Bailey (Angel Institute #3)

Chapter 5

Five

BAILEY

T he doors to Designer’s Haven automatically whoosh open, drawing me into the decorators’ superstore as I approach. A wave of cinnamon and plastic washes over me, mingling with the cardboard scent of newly unboxed ornaments. Normally, the dazzling array of lights and glittering decorations would set my creative mind alight. Today, however, the festive wonderland before me feels more like a gauntlet to be run.

I adjust the strap of my messenger bag, squaring my shoulders as I survey the aisles. Shoppers weave between towering displays of fake trees and Red Rider sleds, their excited chatter filling the air. A child squeals with delight as an animatronic Santa waves from a nearby shelf. The sheer variety of items is overwhelming—from classic glass baubles to quirky pop culture-inspired decorations. I’m drawn to the Elvis figurine. He’s wearing a red, bell-bottom jumpsuit with a picture of Santa across the back.

I kind of love him.

I leave him there for another project. My theme is not Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree . I pat his head. “Maybe next year, E.”

I make my way down the first aisle, running my hand along a garland of soft, faux pine needles. The deep green would make an excellent base for my design. I’m envisioning something modern, a departure from the traditional red and green. Maybe silver and blue, with unexpected pops of coral...

“Excuse me,” a deep voice interrupts my musings. “Could you pass me that gold star topper?”

I turn, ready to oblige, when I find myself face-to-face with Logan Brown. My stomach flips as my eyes run up his jean-clad legs that are longer than any man should be allowed to have, his trim middle that’s probably a six-pack of perfection because he’s a firefighter for the love of holy. I skim across his chest, which in no way resembles a fluffy down pillow, and end on his too-handsome-for-his-own-good face.

“Sure,” I croak as I reach for the star. Our fingers brush as I hand it to him, and I quickly pull away. “Going for the classic look, I see.”

Logan’s brow furrows slightly at my tone, but he maintains a polite smile. “There’s a reason classics are classic,” he says. “They stand the test of time.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Or they’re just boring and predictable,” I mutter, turning back to the garlands. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Okay, when I get home, I’m going to find my filter and reinstall it.

“I’m sorry. What was that?” Logan asks, his voice genuinely curious rather than challenging.

I open my mouth, then close it again, unsure how to respond. “Nothing,” I mumble. “It’s not worth repeating.”

Logan gives me a small nod and walks away, gold star in hand. I glare at his retreating back, my cheeks burning with embarrassment at my own behavior.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to refocus on the task at hand. I grab a cart and begin filling it with supplies—ribbons in shades of silver and ice blue, delicate glass icicles, and strings of warm white lights.

As I round the corner into the next aisle, I nearly collide with another shopper. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I exclaim, steadying my cart.

“No harm done,” a familiar voice replies. I look up to see Mrs. Pennington, my downstairs neighbor, and the owner of the Pampered Pooch Pantry, smiling warmly at me. Her rosy cheeks are even more flushed than usual, likely from the store’s toasty temperature.

“Mrs. Pennington! I didn’t expect to see you here,” I say, genuinely pleased to run into a friendly face.

She chuckles, the sound as warm and comforting as freshly baked cookies—or dog treats as the case may be. Dogs can eat white chocolate, you know. “I’m picking up a few things to spruce up the shop window. Biscuit insisted we needed new stockings this year.”

I can’t help but smile. “I’m sure Biscuit has excellent taste.”

Mrs. Pennington’s eyes twinkle as she glances at my cart. “My, that’s quite the collection you’ve got there.”

“It’s for the decorating contest,” I explain, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious about my non-traditional color scheme.

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” Mrs. Pennington exclaims. She reaches over and touches one of the raspberry-colored bows. “So bright and cheerful.”

Her words soothe some of the lingering doubts. “Thank you,” I say softly. “I’m going for bright and cheerful.”

Mrs. Pennington pats my arm. “You just keep following your vision; it won’t steer you wrong.” With a wave, she continues on her way.

I nearly stumble into her words. They feel true, and I want them to be true, so much so that I ache. I watch her go, feeling a swell of gratitude for her unwavering support. She doesn’t know me, not really, but she’s honestly kind, and that is a balm to my ever-open wounds.

The next hour passes in a blur of holly berries and baubles. I’m carefully examining a set of modern, geometric tree ornaments when I hear that now-familiar deep voice behind me.

“Those are pretty.”

I whirl around to find Logan standing nearby, a reindeer antler headband perched atop his dark hair. The sight is so incongruous that I have to bite back a smile despite my annoyance at his presence.

“That’s kind of the point,” I say, lifting my chin defiantly.

Logan holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

His continued politeness only serves to fuel my irritation. Why can’t he just argue with me? It would be so much easier to dislike him if he’d stop being so... nice.

“You don’t have to pretend to like my ideas just to be polite,” I mutter.

“I’m not pretending,” he says. “I might not always understand modern design, but I can appreciate the creativity behind it.”

I’m not ready to accept his olive branch entirely, but I nod grudgingly. “Thanks; I guess it’s a good thing you’re not decorating my tree.” I tease and I’m surprised that it doesn’t come out rude. It almost sounds friendly.

Logan runs a hand through his hair, dislodging the antlers. He catches them with his other hand, a sheepish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. The glimpse of humor catches me off guard, momentarily diffusing some of the tension I feel. An awkward silence stretches between us. I shift my weight from foot to foot, unsure of what to say next. Logan clears his throat.

