Logan's relationship with his father had always been complicated. Mitchum Huntzberger had rarely been around when his kids were growing up. And when he was, he was distant, stern, and overbearing. At least as far as Logan was concerned. Mitchum would occasionally show a softer side to his daughter, Honor.

As Logan got older, he saw more of his father…much more. But it wasn't warm and cuddly bonding time. There were expectations to meet, plans to implement, and dynastic destinies to fulfill. He was going to be taking over the company…a vast media empire that encompassed dozens of newspapers, cable news outlets, online media, podcasts, and even social media. It was a huge responsibility, one that he had fought against for most of his life, but over time, had come to love. Which was good, because it was his birth right to one day inherit it all…to help steward journalism and media into a new age. And apparently, that day had come.

But Logan had no idea how to feel about it. He was sad, of course. As complicated as his relationship with his father had been, he was still his father. He was scared, too. Everything was on him now; every decision, every strategic plan, every success, and every failure—the buck stopped with Logan. But then there were the other feelings; the relief, the freedom, the thrill at finally being in control—not just of the company, but of his own life. He no longer had to try in vain to meet the expectations of a man who could never be satisfied. And then there was the guilt that came with even daring to entertain any positive thoughts over the death of another human being…of his own flesh and blood.

"So, sub-party time?" Logan looked up from the glass of scotch he had been staring blankly into. "Ow!" Finn was rubbing his ribcage which had just been the victim of a violent encounter with the pointy end of their friend Rosemary's elbow. "What?" the Aussie asked, his face befuddled.

"We can't have a sub-party." Rosemary hissed, sending Logan an apologetic look on behalf of the Australian.

"Why not? We always have sub-parties at these stupid events."

"It's Mitchum's funeral, you imbecile." Colin shook his head.

"So?" Finn shrugged. "Logan didn't even like the man."

"That's not…" Rosemary let out an exasperated sigh. "He was his father. He can't just disappear."

"I…umm…" Logan shook his head, trying to clear it of the fog that had descended over his grey matter making it even greyer than usual. "I have to…" He had to go. Be somewhere else. He loved his friends, but they weren't helping right now. He just needed to power his way through this; make the requisite small talk, show the appropriate amount of deference, express the proper amount of emotion—not too much, but just a touch more than none. In some ways that seemed easy thanks to a combination of practice with these types of events and the aura of numbness that encompassed him. But in other ways, there was a tsunami of emotions roiling inside of him, and he had no way of knowing if or when they would come spilling out…or even which one would manifest at what time. What if someone was telling a funny story about something that happened on a business trip and he flew into a rage? What if his mother was lamenting over some supposedly sentimental family trip to the Vineyard and he doubled over in laugher? He couldn't be responsible for keeping his friends in line right now—it was going to be hard enough to keep himself in line.

He swallowed the rest of his drink in one gulp. "I have to go get a refill." He turned and walked away without waiting for a response. He wound his way through the throngs of people who had come to pay their respects, trying to avoid meeting the eye of any of them lest he get pulled into a conversation he didn't really want to have, but it was to no avail.

"Logan! There you are." Logan turned to face Jordan Parish, vice president of their flagship cable news channel HNS who was standing with Philip Rathcan and Charlie Sandler—two bigwigs from the audio division.

"Jordan." He plastered on his best smile. "Thanks for coming." He extended his hand to shake, then repeated the greeting with each of the other men."

"Of course we came. Your father was a great man. It's a terrible tragedy. He was still so young."

It was true; Mitchum had only been 59 but that hadn't stopped the massive hemorrhagic stroke that had killed him almost instantaneously. "Well, I guess living on four hours of sleep a night and a diet of scotch, stress and San Cristóbal's ages you."

"I hope that's not true," Charlie put in with exaggerated concern, "or we're all doomed."

Logan cringed at the thought. Just because he had his father's job now didn't mean he was going to become him. Sure, he enjoyed a nice glass of Macallan and a good party. And yes, he spent a little less time sleeping and a little more time working than he should have. And true, he was finding himself with more stress and a shorter fuse these days. Fuck…he was doomed. Maybe he really didn't want this job after all. He would like to live to see his sixtieth birthday eventually. He should have his blood pressure checked. And his cholesterol. Was high cholesterol associated with strokes? Whatever…it still wasn't good.

