Snowbound Summer (The Logan Series Book 3)

by Clements, Sally

  When she’d been unable to pay the rent, Michael had asked her to move out. She just stared at him unable to believe what she was hearing.

  “You’re different,” he’d said. “All you do is talk about your problems—you don’t seem to have time for me anymore. I paid your share of the rent last month, but I can’t continue to do that indefinitely. You must see that expecting me to support you is unrealistic.”

  “I don’t expect you—”

  “You do.” He jiggled his car keys in his hand, moved from foot to foot, a restless flurry of activity. Any time they talked his body language revealed how he wanted to be anywhere but there. Anywhere but talking through their problems. “You’ve changed,” he said again. “When we first moved in together you were confident, successful, fun.”

  Always the golden girl.

  He looked at her with accusation written all over his face. Angry that she’d stepped off her pedestal to stand by his side. What’s the point? He didn’t want the real woman, the one plagued by doubts, facing real challenges.

  He’d signed up as Ken to her Barbie. Lois to her Clark. Instead of supporting her when she was down, he wanted out. It was as though he’d gone to the cinema and bought a ticket to a rom-com and found himself in some deep psychological drama instead. Rather than sit through it, curious as to how the story might play out, he’d stomped to the box office and demanded his money back.

  Summer groaned. Pulled the blanket up over her head to create a warm cocoon.

  She’d been damned proud of the way she’d acted in response. She hadn’t apologized. Hadn’t explained. She’d packed up her things and put them in storage, and moved in to the room that served as office in the back of the restaurant. This holiday was to evaluate her future. Decide once and for all if now was the time to leave London, and try to build a new future in Ireland.

  Explaining about Michael to Nick left her exhausted. Explaining to her family would be so much worse. There had been lies mixed in with the truth but she hadn’t been able to face revealing the whole truth. Not yet.

  Summer dreamed she was on a sailboat, sliding across topaz glass. She pushed the tiller, and a sailor up front turned the wheel, taking them in different directions. A wind came out of nowhere, whipping the surface of the water into waves, tossing the little craft to and fro. What’s he doing?

  The sailor kept turning them into the wind.

  She staggered forward, calling to him. Then made a lunge for the wheel.

  The sail swung around, covered her face, she couldn’t breathe…Summer woke up and peeled the sheet away from her face.

  She’d recognized the sailor in her dream—the one who was sailing her in a direction she didn’t want to go in—he was Nick.

  Nick Logan thought he was in control of things. Heck, most of the time, she had no doubt he was. Running a busy practice, having to make life and death decisions every day, meant he was blunt to the point of rudeness. If she didn’t try to wrestle back some of that control, he’d have all her secrets out of her in no time. It was bad enough feeling pathetic; she didn’t need to have it confirmed in heart-to-hearts with the Brookbridge vet.

  And there was the subject of Declan. Her little brother was proud of the things she’d achieved. If she told Nick more of the story now, he might share the details with Declan.

  She’d told him about Michael—the rest could wait. She didn’t want to hide things from her family, but she didn’t want to worry them either.

  After washing her face, she went downstairs. The oven was on.

  “What are you cooking?”

  Nick looked up. “I put in some potatoes to bake about an hour ago.”

  “So—steaks, right?” She opened the fridge and retrieved them. “I have some broccoli and garlic. I’ll make some garlic butter.”

  “About earlier...”

  “Listen.” She set the steaks on the table. Rested the knuckles of both hands on the smooth wood, and brought her head level to his. “I was touchy. Let’s forget it.”

  He opened his mouth to speak.

  “No. Seriously. I don’t want to talk about any personal stuff. I just don’t. When I said let’s forget it, I meant it. We can talk about you, about movies, about books, about your work, heck, we can even watch wildlife documentaries and talk about Attenborough. I don’t care.”

  “That’s presuming the power stays on.”

  “So are we okay about the conversation earlier?”

  “What conversation?” Nick opened a bottle of red wine, and poured two glasses. “I’ve forgotten.”

