“Glad to hear it, Summer.”
The sound of my name on his lips sends heat climbing up my spine. It takes me right back to last night, the way he moaned my name while I . . .
My phone buzzes in my pocket, a welcome interruption to a very inappropriate train of thought. It’s a text from Les, asking how things are going.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, untying my apron before reaching for my coat. “I think I need to make a work call.”
“Hurry back,” Jillian says with a grin.
Smiling, I slip into my boots and head outside for a bit of privacy.
Les picks up on the second ring, his familiar gritty voice cutting right to the chase. “How’s Colorado?” he says instead of hello. He’s never been one to mince words.
I hesitate, but only for a second. I know I can be honest with Les.
“It’s complicated,” I say, pacing up and down the gravel path. “But I think I’m making slow progress with Logan.”
“Slow?” he huffs out. “You’ve been there several days now, Summer. Are you telling me you still haven’t convinced him to do counseling?”
“No. No.” Frowning, I backtrack. “He’s agreed to counseling. But the counseling itself is slow moving. I’ve definitely seen some of where his anger issues come from, but I don’t think we’ve gotten to the heart of the—”
“Summer.” Les interrupts, his voice stern. “I appreciate your dedication to your work, but if you’ve helped him at all, just sign off on the papers. It’ll be okay. I know you did the best you could.”
“W-what?” I stop dead in my tracks, surprised at what I’m hearing. “But we haven’t worked through all his anger issues yet.”
“You’re not going to. That’s the thing about Logan Tate. His issues go deeper than anything you’re going to solve over his suspension. But if you’ve managed to get him on board with counseling, you’ve done more than any of our other counselors have done.”
I can’t help but feel a little proud of that. “Really?”
“Yes, really. And that was why you flew out, right? To get him to agree to counseling? You’ve done that, so just sign the papers and you can head on back.”
“I’m going to. I’m just working through some details first.”
“What kind of details?”
I pause, then decide to play the patient confidentiality card. “We’ve encountered some bumps along the way,” I say, which isn’t entirely a lie.
I would say developing feelings for my client definitely counts as a bump. A large hill. Small mountain, maybe.
“Understood,” Les says. “I’m glad to hear you’re working so closely with the client.”
A lump builds in my throat. If only he knew that closely is an understatement.
17
* * *
LOGAN
Our musty old barn isn’t so musty and old anymore.
Sure, there’s still that same draft leaking through the crack between the oversized sliding doors, and yes, the air still smells like fermenting beer mixed with stale chicken feed. But Graham’s hours of work on this place have done a serious one-eighty on the smelly old barn where we used to play hide-and-seek. With a smattering of freshly painted picnic tables and those trendy twinkle lights hanging from the rafters, this could easily be rural Colorado’s trendiest brewery, right in our backyard.
“Graham, you’re an absolute genius.” Summer gapes as he explains the details of the renovations as we follow him on his mini tour.
Every detail is a new point of pride for him—the fresh coat of stain on the floorboards, the framed family photos on the wall, and his true pride and joy, a bar he built out of scrap metal and leftover pallets. Behind it, three stacked shelves boast a dozen or so growlers and a row of carboys where the next batch is fermenting.
“Everything’s stored up here.” Graham shoots me a knowing look. “So nobody can knock anything over.”
The memory of the war I started with him over spilled beer puts a rotten feeling in my gut. “Again, I’m really sorry about that,” I mumble, fisting my hands. I’m half ready for another fight about it, but Graham is shockingly calm.
“If you hadn’t done that, I never would’ve come up with the design for this bar,” he says plainly, turning toward the shelf of amber-tinted growlers. “So, apology accepted.”
He runs his fingers along the shelf, squinting at the makeshift labels he’s made with painter’s tape and permanent marker. Finally, he lands on a jug that I think is labeled SHANDY. Or maybe it says SHAMU. The Tate boys have never been known for our good handwriting.
“Here. This is one I think you’re gonna like, Summer.”
Reaching for a pint glass, he pours himself a taste first, swirling the buttery-yellow liquid around his glass before taking a sip. “Yeah, you’re gonna like that one.” He grabs a second glass and tilts the growler, pouring two fingers’ worth of liquid gold. “Try that. It’s fruitier than our other beers.”
Summer folds her arms over her chest, popping one hip out to the side. “So, you’re assuming that just because I’m a girl, I like fruitier beer?”
“No, I’m assuming that because of the face you made drinking out of the flask of whiskey the other night.”
“Fair, fair,” she says with a laugh, accepting the glass.
Graham and I both watch her closely as she brings it to her lips, sipping and smacking her lips the same way Graham did. Her cheeks flush an adorable shade of peach as she swallows, a glimmer twinkling in her eyes.
“Wow, you’re right. That’s fantastic.” She holds up the glass, swirling what’s left of her tasting. “I would easily pay ten bucks for a pint of that at any Boston bar.”
“Really?” Graham’s chest puffs up with pride. “That means a lot.”
“Here, Logan. Try it.”
Summer hands me the glass, and I down the rest of it in one swallow. It’s easily as good as, if not better than, any of the fancy craft beers the guys are always bringing to team get-togethers.
“Damn, dude. She’s not kidding. That’s good as fuck.”
A wide smile breaks out across my brother’s face. I haven’t seen him smile like that since before we lost Dad.
“Now just think of how much better it’ll be when you finally let me buy you those pricey fermenter tanks,” I say.
He responds with an exaggerated scoff, but unlike every other time I’ve mentioned it, he doesn’t immediately shoot down the offer. I may actually convince my stubborn brother to let me do something nice, not just for him, but for our whole family.
Before I can push the point any further, he selects another growler from the shelf and unscrews the lid, topping off Summer’s glass with a fresh pour of a slightly darker beer.
“I have to know what you think of the IPA. Are the hops too much?”
She takes a small sip and her eyes widen. “Oh, that’s yummy.”
I chuckle and watch as my normally stoic brother basically melts under her attention.
Summer takes another sip, savoring the flavors on her tongue. “Do you grow the hops here?”