"Speak for yourself. I prefer Bourbon and Hemingway's. And my wife made me join a gym, so I'm sure I'm fine." Philp puffed up his chest jokingly.

"The only exercise I get is walking from my office to the newsroom," Jordan laughed.

"Well, don't forget those work out sessions with your secretary," Phillip reminded him. Logan had to physically keep himself from wincing. Sure, he enjoyed the company of a good woman as much as the next straight guy, but he at least had the good sense to keep that nonsense out of the office. HR would have a field day with this. Only this wasn't only an HR problem now—it was a him problem. Because he was in charge of everything—including HR. He so did not have the emotional capacity to deal with this right now.

"Ehh," Jordan laughed, "She's the one the gets most of the exercise—if you know what I mean."

Logan fought to urge to vomit. A chimpanzee would know what he meant. And it wasn't an image Logan needed in his head. He cleared his throat and gave Jordan a pointed look.

"Oh, right," Charlie nodded. "We need to watch what we say in front of the boss man here." He clapped Logan on the shoulder. "The new Huntz in charge is from the post 'me too' error. Gotta keep that kind of fun on the DL."

"The phrase 'DL' is as outdated as sleeping with your secretary," Logan informed them dryly

"Well, either way, we'll make sure to keep you out of the loop on these things. Plausible deniability and all." Charlie winked.

There was a momentary lull and Logan opened his mouth, about to come up with an excuse to get the hell out of there, but he was just a second too late as Jordan once again co-opted the conversation. "So," he started, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. "Now that you're going to be taking over the hot seat, have you given any thought to who will take your place as executive VP?" And there it was. Honestly, Logan was surprised it had taken this long before someone started angling for a fancy new title and c-suite office.

"You want to know, if, in the four days since my father died, while I've been consumed with board meetings, funeral planning, and my distraught mother and sister, I have thought about who gets a promotion?" Logan was pissed. He wasn't sure why—it's not like this behavior was in any way, new, unusual, or unexpected. He'd known it was coming and he thought he'd be better prepared for it. But then again, hadn't he just been thinking about how he didn't know if he'd be able to control his emotional responses?

"Well, umm…" Jordan stuttered.

"I'll tell you what, I haven't thought about it. But I'm going to start. And I'll make sure to take into account all the points you've made here today." The three men gave each other sheepish looks and Logan turned and walked away. He was sure they'd be talking shit about him in no time.

He made it to the bar, somehow avoiding any further interruptions, and ordered his drink. "Macallan, neat," he told the tender. As he waited for his drink, he noticed his mother holding court in group not far off. He figured he should probably check in with her after this, do his duty as a good son. He drummed his fingers on the bar counter as the voices of his mother and her friends drifted his way.

"You know, their daughter is seeing the Styles boy." Ahh fun—banal gossip. Just what he wanted to be talking about. Then again, he didn't really feel in the mood to do much talking at all. If he could just pop in and make his appearance while they were preoccupied with whatever society scandal it was they were fixated on today, he'd be free to just stand there and nod his head in rhythmic intervals while completely tuning out.

"Well, he is Richard's partner. It's not like he's on his father's side in all this."

"Still, everyone knows you don't mix business and pleasure. It's no wonder Floyd is going after them so hard. His lawyers are going to have their business fold in no time."

"I heard Richard sunk all their personal assets into the business and didn't even tell Emily. They could lose everything," his mother hissed the words out as though she were spilling state secrets.

"It's such a shame. I always did like the Gilmores; Emily in particular has always been so involved in the community." Right…the Gilmores. Logan knew them. Richard Gilmore's company insured most of their buildings…or his old company did? Anyway, they'd met a couple of times before. The bartender slid over a tumbler full of scotch and Logan pulled his billfold out of his pocket to throw some money in the tip jar. The man nodded thankfully as Logan took his drink and made his way over to his mother.

"Please. It's not like this is their first big scandal. Their own daughter got pregnant and ran off with the baby…then came crawling back for money. And I mean, I know Mitchum and Richard were friends, but I don't know what he was thinking. Richard was always trying to use him to get favors for that illegitimate granddaughter of his because she wanted to be a journalist. A journalist! The girl wants to work for a living. Do you know she actually has a job at our Stamford paper?"

