by Kendall Ryan
Sure enough, my fire has gone out. Just another failure to add to my collection today.
A sigh of defeat pushes past my lips as I collapse onto the edge of the bed, burying my wind-chapped face in my hands. Every fiber of my being wants to break down, but I’m not risking freezing to death tonight without a fire. I start with the kindling as Logan told me, but after fifteen minutes, my hands are numb, and I still have no fire. With no other choice, I pull my phone from my pocket and call the main house.
Thankfully, Jillian picks up on the second ring.
“Everything okay, sweetheart? Need something?”
Her kindness makes my heart squeeze. Even with the night she’s had, this woman stands ready to lend a helping hand.
I explain to her that the fire’s gone out and it seems a lot colder tonight than last night. “Would you mind sending one of your sons down to help me?” I pause, then add, “Maybe not Logan.”
“Of course, dear,” she says, assuring me with her honey-sweet voice. “Sit tight, and I’ll have one of the boys there shortly.”
9
* * *
LOGAN
“Hey, Mom,” I say when I pick up my cell phone.
I almost didn’t answer because I figured she’s going to complain about me fighting with Graham, although I’d probably deserve it. I shouldn’t have lost my temper with him.
“Summer’s fire’s gone out,” she says instead. “Be a dear and go next door and get it started for her.”
I shift on the couch, straightening. “Why can’t Austen? Or Graham? Or Matt?”
Mom lets out a long sigh. “You know why. Now go.”
I groan. “Fine.”
There’s something about being around Summer that makes me feel on edge. And I know actually sitting down and talking to her in a counseling session would make me feel way too exposed. Even the whole honesty thing feels like too much. Sure, she’s a beautiful girl—gorgeous, in fact—and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to her.
What would she possibly understand about my life?
But it’s not fair to even think that. She’s dealt with just as much, if not more heartbreak than I have. She has no one, and the thought of a pretty, delicate girl like Summer with no one looking out for her makes my chest throb. No one to help her if her car got a flat tire, or with the task of starting a fire. No one to be there for her, or celebrate holidays with…
Fuck, that’s brutal. I shouldn’t have rushed through showing her this morning. I should have had her do it with my help, instead of just doing it for her. I’m still being an asshole, and there’s no way I can relax with the thought of her sleeping in her coat again. Especially with the temps dropping even lower tonight.
I grab my jacket and shove my feet into my boots without bothering to tie them, then I head outside, making the short walk next door. At the side of the cabin, I grab an armful of wood and then tap on her door with my boot.
She answers with a look of surprise. “Oh, it’s you.”
My left brow rises. “Were you expecting someone else?”
She blushes, shaking her head. “No, I just asked your mom if I could get a hand with the woodstove. I figured you didn’t want to see me right now, and that she’d send one of the other guys.”
“It’s not that.” I gesture inside since I’m standing here letting all the cold air in. “I’ll help get it started.”
She steps aside, and I head in. Summer closes and latches the door behind me while I stack the wood in a neat pile.
“Can I make you a mug of tea?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Come here. Let me show you how to get it started for next time.”
She crouches down beside me, and I motion for her to follow my instructions.
“Add the kindling first. And then light it . . .”
She does, following each step until we have a nice fire going.
“Thanks, Logan.” She beams at me with a grateful smile. “So . . . did you want to stay for a bit?”
I give her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, but I’m not in the mood to sit around and talk about my feelings.”
“Total honesty,” she says. “You don’t want me here, do you?”
I hang my head for a moment and then meet her eyes. “I didn’t ask for this, Summer. Any of it.”
She nods, and then quietly says, “You can’t rejoin the team until a counselor clears you to get back on the ice. You might not have asked for it, but it’s the only way for you to go back.”
“Maybe I don’t want to go back,” I say without thinking. Just hearing myself admit that sends a cold chill down my spine.
She looks confused. “I thought you loved hockey?”
“I do. But maybe my family needs me more right now. I don’t know. Maybe I need to be here instead of on the ice in Boston.”
“Okay. I won’t pry, but I’m happy to listen whenever you need to get things off your chest or out of your head. How about I make you a cup of tea, and I can look at your lip for you?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
She nudges me toward the couch. “It’s just one cup of tea. For your trouble of coming to get the fire going.”
I release a slow exhale and take a seat on the sofa. “It was no trouble, but sure. Why not?”
Suddenly, I’m not in the mood to go sit alone and stew in my emotions. And Summer . . . well, she’s a distraction. I haven’t determined yet if she’s the good kind of distraction or the bad kind, so I guess I’m willing to stick around until I have that figured out.
