No matter how badly I might want to.
How’s that for total honesty?
12
* * *
SUMMER
It’s late morning, and I’m working on my laptop at the cabin’s small kitchen table.
The internet signal is surprisingly strong today, which isn’t the norm here in the middle of nowhere. I’m thankful I have some work to keep me busy this morning, because I may or may not be hiding out today.
Okay, I’m definitely hiding. But who wouldn’t after last night?
I avoided breakfast this morning and got by with tea and a granola bar because I wasn’t ready to face Logan just yet. Instead, I busied myself with emails and an overdue phone call to Les, though he didn’t seem all that surprised to hear I’m still in Colorado.
Jillian must have read my absence the wrong way, because she stopped by after breakfast was over with a thermos of hot coffee, already loaded with cream and sugar just the way I like. I guess it was her version of a peace offering. But I accepted her apology and the coffee. I know she meant me no harm. Her tea made me frisky, but that wasn’t technically her fault. I’m embarrassed and honestly, well, horrified that I came on to Logan.
I’ve just gotten sucked into my social media feed when there’s another knock at the door. I’m not sure if it’s Jillian again, or maybe Logan, and my stomach twists itself into a knot.
I’m not quite sure I’m ready to face Logan after last night. But it’s obvious I’m here, because where else could I have gone? So I heft myself up and trudge to the door.
When I pull it open, Austen is standing outside, not at all who I was expecting. He’s every bit as tall as Logan, but a bit leaner and with more dark stubble along his sculpted jawline.
“Hey, um, what’s up?” I ask, leaning against the doorway.
He frowns down at me. “I heard about the incident last night . . .”
The incident? Is that what we’re calling my molestation of his younger brother?
Oh God. This is worse than I thought.
“The, um, incident?” I stammer.
“Yes. My mom. The tea.”
“Oh!” My face turns bright red. “That. Yes. You heard about that?” I squint at him, curious about what else he might have heard.
“Yeah, and for the record, I don’t condone what she did. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. She means well, but she just . . . doesn’t really have any boundaries.”
I wave him off. “I’m fine. I promise.”
“Well, that’s good. I also wanted to let you know that Logan is going to be gone today. He’s visiting our younger cousin who’s away at Providence College, which is about two hours away.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks for letting me know.” My relief is instant, but it’s followed by a weird nagging feeling that I’m the one who drove Logan away with my inappropriate behavior. “Anything else?”
“Yes. I’m supposed to tell you that you’re invited to Sunday dinner tonight. That is, as long as you’re still speaking to my mom after what happened.”
“I promise it’s okay. Your mom apologized to me, just so you know. It’s not a big deal. I know she meant no harm. And I asked if she’d give me some of that tea for when I go back to the city,” I say with a wink.
Austen chuckles at this. “Okay. Cool. Well, I guess I’ll see you tonight.”
“Six o’clock?”
He nods. “Yep. See you then.”
After I close the door, I lean against it. Sunday dinner?
A couple of thoughts hit me at once. First, who is this family? And second, why am I still here?
I didn’t expect to be here more than a day or two—just long enough to show Logan I was serious and convince him to agree to work with me. And I guess I’ve done that? But it’s been on his term, and now I have no idea where we stand. I’ve probably made things terribly awkward.
One last dinner with the Tate family, and I should probably leave tomorrow. Although going back to my life in Boston is about as appealing as eating dirty socks for dinner. But I have little choice, because as pretty and serene as it is here, I can’t hide from my life forever.
Even if Mama Jillian’s cooking will be sorely missed.
• • •
When I let myself into the house a few minutes before six, Logan is sitting near the fireplace with Austen and Matt, talking in low voices. Just the sight of Logan with his hair messy from his knit cap causes my stomach to twist. He’s so ruggedly handsome—which is apparently a lethal combination for my libido.
I slip off my boots and bypass the brothers quickly en route to the kitchen.
The serenity of Jillian’s kitchen is hard to explain. It’s like an alternate universe where strangers are suddenly friends and friends are like family. I can’t say I hate it. It’s nice to feel welcome somewhere, even if this is only temporary.
She hands me a mixing bowl containing clarified butter and a small silicone basting brush. “Brush the garlic knots with melted butter, would you?”
I’m almost relieved when she puts me to work, which she inevitably does, like I’m part of the family and not an uninvited guest.
“Absolutely.”
I accept the supplies and brush the top of each golden garlic knot with a generous amount of butter. The kitchen smells amazing, and Jillian hums to herself as she slices a ham. It’s cozy and inviting, and I begin to relax the slightest bit.
I’m going to keep a low profile, eat a homecooked meal that I’ve been invited to (it would be rude not to), apologize to Logan, and figure out what in the world to do next.
Easy peasy. Right?
So, why exactly is my stomach still twisted into an intricate knot?
• • •
“Can we, um, talk?” Logan stammers when he finds me still hiding in the kitchen twenty minutes later, where I’ve just removed the garlic knots from the hot oven.
“Sure thing,” I say with a grin.
I smile when I’m nervous. It’s one of those weird traits I must have inherited from my father, because Mom never did it. I set the oven mitts on the counter, but Jillian interrupts us by handing Logan a platter of sliced ham.
“Can it wait?” she asks. “Dinner’s ready.”
He gives his mom an uncertain look, but accepts the platter. “Sure.”
She nods. “Better to eat while it’s hot. My cooking’s not that good.”
But she’s wrong. Her cooking is incredible.
Logan dutifully carries the platter of sliced ham to the dining room, following Jillian, who’s balancing a basket with the garlic knots and a large bowl of smashed red potatoes in her arms. Everything is placed onto the table as the family finds their way into the dining room.
I know it’s cowardly, but I wait for Logan to choose a seat, and then I make sure I’m not sitting by him. Instead, I take the empty chair next to Grandpa Al. After I help myself to potatoes and green beans from Jillian’s garden, and some of that yummy ham, I listen attentively to all of Al’s stories, which isn’t too difficult because Grandpa Al is a hoot.
I can feel Logan’s gaze on me during dinner, but I don’t dare glance his way. I wonder if he’s remembering my assault last night…