"Who has a job at our Stamford paper?" Logan asked as he placed the hand not holding his drink on his mother's shoulder, pretending he hadn't heard half their conversation as it was.

"Logan!" Shira replied brightly, turning to her son. She pushed up on her tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek. "Don't mind us. It's just a bunch of old bitty gossip." She waved her hand dismissively. "But you…you look so dapper." She smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle on his lapel. "Doesn't Logan look dapper?" she asked the other women before turning back to Logan. "Your father would be so proud of you." Logan resisted an eye roll. His father was never proud of him…certainly not for 'looking dapper.'

"How are you holding up?" he asked his mother, trying to ignore the adoring agreement of middle-aged women fawning over his 'dapperness.'

"Well, the caterers completely screwed up," she lamented dramatically. "Instead of the smoked salmon cucumber h'orderves, the served smoked salmon crostini. And the caramelized onion and feta tarts were supposed to be vegetarian, but they put prosciutto in them."

"Right, but um…other than the appetizers?" Okay so maybe he was exaggerating when he'd told Jordan and the others that his mother was distraught.

"Well dear, it's just, focusing on the little things gives me something to think about other than, well…you know." She sighed dramatically, her face falling into the appropriate countenance for a recent widow. She sniffled back an unconvincing sob and her friends all started offering her canned words of reassurance. "But I'm so fortunate to have so many good friends here to help me through it." She wiped away a tear, turning to the group of women that surrounded them. "And of course, Logan has been so wonderful." She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. "He's been a life saver, the way he's taken charge of everything…he takes after his father so much."

Ouch, way to kick man when he's down. "I don't know about that," he protested.

"So modest," one of the women cooed. If only they knew what he'd really meant. He once again felt the all-consuming urge to get out of there. Not that he didn't feel that way normally around his mother, but still, he should have known he'd become the center of attention anywhere he went. And being compared to his father—that was just about the last thing he needed today. Not that he could escape it; either he was nothing like Mitchum or he was his spitting image, but every single person there was comparing him to the man whose shoes he was going to have to fill. There was no way around it. There was no safe space—not today, maybe not ever again; he'd always be living in Mitchum Huntzberger's shadow.

"Well, ladies, I didn't mean to interrupt your conversation, I just wanted to check in on Mom," he began his departure…to where he wasn't sure. Maybe Finn had it right after all—he was dying for a sub-party. But Colin and Rosemary were right too, it wasn't an option. Still, if he could even get five minutes of solitude, he'd be grateful. "I'll take my leave and let you get back to it." The women made some half-hearted protests before letting him leave. As he headed for the back patio to try to sneak just a moment of fresh air and quiet, he heard them cooing to his mother about how handsome he was and how well he'd grown up, and how had no woman snatched him up yet. He couldn't help but marvel at how, even when the world as he knew it was completely upended, it still somehow managed to stay exactly the same.

The phone vibrated against her desk, rousing Rory from her space out with the sound of buzzing. She automatically tapped the screen and read the incoming text.

Red or Blue?

It was from her roommate, Lane. But, despite that fact that they had known each other since kindergarten and could usually read each other's minds, Rory had no idea what she was talking about.

Huh?

Red sweater or blue sweater? She clarified.

Dave is coming over

Oh, right. Rory had almost forgotten about her friend's big date. She was a terrible person. How could she have let it slip her mind that Lane had reconnected with her high school boyfriend and had a date with him tonight? Dave had moved to California for college after high school and he and Lane had tried to make it work, but long distance was just too hard. But he had recently returned to the east coast to work for a big architecture firm out of Manhattan and had run into each other a couple weeks ago when he was visiting his parents and they'd been out several times since.

But Rory was so caught up in this whole mess with her grandparents that she'd completely forgotten. She just couldn't stop thinking about what her mother had told her last week—about them being in danger of losing everything, maybe even the house. And oh, crap! She glanced down at her watch to see that it was almost six. She was supposed to be over there in an hour. Who knew how many of these dinner's they had left?