In the small kitchenette, she adds water to the kettle and heats it, setting out two mugs while she waits. I like watching her move about the small space, the way her delicate fingers unwrap the tea bags, and how the curve of her ass looks in her jeans . . .I can feel my pulse quicken.
Stop, Logan.
I clear my throat as Summer, oblivious to my wandering thoughts, carries over two mugs of tea, careful not to spill them.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice hoarse.
“Anytime. Thanks for that.” She sits down on the sofa next to me and gazes happily over at the woodstove.
I take a sip from the mug and grimace.
“Not good?” she says with a laugh.
I pat the side of my jacket and then pull out a flask out of my pocket. “I’m not much for tea. But this might do the trick.”
I dump a generous amount of whiskey into my mug and then offer it to Summer.
“Sure.” Grinning, she holds out her cup.
I pour a small measure into her tea and then recap the flask. We each take a sip, silence settling between us.
“Thanks for coming over and rescuing me. Again. Let me look at that lip for you . . .”
“Uh. Sure.”
Summer turns and kneels, facing me on the small sofa, and brings her palm to my cheek. Her hand is warm and soft and a little forceful as she turns my face toward her. My pulse spikes, and there’s an unwelcome twitch in my jeans.
She inspects my lip carefully, which is swollen but not otherwise cut. “Are you going to tell me what this was about?”
This was me running my mouth at Graham more than anything, and Graham does not like to be questioned. Lesson learned. But I don’t tell her any of that.
“Are you ever going to stop trying to be my therapist?”
“Point taken. How about we just work on being friends?” she says, dropping her hand from my cheek.
Missing the warmth of her palm more than I expected to, I say softly, “I might be able to do that.”
She’s still facing me, and my gaze drops to her lips. I want to kiss her. And for a second, I’m certain Summer wants that too.
But then she smiles, settling in beside me again before she takes a sip of tea. “Drink your whiskey.”
When she nods at my cup, I down its contents in one long gulp, hoping it will drown out this bolt of misplaced lust that I’m feeling. Then I set my empty cup down and rise to my feet.
Summer nods. “Thanks again.”
“Good night,” I say, heading for the door.
Usually, being home clears my head. Not this time, though. The fresh mountain air has been doing nothing but making me all hot and bothered. Actually, that distinction belongs to a certain five-and-a-half-foot curvy brunette who’s invaded my family’s property.
I add a log to my own woodstove and shuck off my hoodie and jeans before climbing into bed. For a moment, I consider jerking off, thinking maybe that will clear my head, but I’m not even in the mood.
I should be thinking about my team. Saint. Alex. Reeves. Even Lucian.
The guys need me. Or at least, it’s a nice thing I tell myself.
Frankly, I’m starting to think my brothers might need me here even more. If only I didn’t have a million-dollar paycheck on the line, and if my parents hadn’t paid for every hockey camp, lesson, and league . . . I wouldn’t feel so conflicted about walking away from that dream and giving it all up to stay here.
Almost as if on cue, my phone buzzes. I pull it out and check the screen. It’s my teammate Saint. Speak of the devil…
Saint: Hey man. You good? We all miss you.
I chuckle and shake my head.
Really dude? I reply.
Saint: Sorry. Reeves paid me to say that.
I doubt that, but I don’t argue with him. Reeves is our team’s captain and the dude is grumpy as hell most of the time. I highly doubt he’s missing me.
Saint: So, what’s up, man?
I sigh and roll onto my side as I type out a reply.
Just hanging with the family. Helped my brother fix his truck today.
Saint: Cool. Well, hope to see you soon.
Even if it was a brief conversation, part of me is happy that Saint reached out. It’s nice to feel a connection with my team still. I feel so far away being out here in the mountains. I shove the pillow under my head and gaze up at the ceiling.
I’m still figuring things out after my dad’s death—we all are. But I’m beginning to realize that Graham has it the worst of all of us. Taking over the family business is a big responsibility, and his life will never be the same. Not that the guy was a barrel of fun before Dad’s heart attack, but now? Shit, I’ve been home for three days, and I’ve yet to see him smile or laugh.
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.
Nobody told me the truck was a stick shift.
I suck in a steadying breath. Okay. Plenty of people drive a stick shift, right? I can probably figure this out on my own.
I reach for my phone, ready to type HOW TO DRIVE A STICK SHIFT FOR DUMMIES into the search bar, but I’m quickly reminded of the lack of service out here. Either I can go find help or try to navigate this thing on my own.