by Kendall Ryan
Grandpa Al’s satisfied smile is as wide as a country mile. “Deal.”
Well, if I accomplish nothing else today, at least I made an old man smile.
We bring the eggs back to the house, where Logan has disappeared and Jillian has already moved on from breakfast and brought out her stand mixer to start baking bread.
“Want to lend me a hand, Summer? If you’re not in too much of a rush to get to the airport, that is.” She gives Grandpa Al a wink, and it’s never been clearer that there’s a full-family effort taking place to keep me here.
But for some reason, I don’t mind. It feels good to be wanted, to be part of a family, even if it’s not mine. I feel at home here. And that thought is as troubling as it is comforting.
“I’ve never made bread before,” I say, swapping out my coat for an apron. “But I’m ready to learn, if you’ll teach me.”
“Oh, sugar.” Jillian squeezes my arm, her rosy cheeks lifting as she smiles. “I’ll teach you anything if it means keeping you around another day.”
My heart gives a little squeeze at her kind words. To feel needed, wanted . . . well, it’s a very powerful thing. Back in Boston, I’ll be alone much of the time in my little apartment. And while that’s never bothered me before, the idea of it now doesn’t sit well.
While Grandpa Al settles back into his chair, Jillian flips on the radio. Before long, I’m up to my elbows in flour, learning to knead bread the right way, as Jillian keeps saying. I can’t help but laugh at the idea that there’s a wrong way to knead bread that would end with the oven exploding or something worse.
As we work, Jillian treats me to plenty of family gossip about her sons.
According to her, Austen hasn’t been on a date since last year; meanwhile, Matt hasn’t brought the same girl home twice since he moved back to Lost Haven. When she tells me about her secret tally of Matt’s one-night stands that she keeps on the side of the fridge, I have to stop kneading dough just to laugh. And sure enough, there are a whole bunch of tick marks on a scrap of paper.
By the time the bread is in the oven and I’m ready to wash up, I’m wishing I promised Grandpa Al two days instead of just one to mull over my next move.
Yes, being here has brought many awkward moments, but it’s also brought some of the sweetest memories I’ve made in forever. I’ve been so busy with work the past year that I can’t remember when I last had this much time to just be. To bake, to laugh, to spend time around a bonfire, sipping whiskey and swapping stories. It’s a life so unlike anything I’ve ever known, and it’s given me nothing but a whirlwind of confusing emotions that I shouldn’t be feeling.
“The oil leak in the mower’s all fixed!” a familiar voice shouts from the door to the garage.
Moments later, Logan is standing in the kitchen, his jeans and hands smeared with sooty oil. When he spots me, there’s a twinkle in his blue eyes that makes my heart pound a little faster.
“You’re still here.”
“Of course I’m still here. I wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye.”
The slightest hint of a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. God, this man. He shouldn’t make me feel this way, but he does.
“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. “Yea
h, 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?”
Graham nods, clearly proud of this fact. “We sure do. The two main elements of beer that you can grow yourself are grains and hops. Barley is probably the most popular of the grains, and it does provide a base flavor for the beer, but hops are where it’s at.”
“Oh?” she asks, enjoying another sip.
“Yeah, hops are what give beer a distinct, complex bitter flavor. Plus, it’s a natural preservative, which was why it was added to beer in the first place.”
I try not to gape at Graham. Those are probably the most words I’ve ever heard my brother string together at one time.
“But if you really want to get fancy with your brewing process, you can add fresh herbs from the garden, fruit, and other edibles to create new flavors.”
Summer grins. “So you’re telling me CBD beer could become a thing?”
Graham leans one hip against the table, nodding. “It absolutely could. Beers are pretty versatile already with their flavor profiles, but I was thinking more along the lines of orange or grapefruit or even raspberry.”
“Raspberry?” Summer makes a pleased sound at the idea of a raspberry infused beer. “You know . . . another thing you could look into to monetize your beer-making is to create take-home beer-brewing kits. People like to grow something with their own two hands. Harvest it. Make something out of it. You know?”
Graham’s smile widens. “That’s actually a great idea. Thanks, Summer.”
“You could supply them with all the seeds, soil, little planting pots . . .” Summer ticks off these items on her fingers while Graham nods along at her brilliance.
While Graham and Summer talk marketing ideas, I join my other brothers over by the picnic table. Austen is nursing a tall glass of amber ale while Matt is dusting off his rusty guitar-playing skills, alternating between strumming chords and adjusting the gold tuning knobs.
“Are you taking requests?” I ask.
Matt shakes his head. “Nah, man. I’m the one who has a request for you.”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
He and Austen exchange a knowing look, both of them smirking like a couple of idiots. “I’d like to request that you make sure Summer doesn’t set foot outside of Lost Haven.”
