by Kendall Ryan
Opting for the second option, I grab the gearshift and put it into first gear, then second. Suddenly, the truck stalls with a lurch, having moved only a few feet down the drive.
Great.
“What’s going on here?” a low, cranky voice growls, barely audible over the clicking and sputtering of the truck.
It’s Graham, looking even more displeased than usual as he frowns at me, his arms folded over his chest. I turn the old manual crank to roll down the window so I can explain my plight, stuttering as much as the engine.
“I—I’m just trying to get to town, and your mom told me I could borrow Grandpa Al’s truck. And it’s, it’s . . .” I sigh, releasing the steering wheel in surrender. “Do you know how to drive a stick shift?”
“Yes.”
Relief floods my system. “Thank God. Any pointers?”
His frown deepens. “Sorry, I don’t have time for this.”
Perfect. I’ve got the best, most sympathetic teacher ever.
Graham shakes his head, scratching at the stubble on his face. “I’ve got to start the fermentation process over. Sorry.”
With that, he turns and heads toward the barn, and I’m right back where I started. Hopeless.
My stomach churns, my eyes stinging with the threat of tears. What am I even doing here? I can’t start a fire, I can’t drive a stick shift, and apparently, I can’t be one-on-one with my client without wanting to kiss him.
Maybe I’d be better off calling a cab to take me back to the airport. Except I don’t even have cell service to look up the number of a cab company.
Freaking great.
Defeated, I leap from the truck and slam the door closed, giving the front tire a frustrated kick.
I’m not going to cry, damn it. Not now. Not over this. I’ve faced down much worse and come out all right.
“Are you okay?”
I turn on the heels of my boots, bracing myself to deal with grumpy Graham again. Instead, I find myself looking into the same soft blue eyes that nearly hypnotized me last night.
“Morning, Logan,” I manage to say, trying not to notice how well he’s filling out that flannel jacket. “Just, uh, trying to make a trip to town. Your mom didn’t mention that the truck is a manual.”
“Ah.” He gazes at me thoughtfully.
It’s quiet between us for a second, and I wonder if he’s feeling as weird about last night as I am. Or maybe I’m just reading into signs that aren’t even there. I push at the gravel at my feet with the side of my boot, trying to fill the silence with some kind of sound. But then he clears his throat, pulling my attention back to him.
“I could teach you, if you want. Or I could just give you a ride to town.”
“I think I’m a little too frustrated to make a very good student right now.”
His laugh is a low rumble in his chest that’s sexier than I’d like to admit. “Understood. Let me tell Austen I’m taking off for a while. Be right back.”
As he runs off into the house, I climb into the passenger seat, already feeling a sense of relief.
Moments later, Logan is sitting behind the wheel, working the gear shift like it’s second nature. To my surprise, he leaves the radio station where I had it, playing old-school country songs. I thought he might be more of an angsty grunge type of guy, but I guess I still have a lot to learn about Logan Tate.
We spend the drive mostly in silence, apart from Logan occasionally pointing out an old mining town or a particularly famous canyon on our route. For someone who hasn’t lived here for years, he sure does know a lot about this place. And it’s a gorgeous drive so I’m easily entertained. Towering pine trees and rivers carved into canyons. I’ve never seen such beauty.
By the time we pull into the parking lot of a small general store, I’m almost wishing the drive were longer. I like having Logan as my tour guide, and I’m already weirdly excited for the drive back.
Inside, we each grab a shopping basket, and I make my way through the aisles, grabbing all the things I forgot to pack. Heavier wool socks, some feminine products, and a bag of watermelon-flavored gummies to snack on in the car.
Logan follows close behind me, grabbing a bottle of mouthwash and a six-pack of beer, two things that directly cancel each other out, in my opinion. When we pass a rack of leather boots, he slows to a halt, running his fingers along the shearling fleece lining.
“What’s your size?”
“Seven and a half, why?”
He scans the labels, then pulls out a box, tucking it beneath his arm. “Because I’m buying you these.”
My mouth forms a tight frown. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I do.” He glances pointedly at my high-heeled black leather ankle boots, which are sporting a few more scuffs than they had when my plane first touched down. “Total honesty? Your boots suck. You’re going to trip and fall if you’re still wearing those when the snow really starts. You need these.”
“Then I’ll buy them myself.”
“No way. You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. This is the least I can do after you came all this way to help me.”
A hollow feeling forms in my chest as my gaze drops to the black-and-white tile floor. “I feel like helping you is the last thing I’ve done.”
Although I’m avoiding his gaze, I can hear the confusion in Logan’s voice. “What are you talking about?”
A frustrated sigh pushes past my lips. “First, I can’t light my own fire. Then I can’t drive the truck. Then Graham uses me as a talking point in your argument last night . . .”
“That argument had nothing to do with you,” Logan says quickly, his voice stern and steady. “Graham was just trying to get under my skin.”
“The point is, all I’m doing is causing you one headache after another. I’m supposed to be the one helping you, but you’ve just had to rescue me again and again. What’s the point in even staying?”
