t settle for less.

He’s only been here five minutes, and he’s turned my world upside down.

I wonder what other wonderful things he can say. My heart does a strange little flip, and for a split second, I allow myself to imagine what it might be like to let my guard down, to let someone in.

But then the memories come flooding back, the dismissive comments from my family when I told them I wanted to become a designer, the cruel words from my ex. The pain is still too raw, too real. I can’t risk being hurt again.

“I’m sure you say that to all the designers?” I snap, my voice cold.

Logan’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back as if I’ve physically struck him. “I... I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just trying to...”

“To what?” I interrupt. Now that I’ve let the tornado begin, I can’t turn it off, and I’m swept up in the emotions. “To throw me off my game? To distract me from the competition?”

“No, of course not!” Logan looks genuinely distressed now. “I was just... I don’t know. I guess I was trying to...”

I don’t let him finish. “Save it,” I say, gathering my sketches. He stoops down to help me, and as we both stand up, I snatch them from his hands. “I’m not interested in your games, Logan. This is a competition, nothing more.”

He looks confused, hurt even. For a moment, I feel a twinge of regret. There will be more to come later. It will be awful, and I’ll hate myself even more for not being stronger than my fears.

I leave the ballroom, my heart pounding and my mind racing. The town square is alive with activity as people prepare for the tree-lighting ceremony. For a moment, I wish I could stay. I wish I could be carefree. I wish I could be open and not so clamped down all the time.

With a sigh, I turn away from the square and head back to my apartment. I have to let it go. I can’t hold on to that moment with Logan. I can’t replay the look on his face as I leave over and over again, or it will eat me up from the inside out.

The competition is all that matters now. Once I win, I’ll have my confidence, my credibility, and my graciousness back.

The sun is setting as I reach The Pampered Pooch Pantry. Inside my small but cozy space, I spread out my sketches on the desk. I press out wrinkles and unfold the edges. I should feel inspired and ready to dive back into my work. Instead, I find myself staring out the window, watching as the town comes to life with Christmas, and I’m stuck on the outside looking in. I know I’ve put myself here; I just don’t know how to let myself out.

With renewed determination, I turn back to my sketches. The town may be celebrating outside, but here, I have a different kind of magic to create. And nothing—not family expectations, not past hurts, and certainly not Logan Brown—is going to stop me from making my vision a reality.