by Kendall Ryan
“Uh, yeah. From the first time I saw you when I watched one of your clips, then it was confirmed when I got here. Tall. Muscular. Cute face. You even have all your teeth, and for a hockey player, that’s impressive.”
I bite back a smile, but Summer’s not done yet.
“Your family are all attractive too . . . good stock. But not your grandpa. I mean, for an older man, he’s not unattractive or anything, but . . .”
I chuckle, stopping her with a hand on her cheek. I think she’s trying to tell me she thinks my brothers and I are attractive, but I think I’ll save her the embarrassment. “Summer.”
“I’m babbling, aren’t I?”
“Just a little.” I smile. “You’ll feel normal in an hour or two. And I don’t want you to do anything you’d regret, okay?”
She nods once, meeting my eyes.
“Let me tuck you into bed.”
Thankfully, Summer doesn’t fight me on this. But she does shimmy out of her jeans and into a pair of flannel pants right in the center of the room, so I turn and give her some privacy. Once she’s climbed in under the blankets, I tuck them in around her.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask, gazing down at her.
She nods, already looking drowsy.
“Text me if you need me.”
“Like for sex?” she says around a yawn.
“Anything but that.” The words are physically painful leaving my mouth.
She rolls her eyes. “Party pooper.”
I chuckle and tell her good night. And then I head next door to my own cabin.
I’m still so aroused from our brief make-out session that my dick feels ready to explode, so when I settle into bed, I don’t even bother to pretend I have self-control. If I don’t jerk off, I’ll never get to sleep tonight.
My right hand drifts south and pushes beneath the elastic of my boxer briefs. I’m still as hard as steel. A few quick strokes, and I’m imagining how Summer would have looked in that bra . . . How Summer’s curves would have felt in my hands . . .
Pleasure rips through me as I let go, my hips lifting as I fuck my fist. She’s gorgeous and kind, and she wants to help me. Apparently, it’s a lethal combination, because a few more strokes and I’m already close.
If I were in the market for a woman, she’d be exactly what I’d want. Which is too bad, because she probably won’t speak to me after she wakes up tomorrow and remembers all that happened tonight. But there’s no room for reality inside my fantasy.
And in that fantasy, it’s not my hand moving over my stiff cock, but Summer’s hot mouth. A sharp throb of lust punches through me at the thought. It can never really happen, but man, is it a nice thought.
My brain plays out the fantasy in excruciating detail.
Would she be tender and soft and let me set the pace, or would she be eager and demanding, asking for me with her eyes and her words? Would she groan and beg for me? I’m right here, I would whisper, letting her take me in hand and guide me between her legs.
But I’ll never know, which is for the best. It would only complicate things for me. And I would never use Summer to blow off some steam. She’s a special girl. Definitely not someone I should sleep with once to satisfy some base-level craving.
No matter how badly I might want to.
How’s that for total honesty?
12
* * *
SUMMER
It’s late morning, and I’m working on my laptop at the cabin’s small kitchen table.
The internet signal is surprisingly strong today, which isn’t the norm here in the middle of nowhere. I’m thankful I have some work to keep me busy this morning, because I may or may not be hiding out today.
Okay, I’m definitely hiding. But who wouldn’t after last night?
I avoided breakfast this morning and got by with tea and a granola bar because I wasn’t ready to face Logan just yet. Instead, I busied myself with emails and an overdue phone call to Les, though he didn’t seem all that surprised to hear I’m still in Colorado.
Jillian must have read my absence the wrong way, because she stopped by after breakfast was over with a thermos of hot coffee, already loaded with cream and sugar just the way I like. I guess it was her version of a peace offering. But I accepted her apology and the coffee. I know she meant me no harm. Her tea made me frisky, but that wasn’t technically her fault. I’m embarrassed and honestly, well, horrified that I came on to Logan.
I’ve just gotten sucked into my social media feed when there’s another knock at the door. I’m not sure if it’s Jillian again, or maybe Logan, and my stomach twists itself into a knot.
I’m not quite sure I’m ready to face Logan after last night. But it’s obvious I’m here, because where else could I have gone? So I heft myself up and trudge to the door.
When I pull it open, Austen is standing outside, not at all who I was expecting. He’s every bit as tall as Logan, but a bit leaner and with more dark stubble along his sculpted jawline.
“Hey, um, what’s up?” I ask, leaning against the doorway.
He frowns down at me. “I heard about the incident last night . . .”
The incident? Is that what we’re calling my molestation of his younger brother?
Oh God. This is worse than I thought.
“The, um, incident?” I stammer.
“Yes. My mom. The tea.”
“Oh!” My face turns bright red. “That. Yes. You heard about that?” I squint at him, curious about what else he might have heard.
“Yeah, and for the record, I don’t condone what she did. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. She means well, but she just . . . doesn’t really have any boundaries.”
I wave him off. “I’m fine. I promise.”
“Well, that’s good. I also wanted to let you know that Logan is going to be gone today. He’s visiting our younger cousin who’s away at Providence College, which is about two hours away.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks for letting me know.” My relief is instant, but it’s followed by a weird nagging feeling that I’m the one who drove Logan away with my inappropriate behavior. “Anything else?”