Not a moment later, the slightest bit of pressure brings my chin upward. Here, in the middle of this general store, Logan is cupping my chin in his palm, tracing my cheek with his calloused thumb.
And there it is again. That spark. The same one that leaped between us last night. But this time, it’s a little stronger, and not so quick to fade away. It lights a tiny fire in the center of my belly.
“You are helping me, okay?” His tone is softer and sweeter than I’ve ever heard before, so much so that I might actually believe him. “In more ways than you know. Stay a few more days. Please.”
I swallow the emotion building in my throat. “Are we going to talk?”
He nods. “Tonight.”
“Promise?”
“On one condition.”
My lips purse as I hold back a breath. “That is?”
“You let me buy you these boots.”
Done and done.
I knew when I was in over my head.
11
* * *
LOGAN
After dinner, Summer and I sit outside on the porch swing. She’s all bundled up beside me, looking cute as hell in the new boots I bought her today, swinging her feet as we rock back and forth.
I’m not quite sure what I was thinking when I suggested she stay. Summer’s presence here seems to trigger some overprotective part of me, something that makes me want to keep her close and make sure she’s safe. If I send her back to the city, I can’t effectively do that.
Maybe that’s all it is. Just a friend looking out for a friend. No reason to read more into it.
Night has fallen, turning the sky a deep grayish blue. As it darkens, about a million little stars become visible. Glancing at Summer, I ask, “Are you warm enough?”
She nods beside me. “Thanks to you.”
“It was nothing. I was happy to make sure you had what you needed from town.”
I want to ask her if this means she’s staying a little longer, but, well, basically I’m chickenshit.
We had something of a counseling sessio
n on the way back from town. At least, I’m guessing that’s what it was. Summer asked me a bunch of questions about hockey and my life in Boston, and I answered them the best I could. It was surprisingly more comfortable than I imagined it would be, opening up to her like that. The whole honesty thing seems to be working. Plus she admitted to me that she’s afraid of clowns and Mexican food is her favorite.
“. . . and the town was adorable. That little house converted to a library . . .”
Startled, I realize she’s still talking. “Uh, yeah.”
Summer bumps her knee into mine. “And I appreciated our chat on the ride back too.”
“For sure. I asked you to stay, right? I figure friendly chats are part of the gig.”
At this, she gives me an uncertain look. “Logan, as much as I do want to be your friend, you know I also have a responsibility to the team, right?”
“Um, yes?”
Her expression softens. “I’ll have to give them a progress report on how I think you’re doing.”
I shrug. “That’s cool. I get it.”
“But it also makes you leery to share much with me, I suppose?”
I cross one ankle over my knee. “Believe me, if I have to talk to someone, I’d rather it be you than some therapist inside a stuffy high-rise office in Boston.”
“I’d rather it be me too.” She grins.
“So, just curious . . . how am I doing?”
My mom chooses this moment to interrupt us, and she’s carrying two steaming mugs of tea.
“Do you guys want something to relax you?” she asks, holding out the mugs.
“No, we’re goo—”
Summer interrupts me by reaching for a mug. “Sure. Thanks, Jillian.”
I take the other mug and give my mom a look that I hope communicates my desire for her to leave. Wearing a smug smile, she gets the hint and disappears back inside.
Summer takes a sip, and I touch her forearm. She peers at me over the rim.
“My mom grows this tea in her garden. There’s probably CBD in it, just to warn you.”
Mom has been known to shove a cup of tea at Graham or Austen from time to time, saying something like, Here, darling. Drink this. You need to chill the heck out.
Summer shrugs. “They put that in everything nowadays. Body lotion. Dog treats. I’ve never had it, but I’ve heard it relaxes you.”
I nod and give the tea a suspicious sniff. I’ve never liked tea, and I don’t have my flask on me.
Summer takes another sip of hers. “So, let’s chat some more. We were on a roll.”
“Sure. Fire away.”
She’s quiet while she thinks for a moment.
In the truck on the way back from town, she asked about my dad’s death a little. But then she told me since she wasn’t a grief counselor, that wasn’t what we were going to discuss. She could relate to me on a personal level as someone who had also lost a parent, but the team had hired her to get me back out on the ice in tip-top shape. I appreciated how up front she was about everything.
Summer wraps her hands around the warmth of her mug. “Let’s see. First, I think we should talk about how you handle it when things are outside of your control. There’s an awful lot you don’t control, and so things are going to go haywire sometimes.”
I grunt in acknowledgment.
“So, that means you have to plan for adversity.”
“I guess so,” I say with a shrug. “Expect shit to go wrong and you won’t be disappointed. That kind of thing?”
“Exactly. And in a game, you can’t place too high of expectations on yourself. Let mistakes go quickly. I’ve noticed that athletes who are too hard on themselves can lose focus when things go wrong.”
She’s right. A couple of small mistakes on the ice, and I lose my composure. And once I lose it, I end up getting pissed off and find myself in fights on the ice.
Summer sets her empty mug on the table beside us. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I agree with you. I know I need to let things go.”
She nods. “It’s more than letting go . . . it’s expecting bad shit to happen. Knowing it’s going to happen makes it less scary when it actually does, and you’re somewhat prepared for it and know how to react.”
