Snowbound Summer (The Logan Series Book 3)

by Clements, Sally

  “Where is it you are exactly?” There was curiosity in her tone.

  “I’m at Declan Costello’s parents’ house.” He crossed his fingers. “They have someone housesitting while they’re in Spain.”

  “Oh, okay. I hope you have plenty of food in. This doesn’t look as though it’s going away any time soon.”

  She was right. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He flicked off the phone and sat for a moment in the cold. Stuck alone overnight with Summer Costello. Definitely not a good idea.

  *****

  Summer watched Nick’s tall figure stride out toward the car. It was hard to reconcile the confident capable man with the quiet teenager she remembered. Since the moment he’d arrived, he’d effortlessly taken charge, telling her exactly what he needed to do the operation on Fella.

  He knew exactly what he was doing, and his calm focused approach to the task at hand had been extremely impressive. She’d caught herself just staring at him on more than one occasion as he cleaned the dog’s wound and expertly sewed it up. Obvious care had overlaid all of his actions, and Fella couldn’t have been in better hands.

  Across the yard Nick climbed into the car and brought his cell phone to his ear.

  Who is he calling? Probably a girlfriend. Maybe even a wife. She hadn’t noticed a ring, but it was highly likely that with his job he didn’t wear one. Her forehead wrinkled as she tried to remember what Declan had told her about his best friend in recent times. She couldn’t remember talk of a wedding—a Logan wedding was always unforgettable, she was sure if Nick had married she would have heard all about it.

  With a puff of frustration she turned away from the window to flick on the kettle. The state of Nick Logan’s love life was none of her concern.

  Summer wiped down the kitchen table and placed two mugs, a jug of milk and the sugar bowl on it. Her rumbling stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten all day. It was lunchtime now so she opened a can of soup and set it on the stove to heat.

  By the time Nick pushed the door open a few minutes later, she’d transferred the hot soup into bowls and placed a couple of pieces of toast on plates.

  He shed his coat in the doorway and brushed off the flakes of snow outside the back door then slammed the door behind him. He was carrying a couple of bags, which he placed on the kitchen counter. “You told me he ate your steak so I brought you another. I brought one for me as well—the cooking is up to you.”

  He pulled out a wrapped packet. “The anesthetic may make him feel sick and apart from that steak Fella may not have eaten for a while. It’s likely his digestive system is in uproar so we should start off with something basic to eat rather than the dog food I brought.” He held up the package. “Chicken. If we just boil this he should be able to handle it.”

  “Sure. Leave it there and I’ll cook it after we eat.” She found a couple of linen napkins, slid them into napkin rings, and placed them next to the bowls. Waved at the table. “Come eat, before it gets cold.”

  He sat. “You’re the only family I know who uses these.” He slipped the napkin from the ring and turned it around in his big hands.

  “I bought them when I was seventeen. And these table mats too. I’d been watching all these cooking shows—the Galloping Gourmet was my favorite and at the end of every show he invited someone from the audience to sit down and taste what he’d cooked. It was always presented beautifully.”

  “I remember you were always into presentation.” There was the hint of a double meaning in the way he said the words.

  “Presentation matters.”

  “Not as much as you might think.” He shook out the napkin and placed it over his knees. He picked up the spoon. “Substance is more important. You can make a table look as pretty as you like, but if the food doesn’t taste good, no amount of prettying it up will make a jot of difference.”

  He dipped a spoon into the soup and tasted it. “Now this is a win—in both aspects.”

  “Well, it’s canned.” It was pretty difficult not to extrapolate Nick’s philosophy on food into the area of humans. Michael had always been perfectly presented—the male equivalent of a table set with fine china, sparkling silverware, placemats, napkins and crystal glasses. But at the end of the day he left a bad taste in her mouth.

  “So, you made your phone call.”

  “Yes—I let Evie know where I am.”

  Evie. So he has a girlfriend.

  “I’ll have to stay the night. Fella isn’t well enough to travel, and a lot of snow has fallen since I arrived—the trip into town would be treacherous. With any luck, the council will send out a team to salt the road tomorrow.”

  It was snowing so hard that it was as if a white curtain was fluttering in the air. An ever-changing pattern so bright it was difficult to look at.

  “If we aren’t so lucky we could be stuck here for days.”

  She hadn’t really thought about that. So far, they were getting on fine, but once the small talk was exhausted, what then? He’d want to know about the restaurant, about Michael. “Finished?” When he nodded, she picked up the bowls and carried them to the sink. She caught sight of her face reflected in the window. A dark streak of dirt was on her cheek and her hair was a mess—she hadn’t brushed it in twenty-four hours.

