And I shouldn’t have lost my temper on him earlier. He didn’t deserve that. He has a lot riding on him, and not in the fun, sexy way. I’m sure he hasn’t been on a date in months. Not that this town has much in the way of single women.
Except Summer. She’s single and smoking hot, none of which is all that helpful. Having her here is a distraction.
Though if I’m being truly honest, it’s a good distraction, and part of me is grateful for her presence. Something to distract me from family-related stress. Maybe I should be embarrassed that she’s here to witness it all, but I don’t. She said she’s not staying, so I guess it won’t matter anyway.
I’ve wanted Summer gone from the moment I first saw her, so why does the idea of her leaving now make my chest feel tight?
10
* * *
SUMMER
The mountain air must be getting to my head.
That’s the only logical explanation for what happened last night. Or rather, what I think almost happened.
Last night, when my hand was pressed against Logan’s cheek, his soft blue eyes dropped to my lips, and I felt something transfer between us. A spark, big and hot like the glowing embers of my fire this morning. I swear that in that second, he wanted to kiss me.
What’s crazier? The fact that I wanted to kiss him too. More than anything. I wanted to feel his firm mouth moving on mine, I wondered what it would be like to be the object of his attention… those big, rough hands, his muscular body…
As I brush the tangles out of my bed head and prepare to face the day, I replay that moment over and over in my memory.
There was something in his eyes, this brief flicker of . . . what? Interest? Desire? Whatever it was, it only lasted a fraction of a second, and the next thing I knew, it was gone, that stern mask firmly in place again as he turned to head back to his own cabin.
Part of me was disappointed over him leaving, but logically, I knew he had to go. Logan Tate is my client, and kissing him would be almost the least professional thing I could do. A slipup like that would ruin my career before it even began.
So, why am I still daydreaming about it a full ten hours later?
I sigh, tucking my hairbrush back into my toiletry bag, and check the time on my phone. I hardly get a signal out here, meaning the latest and greatest smartphone I invested in is practically a glorified pocket watch now. It’s nine thirty, which I decide is late enough for me to venture to the house without worrying about walking in on breakfast.
Not that I’m not welcome at the breakfast table, but considering how the last Tate family meal went, I’m more than slightly nervous to face everyone again. Pair that with these weird feelings I’m having about a man who should be just a client, and I’m tempted to hole up in the cabin all day and hide from the Tate clan.
But I can’t be a coward forever, so after a mini pep talk in the mirror, I shrug on my jacket and brave the icy path back to the house.
“Morning, Summer Sausage!”
Jillian is up to her elbows in dishes, but she greets me with the kind of sweet smile that says we won’t be discussing last night. I’m relieved, to say the least, although a little perplexed about this new nickname.
I quirk a brow at her, slipping off my jacket and boots at the door. “Summer Sausage?”
“I’m trying to find a nickname that suits you,” she says. “Not sure I’ve landed on the right one yet.”
“I told her that not everyone needs a nickname,” Grandpa Al mutters from his usual spot in the recliner.
Apart from the two of them, the house is quiet, and the table is cleared except for a sliced bagel and a bowl of fruit that my growling stomach hopes are for me.
“Can you do me a quick favor, Summertime?” Jillian tips her chin toward a jar on the counter containing a gooey white concoction. “Feed that sourdough starter a cup of flour from the tin above the oven, would you, hon?”
“I can do that.”
I have to stand on tiptoe to reach the flour tin, but I complete the chore without too much trouble. As I work, Grandpa Al explains this sourdough starter’s long history with the Tate family.
“The kids always wanted a pet,” he says, a sweet look of nostalgia overtaking his face. “So their dad got ’em that starter from the bakery in town. Said if they remembered to keep it fed with flour, they could prove themselves responsible enough to graduate up to a goldfish.”
“And guess who ended up feeding it the flour.” Jillian rolls her eyes, suppressing a laugh, and Grandpa Al agrees with a snort.
“Yup. Hence, no goldfish and no other pets.”
The story leaves a warm, pleasant feeling in my chest.
It’s good to know there was a time when this house wasn’t so stressful, when conversations revolved around potential pets instead of shoring up the family finances. I’m tempted to push the topic further, to ask Jillian what Logan was like back in those days, but before I can work up the courage, she steers the conversation elsewhere.
“Speaking of town, have you been in yet? That bakery has scones that would put mine to shame.”
I shake my head. “I don’t believe that for a second. But actually, a trip to the store might be necessary. There’s a few toiletries I left behind, and if I’m going to be staying . . .”
“You can stay as long as you want,” Jillian reminds me, her tone as serious as her eyes. “And as long as it takes to get our Logan right as rain.”
An uneasy feeling turns over in my stomach. Right as rain is an awfully big goal for Logan, especially considering what went down last night, but I offer Jillian a reassuring smile anyway. I’m already nervous about letting Les down. Now I guess I have to add my client’s mother to that list.
“There’s a little general store about half an hour from here that should have everything you need.” Jillian wipes her soapy hands on her cotton apron, gnawing her lip as she thinks. “We can lend you a car.”
“Take my truck,” Grandpa Al says, shooting Jillian a glare that could curdle milk. “Apparently, I’m not allowed to drive it anymore,” he adds under his breath.
“That’s because we love you and don’t want you dead in a ditch, you cranky old coot,” Jillian fires back, then turns to me with a renewed sweetness in her voice. “Why don’t you use the truck while you’re here? Lord knows you don’t need to be stuck here twenty-four seven.” She pulls a set of keys from the hook by the door and places them in my palm. “You’d best eat that bagel before you go, though. We can’t have you driving on an empty stomach.”
A grateful smile breaks out over my face. Can’t argue with that.
And gosh, it’s been so long since I’ve been mothered by anyone, a small part of me is appreciative of the fact that someone, anyone, is fussing over me.
Once I’ve finished my breakfast and made sure there are no more chores Jillian needs help with, I slip out the door. In the gravel driveway, I unlock the truck and climb into the driver’s seat.
Based on the dust gathered on the dashboard, I’m guessing it’s been months since anyone has touched this thing, but when I slip the key into the ignition, it turns over easily. I adjust my seat and the mirrors, and even manage to find a radio station that isn’t half bad. But when I reach over to throw this rust bucket in reverse, my whole body freezes, and not from the cold.