  Summer grabbed a couple of onions from vegetable rack. Then she took out a chopping board and a lethal looking knife. She peeled, then sliced them into thin rounds.

  “I’m going to feed Fella now.” Nick had already prepared a bowl with the cooled chicken. He walked to the dog and placed it on the floor beside him. Fella stirred, and managed to sit up. “Take it easy there.” Nick pushed the bowl right up to the basket. Fella sniffed it, then started to eat. “Slow down.”

  Fella paid no heed, eating so fast he didn’t appear to be chewing at all.

  “He’s starving.” Summer paused in her chopping to watch the dog. He had finished the meat and lapped up all the liquid. He struggled up to standing, stepped out of the basket, and licked it clean. The metal bowl clanged against the wooden floorboards as he pushed it around with his nose.

  When he finished, Fella looked up at Nick with hope that there may be more.

  “That’s it.” Nick opened his hands wide, and Fella sniffed them. “You want to go out?”

  “He won’t be able to make it outside, will he?”

  Nick walked to the back door, opened it and peered out. “It’s stopped snowing. Come on, Fella.” He smacked his thigh, encouraging the dog to limp to him. It was a tortuous process. Fella staggered and weaved partly as the aftermath of the anesthetic and partly as a result of his injury.

  Nick stuck his feet into a pair of wellingtons he’d found at the back door and stepped outside. “Come on, Fella.”

  Nick pulled the door closed.

  Summer melted butter and olive oil in a heavy frying pan and fried the onions.

  She hammered the steaks, seasoned them, and put them under the grill. Where’s the steamer? A search through her mother’s cupboards came up empty—she made a mental note to buy one and leave it here as a present—so she put water on to boil to cook the broccoli.

  It was good to be cooking again. Since the restaurant went bust, she’d lost her enthusiasm for cooking. It was hardly worth cooking for one.

  The door eased open accompanied by a blast of cold air. “Success,” Nick said. Fella trailed in his wake and once inside made straight for the basket. “That smells amazing. I love fried onions.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Evie probably made them for him every time they ate steak.

  “Any time I’m cooking I forget how much I love fried onions. I always forget to buy them. I guess that’s the difference between an amateur and a professional. What are you doing now?” He stood close, watching her with interest.

  She peeled some garlic cloves and crushed them with the side of the knife. “Making garlic butter.”

  “Why aren’t you chopping them?”

  Cooking lessons for beginners. “Crushing garlic first is the best way to release the oils. I crush it first and then chop it.” She snipped a few leaves of parsley from the pot she’d placed on the windowsill when she came back from the shop. “I like to add some parsley to it as well.” She whipped up some butter and added the garlic and chopped parsley.

  “It never seems worth making all these extras when it’s just me. I mean look, you even remember to buy parsley—I’ve never bought parsley in my life.”

  It’s just him? The relationship with Evie couldn’t be that serious if she didn’t live with him, or cook for him very often. “Well the trick is to make a little bit more than you need, roll it into a little log in saran wrap, and keep it in the door of th
e fridge. Then it’ll be there when you need it the next time. You can even freeze it.”

  “Hmm.” Nick took off his boots and coat. “More wine?

  “Sure.”

  He placed a full glass of wine next to the chopping board. “Maybe you can give me a few pointers cooking-wise. By a cruel twist of fate, I’m making Christmas dinner this year.”

  “Don’t you usually go to your parents’ for Christmas dinner?”

  Nick sat on the chair nearest the wood-burning stove and crossed his feet at the ankles. “Ah, that’s with a cruel twist of fate comes in. My mother hurt her arm a couple of weeks ago. She got into a complete panic, flustered because the entire family is coming home for Christmas. I was trying to reassure her.” He scowled.

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I started to give her a pep talk. You know the one—the you-can-do-anything you-put-your-mind-to talk.”

  “Because you’re a strong, independent woman?” She grinned.

