Bailey (Angel Institute #3)

Chapter 13

Thirteen

BAILEY

I make my way to the window, and suddenly, the room plunges into darkness.

I freeze. I don’t want to trip. I put my hand out in front of me, and I can’t see it.

“Stay calm,” Logan’s steady voice cuts through the darkness. “It’s probably just a blown fuse or a power outage from the storm.” I believe him. He’s a firefighter, after all, and there’s no reason to panic.

As my eyes slowly adjust to the dim light filtering in from the windows, I can make out Logan’s silhouette moving towards me. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice low and concerned.

“I’m fine,” I reply, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. It’s not like I’m scared of the dark or anything. I don’t know why I feel so vulnerable right now. “Just a bit startled.”

Logan’s hand finds mine in the darkness, warm and reassuring. I grab onto it and hold tight, my shaking stopping immediately. “Let’s head to the lobby,” he suggests. “They’ll probably have more information there.” He turns on his phone’s flashlight, and we make our way through the ballroom. The polished oak floor creaks softly under our feet, and I can hear the wind howling outside.

As we enter the lobby, we’re greeted by the flickering light of emergency lamps and the concerned faces of the inn’s staff. Guests stream out of the stairwell and mill around, waiting for instructions. Logan goes to release my hand, but I grab onto his arm and hold him in place. He studies my eyes and must have seen my fear. I’m doing my best to tamp it down. I’ve never been in a situation like this before, and I don’t know what to do. He adjusts his grip and weaves through the crowd to get to where we can hear what’s going on.

The manager, a portly man with a receding hairline, raises his hands to get our attention. Everyone quiets down. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the inconvenience. It appears the storm has knocked out power to most of the town. We’re working on getting our backup generator online, but for now, I’m afraid we’ll have to ask everyone to remain in the inn. It’s not safe to venture out in this weather.”

A chorus of groans and worried murmurs ripples through the crowd. I feel a knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. The thought of being trapped here with all these people is unsettling. Another thought grabs at me—Logan is a firefighter. He could be called out at any moment, and I’d be alone. My grip on his hand tightens.

Logan squeezes my hand gently in return. He looks around and finds a corner with a sofa and only a few people. Taking us both there, he says, “I need to check in with the fire chief. Will you be okay for a minute?”

I nod, reluctantly letting go of his hand and settling onto the couch, my arms wrapped around me. I should scroll through my inspiration boards to take my mind off things, but I want to conserve my battery. Who knows how long the power will be out? As Logan steps away to make his call, I overhear some of the staff discussing emergency supplies. They have enough food for several days—which is a relief, though I hope we’re not stuck here that long.

The more I listen to the conversations around me, the more I understand that we will be spending the night.

An idea forms in my mind, and I approach one of the housekeepers.

“Excuse me,” I say, my voice softer than usual. “Do you have any rooms available?”

She looks at me for a moment as if she’s trying to place me.

“I’m with the decorating competition.” I motion to the ballroom doors.

“That’s right.” She snaps her fingers and then gives me a sympathetic frown. “I’m so sorry, but we’re completely booked. You’re welcome to take a sofa or something out here with the staff.” She motions to the lobby. There are a few people already making up beds and claiming their spots.

The idea of sleeping in a room full of strangers by myself makes my skin itch. I can’t count on Logan staying; he has a job to do. I’ll have to make the best of the situation.

“Do you have any spare blankets or pillows we could use? Maybe we can sleep in the ballroom?” I ask tentatively. It’s heated and familiar. The floor isn’t soft, but I can survive one night. I hope Logan doesn’t mind—if he ends up staying, that is.

The housekeeper nods, her face lighting up at the suggestion. “Of course. That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll gather what we have and bring them to you.”

I really hope Logan stays. Not just because I’m clinging to him like Linus with his blanket, but because I like being around him. The kiss we shared was confusing but wonderful. I would have liked to do that again, but he acted like it was such a big mistake that I can’t find it in me to argue the point. If he thought it was a bad idea, then it most certainly was. I’m not in the habit of kissing men who don’t want to kiss me back.

As I wait for the supplies, I watch Logan talking on his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration. He takes several paces to the right and then spins and goes the other way, running his hand through his hair as he listens. Even in the dim emergency lighting, I can’t help but notice how the shadows accentuate his strong jawline and the intensity in his green eyes. He’s a force, that’s for sure.

Logan finishes his call and makes his way back to me. “The chief wants me to stay put for now,” he explains. “The storm is bad enough that they’re not sending trucks out. No one has called in anything more severe than the power outage. They’ll need extra hands in the morning to clean up and make the rounds, depending on how bad the storm gets.”

I nod, gesturing toward the housekeeper, who’s now approaching with an armful of quilts and pillows and a bag of food. “Thank you,” I tell her as I take an armload and pass it to Logan. “I thought we might need these. We can head back to the ballroom and try to make ourselves comfortable.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of Logan’s mouth. “Are we having a sleepover?” he asks, a note of teasing in his voice.

“My first one since I was seventeen,” I say, smiling.

The housekeeper hurries off to do a hundred other tasks she wasn’t counting on doing tonight. We make our way back to the ballroom, which now feels eerily quiet.

Logan and I find a spot near his tree, away from the drafty windows. “Let’s use this batting for padding.” He pulls out the roll of quilt batting that has been sitting in the corner since we started. I’m not even sure who brought it in here. We roll it out, and it’s just the right amount for the two of us. I start arranging my quilts and pillows.