She just needed to finish up a couple more paragraphs and her article would be complete, then she could go. It would help if she could concentrate for more than 30 seconds at a time. She'd been so distracted she'd barely gotten anything accomplished all day. Most of the office had cleared out the second the clock had struck five and here she was, stuck at the office late on a Friday evening. Not that she had anything better to do. Her Friday night family dinners were a tradition, and she was glad she had them—especially now that she didn't know how many more dinners she would ever get to have at her grandparent's house. But as a twenty-seven-year-old woman, she couldn't help but feel a little depressed that she didn't have anywhere else to be on a Friday night. She hadn't had a single date in three months; not since she'd broken up with Brendon, the sociology professor she'd been seeing, because he was going to be on sabbatical in Madrid for six months.

Red, she tapped back to Lane, then immediately shoved her phone in her purse and turned her attention back to her computer screen. She needed to hurry.

The looming time crunch gave her the focus she needed and fifteen minutes later she had finished her draft and was hitting 'send' on the email to forward it on to her editor. She gathered up her things grabbed the dress hanging from the partition of her cubicle and the weekend bag she'd packed with her shoes and accessories and then headed to the bathroom to get changed.

In the stall, she peeled off her work clothes and stuffed them into the bag, knowing they'd need to be washed and ironed later anyway. She slipped the dress over her head and pulled up the zipper on side, then exchanged her more practical work flats for a set of heels.

She made her way over to the mirrors to freshen up her makeup but one look at her own reflection had a sudden panic welling up inside her; her throat constricting, the pressure stinging at her eyes. This was a dress she'd bought specifically for dinners and events with her grandparents. Would this be the last time she ever had a need to wear it? Would Friday Night Dinners take place around a table at Luke's Dinner from now on? She couldn't imagine her grandparents feasting on tuna melts and French fries. What were they going to do if they lost their house? Their money? Money wasn't everything, Rory knew that. She got paid a pittance to do a job she loved and in return still lived with a roommate in a minuscule apartment above an accountant's office and ate Ramen noodles for dinner at least twice a week to save money. But her grandparents weren't her. They didn't know life without money. They didn't know how to scrimp and save. And their entire social lives revolved around their status and finances. Without it, they'd be lost.

A few tears leaked out of her eyes, making her mascara run. She closed her lids and pressed on her eyeballs until it stopped, then furiously wiped away the moist, black tracks on her face. She needed to stay strong; her grandparents still didn't know she knew how bad things were. They didn't want her to know and to worry, so she needed to be able to hold it together for them. She touched up her eye makeup and lipstick and stepped back to analyze the results. Her eyes were still a little red but that would subside by the time she got to dinner. She took a deep breath and walked out of the bathroom…and right into someone.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologized, bending down to pick up the folder he had dropped, but as she did, her own bag slid off her shoulder, some of the contents spilling out of the unzipped tote. She hurriedly tried to gather up the clothes and makeup case. The man she had nearly run over bent down to help and she felt her cheeks blush with embarrassment as she grabbed for the bra that was lying conspicuously on the ground between them and shoved it hastily back inside. "Really, it's my fault, I've got it," she insisted as she looked up to meet his eye for the first time. Her face flamed brighter as she recognized who it was. She'd never met him before, but his identity was unquestionable; Logan Huntzberger, interim—soon to be permanent—CEO of Huntzberger Publishing Group, the media conglomerate that owned this newspaper outlet she worked for.

"I don't know," he stated, "who knows what else could fall out of that thing next if I don't help; some books, canned goods, a transistor radio. What did you do, come to work prepared for a zombie apocalypse?"

She grabbed the hair brush he had picked up off the ground and shoved it back in her overnight bag with the rest of her things, sending an annoyed glare his way. "I'm spending the weekend with family," she informed him curtly, not that she owed him an explanation.

Logan smirked with amusement as the flustered girl in front of him sent him a withering stare. But his amusement died quickly as he noticed the red rim around her bright blue irises. "Hey, is everything okay?" he asked, as he stood, reaching out a hand to help her up. She seemed to contemplate the proffered appendage for a moment before taking it with a sigh.

"I'm fine, thanks," she brushed him off. She wanted this embarrassing encounter over with as quickly as possible. The last thing she needed was to debase herself any further in the presence of a man who could make or break her career with a snap of his fingers. It was best to just remain as invisible to him as possible.