  She ripped off a piece of kitchen roll and wiped her face. “Why didn’t you tell me I’ve dirt all over my face? I better go take a shower.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  He didn’t notice?

  Fella twitched in the basket. Nick stood. “Go ahead—it’s time for me to check on the patient.”

  Chapter Four

  Summer dashed out of the room still rubbing at the mark on her face.

  Nick crouched next to the basket. Fella was coming around. His eyes opened. It had been easy to see to his injuries while he was unconscious, but now the dog was awake Nick needed to act cautiously.

  He let Fella sniff his hand, and puffed out a breath of relief when Fella licked his fingers. “Good boy.” He stroked a hand over the dog’s muzzle and head. “I think it’s time to take out this cannula, don’t you?” With his other hand he removed the connector of the drip from the dog’s paw.

  Fella showed no sign of aggression or fear—he was probably still too out of it to be fully aware. Nick sat next to him and continued talking in the low, comforting tone that had earned him the nickname pet whisperer from those in the practice. He stroked Fella’s head, shoulders and back to intensify the connection between them. To show the dog that he was friend, not foe. If three of them were going to be cooped up in this house for the next few hours or possibly days they all had to be friends.

  Summer had dashed out of the room as though pursued by pack of wolves. Somehow he’d have to settle her nerves too. If only women were as easy to handle as dogs and cats. Stroking Summer… An erotic fantasy of stroking summer’s long, tawny hair, smoothing his palm over her naked shoulders and back, came out of nowhere.

  Shit. He could do with a shower too—a cold one.

  Fella lifted his head off the floor, and stared at the door into the rest of the house.

  A moment later, Summer walked in. She’d showered, washed and dried her hair, and put on makeup. A clean pair of jeans clung to her curves, and she’d pulled on a plain black sweatshirt. “He’s awake?” Her eyes were wide. She clasped her hands together. “I can’t believe he’s letting you pet him.”

  “Come on over. Slowly.”

  He talked to Fella as Summer approached. She stopped a few feet away.

  “Okay, now sit down, and scoot over.” When she was close enough to touch, he reached for her hand. The touch of her skin made him want to close his fingers around hers, but he resisted the urge. “First we need to get him used to your smell.”

  She leaned forward and he brought her hand to Fella’s nose. “This is Summer, Fella. She saved you.”

  Fella sniffed repeatedly. “Now, stroke him.”

  She scooted close, so close her body heat was alm
ost tangible. Her scent drifted in the air, light and citrusy, she must have spritzed herself with cologne too.

  Suddenly aware that he was sniffing her just as the dog was, Nick shifted a little further away.

  She was talking to the dog now too, and he didn’t seem to mind. The lack of aggression was heartening—he’d have a much better chance of being adopted if he could play nice with humans.

  “I never believed he’d let me touch him,” she murmured. “He’s so dirty, though. Maybe we should wash him, or brush him or something.”

  “Right now, we just need to get him used to us. Make him comfortable in the house. He might never have been in a house before—I suspect they kept him chained outside.”

  Her fingers touched the ragged rope around Fella’s neck. “I want to take this off.”

  Nick shook his head. “That can wait.”

  She withdrew her hand and stared into Nick’s eyes. “I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done. I bet the old vet wouldn’t have even tried to drive out here with snow falling—”

  “He didn’t have the car for it.”

  “It’s not about the car, it’s about the man. You came. And we’re both grateful. I have a larder full of provisions—we won’t be eating fancy, but if we do get snowbound none of us will starve.” She stood and walked to the packages he’d placed on the counter earlier. “I’ll cook this chicken so we can feed it to Fella later.”

  Her heartfelt words had made warmth uncoil within him. “He shouldn’t eat anything for a few hours, he’s still woozy.”

  She ripped open the packet of chicken and dumped it in a saucepan. “Just water—don’t go putting salt, pepper and herbs in there,” he teased. Think Cordon Chien, rather than Cordon Bleu.”

  Fella made a noise, then threw up all over Nick’s legs.

  *****

  “Euww.” She could take most everything, but vomit… Summer turned away, every part of her trying to block out what had happened.

  “Throw me that roll of kitchen paper and a trash bag, will you?” Nick asked.

  She reached under the sink, found the things and handed them over, keeping herself well away from the mess. Fella’d mostly got Nick.

  “Open the door for a second to clear the air—you don’t have to stay in the room if it makes you nauseous too.” He efficiently cleaned up the mess, then knotted the top of the bag. She stood back as he walked outside and dropped the bag into the rubbish bin. When he walked back inside, he looked down at his jeans. He’d cleared up as much as he could, but they were stained.

  “I need to put these in the washing machine, pronto.”