“Here,” Logan says, pulling out a small bag from his supplies. “I’ve got some battery-operated tea lights. They’re not much, but they’ll give us a bit of light.”

He switches them on and places them around us in a circle. A soft, warm glow illuminates our little corner. The flickering light casts dancing shadows on the ornaments of our half-decorated trees, creating an almost magical atmosphere despite the circumstances.

We settle onto our makeshift beds. I sit crisscrossed and face him, and he does the same. “What do you think she found us for dinner?” I ask as I open the sack. Inside, I find granola bars, two individual-sized packages of trail mix, two hastily thrown-together turkey sandwiches leaking mayo, two bananas, and two bottles of water.

Logan stares down at it. Knowing how many street tacos he put away, I push as much of the food in his direction as I can. I keep a turkey sandwich and a bottle of water. “Eat up.”

He grabs his sandwich and takes a bite. “You can’t be full on just a sandwich.”

I wave my hand down my body. “Smaller package, smaller caloric needs.”

He chuckles. “We’ll see about that.” We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the possibility that he doesn’t want to open up to me. If kissing me was a mistake, I’m not sure where I stand with him. Friends? Teammates for the Ice Games? Competitors? I just don’t know, but we’re here, and we can’t stare at the floor all night and not talk. “Why did you become a firefighter?” I ask, genuinely curious. It’s a safe topic, nothing too personal, but one that might give me a glimpse into his character.

Logan’s eyes light up at the question, a spark of enthusiasm igniting in their depths. He shifts in his seat, leaning forward slightly.

“It all started when I was a kid,” he begins, a nostalgic smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I must’ve been about five or six. Our neighbor’s house caught fire, and I remember standing on our front lawn, watching in awe as these larger-than-life heroes in their bulky gear poured out of this massive red truck.”

His hands move animatedly as he speaks, painting the scene in the air between us. “The sirens, the flashing lights, the way they fearlessly charged into danger—it was like something out of a movie. But it was real, you know?”

I nod, finding myself drawn in by his sincerity and the vivid picture he’s creating.

“After that, I was obsessed,” Logan continues, chuckling softly. “I’d make my mom drive past the fire station just so I could peek at the trucks. I’d wear my plastic firefighter helmet everywhere—even to bed sometimes.”

His expression softens, a mix of fondness and something deeper, more serious. “But as I grew older, it became more than just a childhood fantasy of riding on the big red truck. I started to understand what it really meant to be a firefighter.”

Logan pauses, his gaze distant for a moment as if he’s looking into the past. “I learned about the dedication, the sacrifice, the brotherhood. I realized that being a firefighter meant being there for people on what might be the worst day of their lives. It meant having the chance to make a real difference.”

He meets my eyes again, and I’m struck by the conviction I see there. “Honestly?” He grins, a boyish excitement creeping back into his features. “That little kid inside me still gets a thrill every time I suit up and climb onto that truck.”

As Logan finishes his story, I find myself smiling, infected by his enthusiasm.

“What about you?” he asks when he finishes. “How did you get into design?”

The question catches me off guard. “I’ve always loved creating things,” I begin hesitantly. “As a kid, I was constantly drawing or making elaborate decorations for every holiday. But... my family didn’t really understand it. They’re all very practical, you know? They saw my art as a waste of time.”

Logan’s brow furrows. “That must have been hard,” he says softly.

I nod, surprised by how easy it is to continue. “It was. For a long time, I tried to be what they wanted me to be. I even dated this guy who was the manager at my old firm. He...” I trail off, the memories still painful.

“He what, Bailey?” Logan prompts gently.

In the soft glow of the tea lights, with the storm raging outside and the rest of the world feeling far away, I find the courage to continue. “He was verbally abusive and manipulative,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “He made me feel like my ideas were worthless, like I was worthless.”

Logan’s expression darkens, a flash of anger crossing his face. “Bailey, I’m so sorry you went through that,” he says, his voice low and intense. “No one deserves to be treated that way. If that jerk ever shows his face in this town, I’ll run him out—or run him over with the fire truck.”

Despite the seriousness of the moment, I can’t help but laugh. “I appreciate the offer,” I say, feeling a warmth spread through my chest at his protectiveness. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

As the night wears on, our conversation flows more freely. I open up about my struggles to express myself how my fear of being misunderstood often leads me to push people away before they can get close. With each shared confidence, I feel a little piece of the wall I’ve built around my heart start to crumble.

The storm continues to rage outside, wind howling and snow pelting against the windows. But here in our little cocoon of quilts and soft light, I feel safer and more at peace than I have in years. The night grows late, and our conversation begins to slow; I feel my eyelids growing heavy. Logan must notice because he shifts slightly, his hand finding mine in the darkness.

“We should try to get some sleep,” he says softly. “But... would it be okay if I held your hand? I don’t want to be alone in the dark.” His words are casual, but I can sense the deeper meaning behind them. He’s offering comfort, not just for himself, but for me. And for once, I don’t feel the need to push it away.

“I’d like that,” I whisper, intertwining my fingers with his.

As I drift off to sleep—the warmth of Logan’s hand in mine and the soft glow of the tea lights creating a bubble of peace around us—I realize something has fundamentally shifted. For the first time in a long time, the thought of being vulnerable, of letting someone in, doesn’t fill me with fear.