“Makes sense. I think I can work on that.” Apparently, I also appreciate a therapist who curses and talks so casually with me.
She touches my knee and squeezes, then giggles. “Jeez, you really are like a rock.”
Her hand moves up my thigh, and since I’m ticklish, I squirm away on the seat.
When I meet her eyes, I realize they’re glazed over, and she’s smiling and giggling a lot more than normal.
“Do you feel okay?” she asks, wide eyed. “Because I feel amazing right now.”
A sense of sinking dread settles into the pit of my stomach.
“Come inside for a second. We should warm up.” I take her hand and help her off the porch swing, guiding her by the shoulders into the house.
It’s quiet tonight. Just Grandpa and Mom. I leave Summer in the living room, where she admires a crocheted wall hanging, and head to the kitchen.
Frowning, I stop in front of Mom. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Nothing, dear.” Her voice is filled with surprise.
“Don’t mess with this. Summer and I . . .”
“What did you do, Jillian?” Grandpa asks.
Mom’s mouth lifts in an uncertain smile. “Nothing you wouldn’t have done.”
“Mother, the truth.”
“Something that needed to happen. Everyone in this house is wound too tightly.”
“You can’t give people edibles without their consent,” I growl at her.
“Special tea?” Grandpa asks.
“It’s all natural. The elderberry and CBD from my garden.”
Austen warned me once that Mom’s version of CBD is basically just cannabis. Fuck!
“This is not good. If word gets back to the league that you drugged Summer, who is my psychologist . . . Fuck.” I push my hands through my hair and begin to pace the kitchen.
Summer steps into the kitchen, looking first at Mom, then at me. “Your mom gave me an edible?”
Grandpa huffs. “I told you not to meddle, Jillian.”
“I’m not.” Mom raises her hands innocently. “And it’s nothing. Just something to relax you. I’m so sorry, dear. It’s got a very mild calming effect. That’s all.”
Summer leans one hand against the wall. “I’d better get home. I’m feeling a little strange.”
“I’ll walk you,” I say, approaching Summer cautiously.
She pats my chest with one hand. “Thanks, Lo-Lo.”
Lo-Lo?
I give my Mom a hard look. “We’d better go.”
Mom touches her neck. “It’s fine. I’m sure everything will be fine.” She leans closer to me and whispers, “Keep me posted.”
Summer leans on me as we walk, pointing out the brightest stars, a spooky shadow, and a pine tree that she insists looks like an upside-down orca.
Shit, this is not good.
Once we reach her cabin, I add wood to the fire, and Summer immediately starts shedding her clothes. First the boots, then her jacket, then her sweater, all of which she leaves in a pile on the floor.
My heart hammers erratically as I follow her through the room, collecting the stray articles of clothing.
“Is it hot in here?”
“No,” I say quickly, tugging her tank top back into place but not before catching a glimpse of a black bra that makes my pulse rate spike. “Summer. Stop. You need to keep your clothes on. It’s cold tonight.”
She smiles at me and touches her index finger to my nose. “Oh, Logan. Stop worrying so much.”
I capture her wrist in my hand. “Summer.” I give her a firm look. “Keep your clothes on, okay?”
When she nods, I release her wrist, but my reprieve doesn’t last long. Humming to herself, she begins
rubbing her hands over my chest. A bolt of pleasure zaps through me because it’s been a long time since someone’s touched me like this.
“You feel so good. So hard all over. Can I just pet you?” she says, and this makes her laugh.
Hell, even I chuckle. “I’m not a dog.”
“You’d be a really cute dog.” She grins. “Like one of those fluffy designer breeds, maybe?”
“Come sit down.” I tug her toward the couch.
But once there, I realize my mistake. Summer is like an octopus, all hands. She climbs into my lap, straddling me, and her hands roam, petting my chest and pushing into my hair. Then she begins kissing my neck.
Fuck, that feels good.
“Summer, you need to stop.” I grip her shoulders and meet her eyes.
But then she leans forward and captures my mouth in a hot kiss, and I’m powerless to do anything but give in and kiss her back. Her eager tongue touches mine, and I get hot all over.
I stand, lifting Summer with me, and set her on her feet. Stopping this is the only choice. No matter how good kissing her feels, I know it can’t happen like this.
“We can’t. Okay?” My tone is stern.
I expect her to nod in agreement or tell me she understands. Instead, she pushes her right hand inside the waistband of my jeans and slides it down into my briefs.
Jesus.
“Um, your hand is definitely in my pants.”
“Mm-hmm,” she purrs.
“And now you’re touching my dick.”
“Oh. It feels nice.”
“Yeah,” I choke out.
She moans. “Big. Hard. Stiff . . .”
Wrapping my hand around her wrist, I tug her hand free from my pants. “That’s enough, Summer. You can’t. We can’t.”
No matter how much I might want to.
Looking up at me through her lashes, Summer pouts. “Not even just this once? I mean, you’re all alone out here, and I’m all alone. We’re both single. And you’re sexy as hell . . .”
“You think I’m sexy?” I lift one eyebrow. Her honesty is arousing.