2. Logan

Chapter 2

Logan

Having a new nanny around the house was oddly disorienting. Casey had been around for a couple of days so far and I was trying to get used to his presence.

It was as if the air had subtly shifted at the estate, and I was the only one who’d noticed. In fact, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Casey.

Fixing my tie in the mirror, I glanced out over Westbrook Meadows and took in the morning sunlight. Normally I woke up fairly relaxed, but there was an unease that accompanied me today.

When my mother first mentioned the idea of hiring a nanny a few weeks ago, I’d thought she was joking. But I knew that, realistically, I could no longer place the burden of Henry’s care on his grandmother. She needed to live her own life, and she was right that Henry needed more supervision. In a few days he’d turn sixteen and get his first car—along with his first real taste of independence. Since I typically worked seventy to eighty hours a week at the hospital, it was time for something new.

With no regard for my privacy, Betsy had taken it upon herself to place Casey in the guest suite located very close to my own bedroom. When I asked about the detached guest house on the property, she’d politely informed me that it was currently being used to house gnomes while she looked for their permanent home on the grounds.

I hadn’t asked any follow-up questions.

Betsy Westbrook ran a tight ship, and I was just along for the ride. After my wife passed, Henry and I had tried to stay in our family home but eventually he’d begged for us to move. My mother welcomed us with open arms, and there was certainly plenty of space.

If only I could get used to the antics.

A sudden, sharp knock at the door jolted me from my thoughts.

Martin opened the door and shuffled in with a gleaming silver tray, presenting a porcelain coffee pot and fine china plates filled with assorted pastries and danishes.

I would call Martin the family butler, but the truth was he was Betsy’s butler and catered to her every quirky whim.

“Coffee, sir?” he asked, pouring a cup before I could answer.

“Thank you.”

He glanced up at me while pouring. “Your mother has requested your presence at a photoshoot here at the house this morning, sir.”

A photoshoot?

Martin shared the information as if it were completely normal. For him, it probably was. Dressed in his perfectly pressed, wrinkle-free black suit and white vest, he donned white gloves for most tasks, including scraping butter onto bread.

“A photoshoot for what?”

He glanced up, trying to mask the unspoken truth that he hadn’t dared ask my mother any further questions. Our eyes met in a silent but profound exchange that spoke volumes. In many ways, I couldn’t help but feel bad for the man who had spent years mastering the delicate art of bending to my mother’s will. Then again, rumor had it that mother paid Martin almost double the industry standard, so it was impossible to feel too sorry for him.

He poured a drop of cream in my cup. “Jean Pierre Duval, the world-renowned photographer, has been flown in by your mother to photograph important family heirlooms.”

World-renowned? That sounds expensive.

Martin placed a warm, flaky croissant covered in a faint glaze of butter on a sparkling clean white plate. As he fussed about the plating, I grabbed my phone and did a quick search for the professional he’d mentioned.

Sure enough, the photographer’s fees were astronomical. One celebrity gossip website mentioned that Jean Pierre had been paid a cool six figures to take photos of a movie star’s wedding in Paris.

Evidently, perfection didn’t come cheap. But at Pierre’s prices, the photos had better come with a paparazzi-proof force field.

No doubt he was as bewildered by my mother’s request as I was.

Minutes later, I walked downstairs into the sitting room which had been transformed into a chaotic scene. Betsy fussed around a few things while Jean Pierre looked confused and scratched his chin behind his extravagant camera setup.

On the floor in front of the camera was an ancient typewriter, a dented helmet, and a crowned rooster.

“Good morning,” I said, catching Mother’s attention.

She whipped around, her long hair flying around her face. “Logan! You’re just in time.”

“Mother, why did you hire a world-class photographer to document a rooster?”

Her jaw dropped open in feigned surprise. “This isn’t just any rooster, dear. It’s the crowned rooster. Please be seated for your photograph!”

“My photograph?”

“With the rooster,” she said as if it was completely normal. “I’ve loved this rooter since you were a child, and I think it’s important to document heirlooms with sentimental value.”

Jean Pierre looked as perplexed as I felt.

“Mother, I’m not posing with a rooster. That’s absolutely unnecessary.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, don’t be a stiff! It’s our family heritage and it embodies Westbrook pride.”

I was initially resistant, but eventually gave in, reminding myself that there was no point in arguing with her.

