“And then in seventy-four, I met Lou, the cantankerous old fart,” Al says, chuckling to himself and spearing another slice of ham with his fork. “Helped him fix up that Mustang.”
After we eat, I volunteer to stay to help wash the dishes, hoping Logan will be gone by then. But he comes and finds me in the kitchen with my hands submerged in soapy dishwater.
“This isn’t your job,” he says with a scowl, and before I can say anything, he orders Matt to come into the kitchen and take over for me. Matt nudges me aside and takes my spot at the sink without any protest, so I dry my hands on a cloth dish towel printed with cheery pineapples.
If only my mood were as bright and cheery right now. My stomach is still in a knot, and I’ve barely kept my hands from shaking.
“Come on. I’ll walk you to your cabin,” Logan says, his voice low.
I guess we’re going to have that chat now. My stomach gives a painful little twist.
I thank Jillian for dinner, and squeeze Grandpa Al’s wrinkled hand before following Logan to the door.
Logan walks me back to my cabin, then gets the fire roaring again. We both take off our coats and boots. Since he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave, and there’s that familiar scowl back on his handsome face, I make myself busy.
“I’ll get us some wine,” I call over my shoulder on my way to the kitchenette. I’d picked up a bottle of wine when we were in town, seems like a might fine time to open it.
When I return with two glasses of red wine, Logan is standing in the center of the living room, looking uncomfortable.
“Let’s sit,” I say. As awkward as this is, I know the only thing to do is to launch into a rambling apology, so that’s exactly what I do. “Listen, I’m just going to say some things. First, I’m truly sorry about last night.”
Logan’s eyes widen as he watches me.
“I was totally out of line, and I’m so—”
His large, calloused hand on my wrist stops me.
“Summer.” His voice is deep, low and raspy. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I came on to you, and—”
He shakes his head. “Believe me, I’m not upset about that. I’m more upset about my mom giving you her special tea.”
A crease forms between his brows, and I realize he’s telling the truth. He’s not mad at me.
A tidal wave of understanding washes over me. Here I spent the past twenty-four hours growing an ulcer and planning my escape, only to find out Logan doesn’t hate me. My relief is instantaneous.
“Oh, thank goodness, because I was terrified at how I behaved and I know it was unprofessional, and . . .”
I’m still rambling when Logan touches my cheek and turns my face toward his.
“Summer,” he says softly.
My name on his lips is the most distracting sound, all rough and yet sweet like sandpaper and honey. It sends a tingle rushing through me.
“You had a strange reaction. That’s all it was. Breathe, okay?”
Suddenly mute, I nod. I grip the stem of my wineglass so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.
That’s it? I was so scared to talk to him today, so his response is the last thing I expected.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Unless you want to talk about the fact you said you think I’m sexy.” He waits for me to reply, a smirk tugging at his lips.
A blush warms my cheeks. I did say that. And I meant it too.
I draw a slow breath, because Logan’s still waiting. Still trying to fight off a smirk. “Well, I suppose that doesn’t matter. I mean, attraction aside, we’re working together, right? Nothing can happen between—”
I don’t get to finish the rest of that sentence because Logan’s mouth is on mine, hot and insistent. Purely on instinct, I press closer, and when my lips part, he takes full advantage.
His tongue touches mine, and my knees go weak.
Secretly, I’ve wondered what it would be like to kiss Logan, and now I don’t have to wonder any longer. The man is extremely skilled. One of his big hands weaves into the hair at the back of my neck, tilting my head just so, and I almost dissolve into a puddle on the floor. He tastes like red wine and man, a combination my poor little neglected heart can hardly handle.
I move closer, urgently needing to erase all the distance between us.
His tongue moves against mine in deep, drugging kisses that make my toes curl in my socks. He makes a low, breathless sound, and for one glorious moment, all the noise in my head quiets, and it’s just me and him.
It feels so right to be here, doing this with him. But a second later, my brain switches back on and I pull away, putting an inch of space between us.
His forehead touches mine, and I let out a long, shaky exhale.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispers.
“I know. We can’t.”
I need to put an end to this before I do something foolish, like drag him to my bedroom.
Before I can process what’s happening, Logan pulls us over to the couch, and then I’m sitting in his lap, happily grinding my hips against his.
The stubble on his face scratches pleasantly against my chin, the feeling both foreign and erotic. It’s been a very long time since I was with a man, but Logan doesn’t seem to notice or care about my lack of finesse. His hands roam from my shoulders down to my waist. I can feel a hard ridge beneath me—the press of his erection against me—and I groan into his kiss.
“We can’t do this,” I say slowly, groaning out the words.
“No, definitely not,” he says in a strained voice.
So, why aren’t either of us stopping?
He pulls off my shirt and drops it to the floor, then places a soft kiss to the top of my collarbone and another on my shoulder. His mouth is warm and soft, and I’m flooded with endorphins.
While every part of me wants to continue this—preferably pants-less and inside the bedroom—a small, stubborn part of my brain clicks on and reminds me that we can’t do this. It would be wildly unprofessional of me to give in to my desires.
I really hate being so dedicated sometimes.
“We can’t,” I murmur, pressing one palm to the rough stubble on his cheek. “I’m here to help you get back to work playing hockey.” I pause, drawing a breath. Not to ride you like a prize stallion at the rodeo. “I’m sorry.”
His gaze tracks from my lips up to my eyes, and even though I’m sitting in his lap shirtless and still panting, he nods his understanding. “I get it. And I’m sorry too.”
I retrieve my shirt from the floor at our feet and tug it back on. Maybe I should feel self-conscious, but I don’t, not around Logan. While I straighten my shirt, he banks the fire, telling me it should last the night, and then tugs on his boots.
I meet him at the door, and the wistful look in his eyes is almost enough to make me forget my principles and tug him back over to the couch.
He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear and gives me a warm smile. “Good night, Summer.”
“Night,” I say, my voice sounding surprisingly steady considering the erratic pounding of my heart.
• • •
When I wake in the morning, I wait for a sense of regret to hit me, but it doesn’t come.