"Are you sure?" he asked. Logan wasn't sure why he cared but he actually did. Besides, what if she was upset over something work related—something he should know about. He didn't spend much time at this paper, but between dealing with the funeral and his father's estate and all the other stupid red tape crap, going back and forth from Manhattan to Hartford everyday was untenable. He'd gone into the main office a few times, but he'd been using the Stamford Eagle Gazette offices as much as possible—at least until things at home were settled. And as long as he was here, if there were issues with the paper or the staff, he should probably know about it.

"It's nothing, really," she assured him. "I'm just late for dinner."

"Okay," he nodded. "Well, if there is anything you need…any concerns you have or issues, feel free to let me know. I'm Logan Huntzberger, by the way…"

Rory had to stifle a scoff at the introduction. "I know," she raised her eyebrows at him.

"Right," he nodded. He'd figured she'd know who he was but he didn't want to assume. And besides, it was more of an opening for her to give an introduction herself. But apparently she hadn't picked up on that…or just wanted to force him to actually ask her. "And you are…?"

"Oh," she shook her head looking embarrassed yet again. Apparently it wasn't a subtle feminist power move. He was actually a little disappointed. He liked a bit of moxie—like the death stare she'd given him when he'd teased her about her obscenely sized, overstuffed bag. "Rory," she introduced, preparing to reach out to shake his hand but then looking helplessly at her overloaded arms. She glanced back up at him with resignation and shrugged. "Rory Gilmore."

"Gilmore?" he asked, intrigued. "As in Richard Gilmore?" Hadn't he just heard his mother and her friends talking about the Gilmores at the funeral three days ago? She'd mentioned their granddaughter worked here. What were the chances?

"Oh, umm…yeah. You know my grandfather?" Rory knew her grandfather had known Mitchum Huntzberger; he'd introduced them at one of their Christmas parties while she was in college. But she was still taken aback by the fact that Logan Huntzberger knew him. This was a serious hinderance to her naïvely optimistic belief that he would forget about this whole humiliating run in and about her in the process.

"We've met a few times," he admitted. "I'm sorry to hear about his business troubles." It was probably best if he didn't bring up the rest of the gossip he'd heard about the Gilmores. There was a good chance that that may have been the reason for the red eyes; she had mentioned she was spending time with family this weekend, after all.

"Oh, umm…thanks." He knew about her family problems; just great. Rory wondered if this run in could get any more humiliating. "It's, uh…well, he's kind of closed lipped about it all. But I'm sure he's got it under control," she lied.

"I'm sure." Logan nodded, his lips pressed together tightly.

There was an awkward silence for a moment. "And I'm sorry to hear about…well," her face fell. "You know. I'm sorry for your loss. Your father was a great man."

"You met him?" he asked. He wasn't sure why he was so bothered by this woman he didn't even know praising his father. It's what people did—people who weren't his family, anyway. And she was a journalist, who worked for him. He was friends with her grandfather. Of course she thought he was great. Still, something about it perturbed him, made him feel…annoyed. Not at her. At his father, maybe? Was he ever going to escape the man's shadow? It was a ridiculous thought, of course; he'd only died a week ago. Logan knew he would need time to step up and step out of the shade; time to prove himself as more than just Mitchum's son…as a great man himself. Still, it irked him.

"Oh, well, uh, once. But mostly I just read about him. He's an interesting man."

"Right, well, it was nice meeting you, Rory." He didn't want to hold her up anymore, she had said she was running late for dinner as it was. "Tell Richard I said 'hi.'"

"I will." She flashed a bashful smile and looked up at him from through her long eyelashes, their eyes catching for just a moment. It was the stillest she'd been since she'd bumped into him in a literal flurry. He felt something—a flicker—in his gut as they stared at one another. But then she shook her head and her face became anxious once again as she broke eye contact. And with as hasty goodbye, she scurried from the newsroom.

AN: And there we have chapter 2. Seems I stumped a lot of you with the last chapter about where this story is heading. I guess it's a case of the course of knowledge-because I know it seems obvious to me and is hard to imagine others don't know what I know. That being said, at least one person did guess correctly about what the overarching plot of this story will be, so if you're curious, you can comb through other guesses. Otherwise, let me know what you thought of our couples meet cute in a review!