  Nick nodded. “That’s the one. Anyway, it backfired big-time. I guess I overdid it when I said she cooked dinner every night, cooking Christmas dinner would be easy. Her eyes flashed and she told me it wasn’t easy.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I disagreed, and she said ‘if you think it’s so damn easy why don’t you do it?’ I thought she was joking—Ma never lets anyone into her kitchen. But apparently she was serious. Every time I see her I keep waiting for her to relent, but she just keeps asking if I’m going to do turkey or goose, have I made the Christmas pudding yet…”

  “How many are coming?”

  Nick counted on his fingers. “Me, the parents, Matthew, his wife April, my brother from New York, Amy, Finn and Val—Jesus, that’s nine. I don’t suppose you’d like to join us, would you?”

  “Nick Logan, are you trying to palm off a cooking job onto me?”

  He looked so pained she couldn’t help but giggle.

  “Hey, you can’t blame me. An award-winning chef lands in my lap the week before Christmas, it must be a sign.”

  “What about Evie, surely she can help.”

  “Evie?” He looked puzzled. “Why on earth would Evie help?”

  “You called her to let her know you won’t be home tonight. I thought…”

  Nick sipped his wine. “I called her so my colleagues would know where I am. Evie is the receptionist. I don’t have anyone waiting at home for me. I’m just as single as you are.”

  *****

  The more he thought about it, the better idea it seemed. “What was your plan? Were you thinking of just cooking something for one, this Christmas?”

  “That is still my plan.” She flipped the steaks, and put two plates into the oven to warm. “Unlike you, I shall be having a ready meal.”

  “A ready meal? What, you mean one of those pre-prepared things from the freezer? My usual fare?”

  “Yup. I decided on crispy duck for one. The only food preparation I’ll be doing is chopping a cucumber.”

  She sounded serious.

  “In that case, I shall make it my mission to persuade you to change your mind. My apartment is the size of a shoebox, so I’m moving home on Christmas Eve so I can be up early to start cooking. I’ve ordered a turkey. A fifteen pounder. How difficult can it be?”

  “It’s not so much the cooking, it’s the timing. There are so many different things to prepare, you need to make a plan.” She took the potatoes out of the oven and plated their dinner.

  He stood and put the silverware onto the table. She set a plate of beautifully cooked food in front of him.

  He started to eat. The steak was medium, just the way he liked it. Garlic butter glistened on top. The onion rings were light brown and slightly crispy around the edges. The inside of the potatoes was fluffy, and the broccoli was firm rather than mushy.

  “God, this is delicious.”

  “Timing. If I timed it wrong the vegetables would be overcooked. The last thing you want is overcooked sprouts with your Christmas lunch. There are some things you can prepare in advance. I’ve got a great recipe for cranberry sauce—”

  “I have a jar of that.”

  She pulled a face. “My homemade cranberry and orange sauce with port in is easy—you can make it up a few days in advance and it’ll knock their socks off. I’ll write down the recipe.”

  Messing about making stuff when it was readily available in the supermarket sounded like a waste of time. “I thought I’d just make the absolute basics—I can buy a lot of things ready-made and just heat them up.”

  “Well, you could.” The expression on her face indicated she wasn’t impressed by his plan. “Or you could take the view that this is your chance to show your mother that you can produce a fantastic meal. After all, you told her it was easy.”

  Me and my big mouth. “I meant it was easy for her—she cooks all the time. I didn’t mean it would be easy for everyone. I anticipate it’s going to be bloody difficult for me.”

  She refilled his wine glass and topped up her own. “Nick Logan, I’m surprised at you. I thought you were a can-do guy.” There was a hint of tease in her voice.

  “What gave you that idea?”

  She sipped her wine. “Well, let’s see…” She thought for a moment. “I remember a summer in Dingle.”

  The memory of the vacation in Dingle formed in his mind—one long ago summer. Declan and Summer had been allowed to ask a friend each to join them in the cottage they’d rented for a couple of weeks in Castlegregory. He couldn’t remember the name of the friend Summer asked along, but he had been Declan’s choice—they’d been inseparable since they met at aged eight.