More often than not, she won.

I flopped down in the chair as Mother gently placed the rooster on my lap. Unfortunately, it was surprisingly heavy.

As if on cue, Casey and Henry walked into the room mid-shoot, just as the camera started clicking away.

The moment Casey entered the room, it was as if the air shifted. Casey paused in the doorway, taking in the unusual scene with a grin lighting up his face. His eyes flickered over to me as I sat with a fucking rooster on my lap.

Incredibly dignified for a cardiac surgeon.

Casey’s laugh was soft and barely audible, but it was enough to send a wave of—something—over me.

I didn’t know what the something was yet.

He had a certain way of moving. Casual, but confident at the same time. It was as if he didn’t care who was watching. Part of me was just a tiny bit jealous of that. With my career as a surgeon and my position on the board of directors at Pinehurst Medical Center, I was often overly concerned with what others thought of me.

But not Casey.

His shirt was untucked at the hem and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal his forearms. They were somehow… distractingly solid. He was obviously a man who looked after himself. His hair caught flickers of sunlight as it pressed into the oversized sitting room.

As Casey’s gaze landed on mine, there was a hint of something in his eyes.

Maybe it was simply amusement.

Or curiosity.

Either way, it caught me off guard and made me swallow harder than I should have.

Out of nowhere, the camera’s flash started going off, blinding me so that I could barely see anything. But I definitely saw Henry take out his phone and snap a picture of me in all my absurdity.

Casey and Henry exchanged a look, both their grins barely concealed.

It was good to see that they were getting along.

Martin entered the room quietly, pushing a tray filled with various breakfast foods and more coffee.

“Casey and Henry!” my mother exclaimed, stealing everyone’s attention. “Come and stand for the photo,” she directed them.

“Nope!” Henry said and quickly darted out of the room.

“Hey!” I called out after Henry. “Do not post that photo online.”

Casey smiled, clearly amused. “Oh Betsy, I’m not the most photogenic person. Unless you’re looking for a ‘before’ picture for a makeover show.”

Who was Casey kidding? The man was strikingly good looking. The kind of handsome that turned heads and lingered in minds.

Betsy appeared unamused. She gave him a sharp look, one eyebrow arched like a queen issuing a decree.

Casey walked over, almost as if he were gliding. “Don’t blame me if this ends up as one of those awkward family photos!”

He moved with an ease that caught me off-guard, surprisingly at home in my mother’s orbit where she intimidated most.

Her wealth, her personality, her presence.

And mother loved being the talk of the town. Constant coverage by the gossip rags, the tabloids.

She was having fun, all the while utilizing connections and wealth to propel the family forward. She was a fierce protector, and we were all grateful for her.

As Casey stood next to me, I found myself hoping this would all be over soon. It was a complete humiliation to sit in a chair with a rooster on my lap.

However, when his arm gently draped over my shoulder, his touch was light and steady, catching me off guard.

Instinctively, my body tensed, but I hoped he wouldn’t notice. I found the warmth of his hand on my shoulder disarming. It was suddenly impossible to focus.

He leaned down and whispered in my ear so that Betsy couldn’t hear. “I guess when the queen commands, we must obey.”

His easiness took me by surprise, and the sound of his voice sent a shiver down my back.

I must have appeared frozen to him, but he handled it graciously.

“Relax,” he added, his tone laced with comforting humor, “they’re not going to engrave this photo on a monument.”

I was glad that he mistakenly thought my tension was because of the photo. I knew deep down that it was something else entirely.

The camera clicked. I was suddenly reminded that this moment would be documented forever. And in my mother’s hands no less.

I knew I needed to shake it off and maintain my composure.

Having a new presence in the house had obviously thrown me.

The photographer stopped snapping, clearly satisfied with his masterpiece.

Casey stepped back, removing his hand from my shoulder and leaving me surprisingly disappointed.

I risked a look at Casey and noticed his eyes meeting mine. A mischievous smile spread across his lips and lingered for a brief moment. My breath caught in my throat, and I immediately forced myself to look at the rooster and fix its crown.

As if it was a matter of great importance.

I didn’t want to look at my mother, but I couldn’t help it. I glanced over and caught her watching us. Her smirk was sharper than her navy-blue suit. I braced myself for her to say something. But she said nothing at all.

She merely sipped her tea with an air of triumph.