“Yes. I’m supposed to tell you that you’re invited to Sunday dinner tonight. That is, as long as you’re still speaking to my mom after what happened.”
“I promise it’s okay. Your mom apologized to me, just so you know. It’s not a big deal. I know she meant no harm. And I asked if she’d give me some of that tea for when I go back to the city,” I say with a wink.
Austen chuckles at this. “Okay. Cool. Well, I guess I’ll see you tonight.”
“Six o’clock?”
He nods. “Yep. See you then.”
After I close the door, I lean against it. Sunday dinner?
A couple of thoughts hit me at once. First, who is this family? And second, why am I still here?
I didn’t expect to be here more than a day or two—just long enough to show Logan I was serious and convince him to agree to work with me. And I guess I’ve done that? But it’s been on his term, and now I have no idea where we stand. I’ve probably made things terribly awkward.
One last dinner with the Tate family, and I should probably leave tomorrow. Although going back to my life in Boston is about as appealing as eating dirty socks for dinner. But I have little choice, because as pretty and serene as it is here, I can’t hide from my life forever.
Even if Mama Jillian’s cooking will be sorely missed.
• • •
When I let myself into the house a few minutes before six, Logan is sitting near the fireplace with Austen and Matt, talking in low voices. Just the sight of Logan with his hair messy from his knit cap causes my stomach to twist. He’s so ruggedly handsome—which is apparently a lethal combination for my libido.
I slip off my boots and bypass the brothers quickly en route to the kitchen.
The serenity of Jillian’s kitchen is hard to explain. It’s like an alternate universe where strangers are suddenly frien
ds and friends are like family. I can’t say I hate it. It’s nice to feel welcome somewhere, even if this is only temporary.
She hands me a mixing bowl containing clarified butter and a small silicone basting brush. “Brush the garlic knots with melted butter, would you?”
I’m almost relieved when she puts me to work, which she inevitably does, like I’m part of the family and not an uninvited guest.
“Absolutely.”
I accept the supplies and brush the top of each golden garlic knot with a generous amount of butter. The kitchen smells amazing, and Jillian hums to herself as she slices a ham. It’s cozy and inviting, and I begin to relax the slightest bit.
I’m going to keep a low profile, eat a homecooked meal that I’ve been invited to (it would be rude not to), apologize to Logan, and figure out what in the world to do next.
Easy peasy. Right?
So, why exactly is my stomach still twisted into an intricate knot?
• • •
“Can we, um, talk?” Logan stammers when he finds me still hiding in the kitchen twenty minutes later, where I’ve just removed the garlic knots from the hot oven.
“Sure thing,” I say with a grin.
I smile when I’m nervous. It’s one of those weird traits I must have inherited from my father, because Mom never did it. I set the oven mitts on the counter, but Jillian interrupts us by handing Logan a platter of sliced ham.
“Can it wait?” she asks. “Dinner’s ready.”
He gives his mom an uncertain look, but accepts the platter. “Sure.”
She nods. “Better to eat while it’s hot. My cooking’s not that good.”
But she’s wrong. Her cooking is incredible.
Logan dutifully carries the platter of sliced ham to the dining room, following Jillian, who’s balancing a basket with the garlic knots and a large bowl of smashed red potatoes in her arms. Everything is placed onto the table as the family finds their way into the dining room.
I know it’s cowardly, but I wait for Logan to choose a seat, and then I make sure I’m not sitting by him. Instead, I take the empty chair next to Grandpa Al. After I help myself to potatoes and green beans from Jillian’s garden, and some of that yummy ham, I listen attentively to all of Al’s stories, which isn’t too difficult because Grandpa Al is a hoot.
I can feel Logan’s gaze on me during dinner, but I don’t dare glance his way. I wonder if he’s remembering my assault last night…
“And then in seventy-four, I met Lou, the cantankerous old fart,” Al says, chuckling to himself and spearing another slice of ham with his fork. “Helped him fix up that Mustang.”
After we eat, I volunteer to stay to help wash the dishes, hoping Logan will be gone by then. But he comes and finds me in the kitchen with my hands submerged in soapy dishwater.
“This isn’t your job,” he says with a scowl, and before I can say anything, he orders Matt to come into the kitchen and take over for me. Matt nudges me aside and takes my spot at the sink without any protest, so I dry my hands on a cloth dish towel printed with cheery pineapples.
If only my mood were as bright and cheery right now. My stomach is still in a knot, and I’ve barely kept my hands from shaking.
“Come on. I’ll walk you to your cabin,” Logan says, his voice low.
I guess we’re going to have that chat now. My stomach gives a painful little twist.
I thank Jillian for dinner, and squeeze Grandpa Al’s wrinkled hand before following Logan to the door.
Logan walks me back to my cabin, then gets the fire roaring again. We both take off our coats and boots. Since he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave, and there’s that familiar scowl back on his handsome face, I make myself busy.
“I’ll get us some wine,” I call over my shoulder on my way to the kitchenette. I’d picked up a bottle of wine when we were in town, seems like a might fine time to open it.
