Maybe I should leave, fly out on the next plane and distance myself from the handsome Logan and all my confusing emotions. But walking away now is the last thing I’m prepared to do.
Somewhere along the way, Logan Tate and his family have taken up space in my heart. Impossibly and against all common sense, I’m feeling things for this man that I have no right to feel. Achingly hot when he levels me with those deep blue eyes. Haunted by all he’s been through. Desperate for the feel of his mouth on mine.
And I’m feeling almost none of the things I should be feeling. Professional and detached, or even unbiased. This is more than problematic. I’ve staked almost my entire professional reputation on this assignment, and yet here I am—in totally over my head.
When we reach the cute roadside attraction, which is just an old silver Airstream that’s been converted into a food truck, Logan orders for us while I take a seat at a nearby picnic table.
I pull a deep breath into my lungs and try to quiet my brain, glancing around.
White Christmas lights twinkle in the darkness, strung from the Airstream to a couple of large pine trees. The entire setup is adorable. They certainly don’t have quaint little places like this in the city. It feels like a well-kept secret—the kind of place where you have to know someone who knows someone.
Thankfully, I do.
Logan returns with a tray filled with warm flour tortillas and plastic containers with red and green salsa. He hands me a bottle of water and explains what he’s ordered for us—tacos with brisket and pulled barbeque chicken, and carnitas tacos topped with queso fresco that smell so good, my stomach grumbles.
“Cheers.” He hands me a water bottle, and then opens his, downing it in one long gulp. Grinning, he says, “Dig in.”
And I do, trying to pretend that this doesn’t feel like the best first date I’ve ever been on.
I’ve always thought when I fall in love there would be candlelight and wine and maybe fancy appetizers. Now I wonder if someone can fall in love with the scent of sulfur still on their skin at a roadside taco stand, eating from paper plates.
Because from where I sit . . . it sure seems like it.
15
* * *
LOGAN
“That’s a nice one. Six points?” Austen asks.
“Eight,” Matt says proudly. He adjusts the bill of his ball cap as Austen and Graham scope out the deer we got this morning.
Well, Matt got the deer. I spotted it first but nudged him in the elbow. He’d drifted off to sleep about two hours into our hunt—how, I’ll never understand. The deer blind was cold, drafty, and uncomfortable.
I pointed to the grassy bluff out in the distance, wanting him to be the one to take the shot since he loves hunting. I don’t really care for it, truth be told. And now, seeing how proud he is with Graham looking on, I know I made the right call in waking him.
“That should stock the freezer nicely. Well done, boys.” Graham doesn’t smile, but he does nod to indicate his approval. It’s probably the most praise we’ll get out of him.
Summer enters the barn, carrying a stack of books Mom loaned her after dinner. There’s a title about the medicinal properties of different herbs, a slow-cooker cookbook, and Lord knows what else. I’m still not sure if Summer was only pretending to be interested or actually wanted to borrow all of these from Mom’s personal library. She’s got such a positive attitude all the time, it’s hard to tell.
The moment Summer realizes what we’re all standing around staring at, she stops suddenly and one hand flies to her mouth. The deer is hanging upside down from the rafters, so it’s kinda hard to miss.
“Hey, sorry.” I raise one hand toward her. “I should have warned you or something.”
She swallows hard and shakes her head. “It’s okay.” Taking a cautious step closer, she gestures toward the animal. “Is this the deer you got?”
I nod. “Matt got him, but yeah.”
“I’m both thoroughly grossed out and impressed.”
Matt chuckles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As you should.” She treats him to a wide grin, and I’m struck, not for the first time, how truly gorgeous she is.
When her eyes meet Matt’s, his lips lift into a smirk. “Hope you like venison.”
She scrunches her face. “I’ve never had it, but I’ll try anything once.” Her eyes narrow. “Wait, you cook it first, right?”
This draws a hearty laugh out of Graham. “Of course we cook it. We aren’t Neanderthals.”
“It tastes similar to steak. Maybe more gamey. But it’s not bad,” I say, since Summer’s still wide-eyed.
She nods, but I notice she doesn’t come any closer. Not that I blame her. It’s a lot to see a large dead animal on display. Nothing at all like shopping for your meat at the grocery store.
Austen adjusts his ball cap and announces he’s taking off.
“Where are you going?” Matt asks.
Austen tilts his head toward the house. “Mom made meatloaf. I haven’t eaten yet.”
Matt nods. “Enough said.”
“Enjoy, brother,” Graham calls to Austen’s retreating form.
“I’m going to build a bonfire,” I say, heading toward Summer. “Everyone’s invited.”
Summer turns to follow me. “Will we have marshmallows to roast?” she asks with a smile.
“For you? Anything. Let’s see if we can scrounge some up.”
While I get started on the fire, Summer insists on going up to the house to ask my mother for marshmallows. Matt drags over a couple of chairs.
When she returns with a big bag of fluffy marshmallows and a smile, I feel like I’ve taken a hit to the chest. She’s just so damn pretty, and my thoughts turn indecent almost immediately. But then she settles in beside me and hands me a flask of whiskey my mother filled for her.
I accept it gratefully and take a big swig, hoping it will extinguish whatever the hell this weird feeling is inside my chest. Too bad it doesn’t work.
Graham pours mugs of beer from a growler he’s just bottled. “It’s a day or two too early,” he warns everyone, but we all assure him it’s good, and it is. Nutty and vibrant with hints of grapefruit.
Summer rips into the bag of marshmallows and places two on a skewer, then offers me the bag. I dig out a marshmallow and eat it whole.
“Hey, that’s cheating. You have to roast them first,” she says, scolding me playfully.
Grinning, I help myself to another, and Summer’s laughter is the best sound. Light and slightly husky.
Those indecent thoughts are back—with a vengeance. This time, rather than another shot of whiskey, I shove another marshmallow into my mouth and chew. I expect to be hit with a sugary rush, but I’m so distracted by her, I swear I don’t taste a single thing.
I try to focus on the conversation happening around me. The guys talk about hunting, and Graham chatters on about the beer-making process to anyone who will listen. Summer occasionally asks insightful questions. She has a knack for keeping the conversation going.
I can’t help but notice the soft look in her eyes. She’s happy here; I can see it. We all can. But does it mean anything? I’m awful at reading signals, apparently.