As if on cue, Summer’s laughter bubbles up from the other side of the barn. It’s sweet and vibrant, like a sip of that shandy, and just as intoxicating.
“Why?”
Matt’s eyebrows jump up and down his forehead suggestively. “I think you know why.”
“Dude. Stop trying to hook up with my counselor. It’s not funny.” I wince at the memory of those comments he made about her on our hunting trip.
“Not what I meant,” he grunts. “Quit acting like you’re not insanely into her. Anyone in a two-hundred-mile radius could see that you are.”
I turn toward Austen, who is nodding along with every word Matt says. My stomach twists in my gut. I guess I haven’t built my walls as high as I thought.
“So what if I am?” I grumble.
“So, don’t let her get on a plane.” Matt levels me with a stern look. “Listen, man. This is the chillest I’ve ever seen you. But it’s not just you. When’s the last time you saw Graham this happy? Not to mention the way Mom and Grandpa are completely smitten.” He looks to Austen, who shrugs, not denying this. “Just saying. I think this girl has some magical healing powers or something.”
“Or maybe Mom has been slipping us all CBD again,” I say. The comment earns me a laugh, but it’s not enough for Matt to drop the subject.
“I’m just saying. Summer is amazing. I think you should hang on to her.”
“Hang on to her? She’s my counselor, dude. My shrink. Not my girlfriend.”
“Yeah?” He turns his head toward the bar.
I follow his gaze to Summer, who is sipping beer and staring at me, all flirty and doe-eyed. When I catch her gaze, she smiles a little, then blinks away, pretending to be distracted.
“Is that how most shrinks look at their clients?” Austen points out. “I think not.”
They drop the conversation when Summer comes sauntering our way with good news.
“Guess what? Graham is going to name a beer after me!”
“Is that so?” I lift a brow at my brother.
“The Summer Shandy,” Graham says with a crooked smile. “Kind of clever, huh?”
“Well, shit,” Matt says, ducking out from beneath his guitar strap. “I gotta try this Summer Shandy stat.”
While the guys disappear off to the bar, Summer settles in next to me on the picnic bench, nestling a little closer to me than could be considered professional. Not that I mind. If I had it my way, she’d be cozied up in my lap. Although that would just prove Matt’s point—my feelings for this girl aren’t exactly subtle. Or maybe my brothers are just really good at reading me.
“You’re lucky you have this, you know,” she murmurs, her words soft and quiet as she rests her head on my shoulder. The beer must be getting to her.
I gesture to Graham to cut her off, and she notices, gripping my arm and giving me a playful shove. My body doesn’t register that she’s messing with me, though. All that clicks is that her hands are on me, tight and warm around my bicep.
Fuck, what is it about this girl that puts fire in my veins?
“Logan?”
“Hmm?” I blink out of whatever daze I momentarily slipped into.
“I said you’re lucky to have this,” she says again, tilting her head toward my brothers. “I know things have been hard, and that you miss your dad. But this? Your family? I’d give anything to have something like this.”
There’s a wistful look on her face as she takes in the happy, domestic
scene around us—my brothers, laughing and teasing one another.
I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the emotion setting up shop there. “I know. I’m lucky. And I’m sorry if I’ve been insensitive about . . . well, everything you’ve been through. I know I’m a lot more fortunate than you are in the family department.”
“You haven’t been insensitive,” she says, giving my bicep another firm squeeze.
My body responds to her touch by treating me to a kick behind my zipper. Goddamn. I should tell her to keep her hands to herself, but Lord knows that’s the last thing I actually want.
“Honestly, you’ve made me feel right at home here,” she murmurs. “You all have.”
“So, you, uh . . .” I swallow hard, racking my brain for the right words. “You really don’t have anyone back in the city?”
“No family, but I’m not sure I’d say I don’t have anyone. I have plenty of friends. And Les. He’s been almost like a father to me. Or a mentor, at least. He was so encouraging when I told him I wanted to start my own counseling business. Even now, I call him regularly with questions. Everything from how to change a tire to what deductions I should claim on my taxes.”
The idea of Summer without anyone to look after her doesn’t sit well with me. “Have you talked to him since you’ve been here?”
She nods, chewing nervously at her plush bottom lip. “We spoke today, actually.” Her voice dips to a whisper. “He, uh, he asked me when I was coming back to Boston.”
My chest constricts at the mention of her leaving.
I shouldn’t be reacting this way. After all, Boston is my home too. Or at least it’s where I’m living so long as I’m playing for the Titans. I’ve never felt at home in that city the way I feel here and now. Whether it’s Lost Haven or Summer that’s making me feel that way, I haven’t the faintest clue.
“So, uh, what did you say?” I ask, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.
She stares down at her hands, suddenly sober as a Sunday morning. “I told him that I’m leaving tomorrow.”
My heart plummets. “Why’d you say that?”