When I return with two glasses of red wine, Logan is standing in the center of the living room, looking uncomfortable.
“Let’s sit,” I say. As awkward as this is, I know the only thing to do is to launch into a rambling apology, so that’s exactly what I do. “Listen, I’m just going to say some things. First, I’m truly sorry about last night.”
Logan’s eyes widen as he watches me.
“I was totally out of line, and I’m so—”
His large, calloused hand on my wrist stops me.
“Summer.” His voice is deep, low and raspy. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I came on to you, and—”
He shakes his head. “Believe me, I’m not upset about that. I’m more upset about my mom giving you her special tea.”
A crease forms between his brows, and I realize he’s telling the truth. He’s not mad at me.
A tidal wave of understanding washes over me. Here I spent the past twenty-four hours growing an ulcer and planning my escape, only to find out Logan doesn’t hate me. My relief is instantaneous.
“Oh, thank goodness, because I was terrified at how I behaved and I know it was unprofessional, and . . .”
I’m still rambling when Logan touches my cheek and turns my face toward his.
“Summer,” he says softly.
My name on his lips is the most distracting sound, all rough and yet sweet like sandpaper and honey. It sends a tingle rushing through me.
“You had a strange reaction. That’s all it was. Breathe, okay?”
Suddenly mute, I nod. I grip the stem of my wineglass so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.
That’s it? I was so scared to talk to him today, so his response is the last thing I expected.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Unless you want to talk about the fact you said you think I’m sexy.” He waits for me to reply, a smirk tugging at his lips.
A blush warms my cheeks. I did say that. And I meant it too.
I draw a slow breath, because Logan’s still waiting. Still trying to fight off a smirk. “Well, I suppose that doesn’t matter. I mean, attraction aside, we’re working together, right? Nothing can happen between—”
I don’t get to finish the rest of that sentence because Logan’s mouth is on mine, hot and insistent. Purely on instinct, I press closer, and when my lips part, he takes full advantage.
His tongue touches mine, and my knees go weak.
Secretly, I’ve wondered what it would be like to kiss Logan, and now I don’t have to wonder any longer. The man is extremely skilled. One of his big hands weaves into the hair at the back of my neck, tilting my head just so, and I almost dissolve into a puddle on the floor. He tastes like red wine and man, a combination my poor little neglected heart can hardly handle.
I move closer, urgently needing to erase all the distance between us.
His tongue moves against mine in deep, drugging kisses that make my toes curl in my socks. He makes a low, breathless sound, and for one glorious moment, all the noise in my head quiets, and it’s just me and him.
It feels so right to be here, doing this with him. But a second later, my brain switches back on and I pull away, putting an inch of space between us.
His forehead touches mine, and I let out a long, shaky exhale.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispers.
“I know. We can’t.”
I need to put an end to this before I do something foolish, like drag him to my bedroom.
Before I can process what’s happening, Logan pulls us over to the couch, and then I’m sitting in his lap, happily grinding my hips against his.
The stubble on his face scratches pleasantly against my chin, the feeling both foreign and erotic. It’s been a very long time since I was with a man, but Logan doesn’t seem to notice or care about my lack of finesse. His hands roam from my shoulders down to my waist. I can feel a hard ridge beneath me—the press of his erection against me—and I groan into his kiss.
“We can’t do this,” I say slowly, groaning o
ut the words.
“No, definitely not,” he says in a strained voice.
So, why aren’t either of us stopping?
He pulls off my shirt and drops it to the floor, then places a soft kiss to the top of my collarbone and another on my shoulder. His mouth is warm and soft, and I’m flooded with endorphins.
While every part of me wants to continue this—preferably pants-less and inside the bedroom—a small, stubborn part of my brain clicks on and reminds me that we can’t do this. It would be wildly unprofessional of me to give in to my desires.
I really hate being so dedicated sometimes.
“We can’t,” I murmur, pressing one palm to the rough stubble on his cheek. “I’m here to help you get back to work playing hockey.” I pause, drawing a breath. Not to ride you like a prize stallion at the rodeo. “I’m sorry.”
His gaze tracks from my lips up to my eyes, and even though I’m sitting in his lap shirtless and still panting, he nods his understanding. “I get it. And I’m sorry too.”
I retrieve my shirt from the floor at our feet and tug it back on. Maybe I should feel self-conscious, but I don’t, not around Logan. While I straighten my shirt, he banks the fire, telling me it should last the night, and then tugs on his boots.
I meet him at the door, and the wistful look in his eyes is almost enough to make me forget my principles and tug him back over to the couch.
He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear and gives me a warm smile. “Good night, Summer.”
“Night,” I say, my voice sounding surprisingly steady considering the erratic pounding of my heart.
• • •
When I wake in the morning, I wait for a sense of regret to hit me, but it doesn’t come.
Small mercies, I guess.
I dress in warm clothes and leave the cabin for the house, already dreaming of whatever pastry Jillian has decided to make this morning. But I stop short when I see all the firewood in neat stacks outside my door—a large pile of split logs and a huge basket of kindling. Logan’s work, obviously.
How long does he think I’m staying? There’s enough wood here to last me all winter.