“Well, I should get going,” he says. “Good luck.”

As Logan walks away, I’m left feeling unsettled. Our interactions are so charged, at least on my end, veering between antagonism and something I can’t quite name. I shake my head, unable to understand why he keeps trying to talk to me when I’m obviously not good at it.

That’s not true, I tell myself. I talked to Mrs. Pennington just fine.

So it’s Logan who is the problem. I’m not sure I’m ready to dissect why that is.

I spend another half hour gathering the last of my supplies before heading to the checkout. As I wait in line, my gaze wanders to a display of delicate glass ornaments near the registers.

The drive home is a blur of swirling snowflakes and the gentle croon of Bing Crosby on the radio. The scent of fresh-baked dog treats wafts through the air as I gather my bags from the car. I’m trying to carry too much, and I feel like a partridge in a too-small pear tree when Logan comes out the door wearing his firefighter uniform and looks like a hero.

Daaaang !

“Need a hand with those?”

I’m staring. I’m staring open-mouthed and unabashedly.

Before I can protest, he’s already taking several of the heavier bags from my arms.

“I’ve got it,” I insist weakly. All of me is weak in the knees–including my lungs. They’re like half-inflated balloons sighing out the last of their oxygen.

Logan raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure you can get it, but I’m wearing the uniform, so I’m professionally obligated to carry things for people.”

I want to argue, but the relief in my arms is undeniable. “Fine,” I concede grudgingly. “Thanks.”

We make our way up the stairs in silence. When we reach my apartment door, I fumble for my keys, acutely aware of Logan’s presence behind me.

“Just set them down here,” I say, gesturing vaguely with my elbow once I’ve got the door open. “I can take it from here.”

Logan complies, carefully placing the bags just inside the doorway. He straightens up, his gaze sweeping over the creative chaos of my living room—sketches pinned to every available surface, fabric swatches draped over furniture, and half-finished craft projects scattered about.

“Wow,” he says, and I brace myself for criticism. But when I look at his face, I see genuine admiration. “This is impressive. Did you bring the fabric with you or order it? Is that a painting? Do you paint? Did you make those ornaments?”

His words catch me off guard. “I… uh … yes?” I reply, unsure how to handle his unexpected enthusiasm and barrage of questions.

Logan laughs. “I’m not sure which question you answered. Sorry, I kind of geeked out there.” A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s fine. I get that, the geeking out.” I wave my hand, indicating the crafting projects strewn about the room. I really need to clean this place up if I’m going to have people over.

“Well, I won’t keep you from your work. Good luck with the contest, Bailey. I mean that.”

As he turns to go, I find myself calling out, “Logan, wait.”

He pauses, looking back at me.

“Thank you,” I say, the words feeling strange on my tongue. “For the help, I mean. And... for being interested in this. No one … I mean … thanks.”

Logan’s smile widens. “You’re welcome. If you ever want to get crazy with some craft sticks, I can hook you up with my dealer.” With that, he heads back down the stairs, leaving me standing in my doorway, more confused than ever about Logan Brown.

He looks like a firefighter model with all the muscles, but he acts like the boy next door who is just happy to stop by for a visit. It’s slightly, just the smallest amount possible, that he doesn’t know how gorgeous he is.

Which multiplies his handsome by ten–hundred thousand.

I shake off the dopey look on my face just in time for Mrs. Pennington’s head to appear as she climbs the steps. “I thought you could use a little pick-me-up after all that shopping,” she says, holding out the plate.

“That’s so thoughtful, thank you,” I reply, ushering her inside. The warm, buttery scent of the cookies fills the air, instantly making my apartment feel cozier.

Mrs. Pennington settles herself on one of my two barstools. I join her, helping myself to a cookie. The first bite is heavenly, soft and chewy, with just the right amount of chocolate chips.

“So,” Mrs. Pennington says, a knowing twinkle in her eye, “Are you and Logan…?”

I nearly choke on my cookie. “Friends,” I say, trying to sound casual as I continue to cough. I feel like the word friends is stretching the truth. We’re competitors. Colleagues at best.

Mrs. Pennington hums thoughtfully. “Logan’s a good kid. He’s got a big heart under all that firefighter bravado.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m sure he does,” I say noncommittally.

“I mean it,” Mrs. Pennington insists. “He’s always the first to offer help when anyone in town needs it.”

“He does seem helpful.”

Mrs. Pennington pats my hand. “I’m not trying to push you, dear. I just think sometimes we can be too quick to judge people based on first impressions.”

Her words hit uncomfortably close to home. Haven’t I been doing exactly that with Logan? Dismissing him as nothing more than an arrogant traditionalist?

“You might be right,” I say softly.

Mrs. Pennington beams at me. “I’d better get back to the shop. Come down if you need anything.”

After she leaves, I need to clear my head, so I decide to take a walk around the town square. Everything is lit up still, and it looks beautiful—like a movie set in real life.

My thoughts quickly shift to Logan. He seems so happy and confident, and I can’t help but think that his willingness to help others is connected to that. It’s the old chicken and egg argument. Does serving give you confidence, or do you have to have confidence to serve? I stop in front of the church and take in the nativity scene.

Suddenly, I know the answer.

I look around to see if there’s anyone I can help, but the streets are empty this late at night. I’ll have to keep my eyes open and see who God puts in my path.