  “I was eighteen, so you were much younger,” Summer said. “We went surfing out on the Maharees, don’t you remember?”

  The huge, white sand dunes of the peninsula. Four of them bundled up against the Irish summer chill in wetsuits. She’d been a goddess in black rubber.

  Even then, he’d mooned about after her like a lovesick puppy.

  “You taught me to surf.” Her voice was dreamy. “You stood me on a surfboard on the sand. You were so sweet.”

  Nick grimaced. Sweet. What a crappy word. “I’d done it before.” He’d always loved surfing. Being out in nature, sailing across the surface of the water.

  “And you told me something like, ‘You can do it, you can do anything.’ When we went back out, you held the side of my board, and we surfed back to shore. That was the first time I managed to get up on the board. It was only for a moment, but I did it. I did it because of you.”

  It was amazing how she remembered it all so differently. “Don’t you remember what happened before you reached the shore?” Nick gritted his teeth. He didn’t think he’d ever forget it.

  “I remember getting a mouthful of salty water, and floundering on the sand like a beached seal. You picked me up. Everyone laughed. I was mortified.”

  “You deflected their laughter easily enough.”

  “Did I?” Her forehead wrinkled, had she really forgotten the cruel words she’d spoken? The way she’d shouted that he should take his hands off her?

  She smiled. “You were always such a sweet kid.”

  “I wasn’t a kid. Your friend wanted me to kiss her that holiday, did she ever tell you?”

  Her eyes widened. “Sharon tried to kiss you?”

  Sharon, yes, that was her name.

  “I’m so sorry, she never should have done that—she was so much older than you, I’m appalled. I never knew.” She looked at him over the rim of her wineglass. “Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Did you kiss her?”

  He put down his knife and fork. “I was sixteen, not twelve. There’s only two years between us, Summer. So yes, I damn well did. Even though there’d been someone else I wanted to kiss that holiday. I wanted to kiss you.”

  Chapter Six

  “That’s crazy.” She never thought she’d be having this discussion with her brother’s best friend. He’d been a
good-looking kid, but…Summer shook her head. He’d been a kid. Just like her brother.

  “Yeah, well, it was a long time ago.” Nick finished the rest of his dinner and pushed his plate away. “I guess I wasn’t the only one. Most of my class had the hots for you back then.”

  “I used to get valentine cards from some of Declan’s friends,” she said. “But never from you.”

  “Declan would have killed me. You were off limits.”

  “Funny, isn’t it? Looking back.” She couldn’t help wondering when that crush had withered. Now she was thirty-two and he was thirty, the years between them were nothing. “If I met you for the first time today, I wouldn’t even know you were younger than me.”

  “What would you do, if this was our first meeting?” His direct gaze pierced her. “If I’d come out here to help with Fella, and you’d never met me before, how would things be different?”

  The conversation was moving into uncharted territory. The temptation to flirt was strong, but she tamped it down, and tried to answer honestly.

  “I guess I’d be making small talk. I’d be nervous, stuck alone in a house with a man I didn’t know. I’d be hoping you didn’t make any sudden moves.”

  He grinned. “Well, you know me, so there’s no need to worry.” He stood, picked up the plates, and stacked them next to the dishwasher. “I’m going to sleep in here tonight—keep an eye on Fella.” He waved at the old sofa that had previously lived in the sitting room, but had been moved into the kitchen when the new suite of furniture arrived. “That will do me fine. Tomorrow morning we’ll assess the situation, and with luck we can drive back down to Brookbridge.”

  He shoved his hands into the front pocket of his jeans. “I’ll grab a quilt and pillow off Declan’s bed.” With that, he walked out of the room.

  The revelation that he’d wanted to kiss her so many years ago, opened a door in her mind that she’d never noticed before. She’d been a success to most everyone, all through her life, but memories bombarded her now of the times that she’d failed.

  The day on the beach. That time she had too much to drink at a school dance, and fallen, ripping her hose on the gravel. Both times, Nick had been there—had witnessed her humiliation, and helped her up.