  As she stood, Nick kicked off his shoes, undid each button of his jeans, eased them down, and shucked them off. She darned near swallowed her tongue—the guy had kilt-worthy legs. Firm, strong, muscular, with a dusting of dark hair.

  “There’s probably washing powder under the sink.”

  Her gaze shot up to his. Her jaw snapped shut.

  Had he seen? The look on his face, all masculine swagger, hinted that he had. She’d been busted. Caught staring at the impressive bulge in his tight, jersey boxers.

  “Of course.” She opened the cupboard—staying in there a couple of extra seconds until the heat that flooded her face cooled. “I guess that was the anesthetic.”

  “What?”

  She straightened, holding a box of washing powder. “I said, I guess Fella was sick because of the anesthetic.” The dog was quiet now, and seemed to have gone back to sleep.

  “I reckon.” Nick shoved his jeans into the washing machine, took the box of powder, and shook some into the dispenser. “I think I’ll go shower.”

  “I’ll find you something of Declan’s.” He wouldn’t have taken all of his clothes to Spain, there’d be something in the drawers in his bedroom that would fit. Dressing Nick was a priority.

  She let him go upstairs ahead of her though…after the day she’d had she deserved a little distraction.

  In Declan’s room, she found a couple of pairs of jeans, a few shirts and sweaters, and some socks. No underwear. Her brother had taken his entire collection with him. Summer wandered into her parents’ room, and raided their father’s drawers for a couple of pairs, which she placed on top of the pile.

  She popped back into the bedroom to lay them out on the bed, but Nick’d had the quickest shower ever, and was standing in the middle of the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

  Holy shit.

  The rest of his body was just as impressive as the kilt-worthy legs. His chest was wide and muscled, and his abs looked hard enough to bounce nickels on. He was rubbing his hair with a towel. Once again, she fell under his spell, mesmerized by the flex of his biceps.

  “I…”

  He dropped the towel around his shoulders and looked over.

  “I brought you some clothes.”

  “Oh, great.” He took them from her, then frowned. “What are these, exactly?” He dangled a pair of her father’s large, grey, undershorts from his finger.

  “They’re…um.” He knows what they are. “They’re my father’s.”

  His expression probably matched her expression earlier—when the dog had thrown up.

  “I won’t be needing those.” He handed them back. “I draw the line at wearing your father’s underwear.”

  “Fair enough.” She cast a last look at the deep grooves that cut from his hips downward. “I’ll…um…I’ll go and cook the chicken.”

  *****

  Well, that was interesting.

  Nick had known plenty of women, and he’d definitely seen that look before. The you’re-so-hot-I’m-melting look. But he’d never seen it on Summer’s face. She’d been flustered as he stripped in the kitchen, had waved him out of the door before her when they went upstairs, and he was pretty sure she’d been checking out his butt.

  And his suspicion had been confirmed when she barged into the bedroom and caught him half-naked.

  She’d tried to be surreptitious about it, but she was definitely checking him out.

  He dried off and dressed; relieved Declan and he were the same size, so the clothes fit. Summer had given no explanation as to why she was in Brookbridge. Surely now must be the busy time for her restaurant? The head chef owner of Summer’s Kitchen should be at home in London, providing delicious Christmas dinners and catering Christmas parties instead of boiling chicken for a sick dog.

  And where was Mr. Polished? Maybe he still had work to do. Maybe he was still in London shuffling people’s money around. He was crazy to let her come over here alone.

  He pulled on a clean pair of socks, and went downstairs.

  “Would you like some more tea?”

  The constant offering of tea was a deflection tactic. A way of shifting the mood to banal. She’d probably start talking about the weather in a moment.

  Summer glanced out the window. “The snow is still…”

  “Summer.”

  She turned.

  “I don’t want tea. It’s gonna keep snowing out there for hours.” He pulled out a chair and sat. “We are stuck here together—who knows for how long. We’re going to have to get real here. No more superficial stuff.”

  Her chest rose and fell.

  “Why aren’t you in London?”

  For a moment, he didn’t think she would answer. She continued breathing heavily, fiddled with the sleeve of her sweater, and chewed in her bottom lip.

  “Oh, crap.” Giving in, she sat too. “I guess you’re right.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’m hiding out. No-one knows I’m here. But I guess you know that already, right? I knew the house would be empty, and we have keys, so I decided to camp out here for the holidays.”

  “What about the restaurant?”

  “The restaurant…well, everything’s fine there.” She plastered on a smile, but it wasn’t a convincing one. It was more like the sort of smile that someone would give having their picture taken while a gorilla stood on their foot. Forced. Insin
cere.

  He just looked at her. Didn’t say anything. When he and his brothers were kids, he’d always won staring contests. Had developed the useful skill of breaking someone down just by waiting.

  Her smile wavered.

  He waited.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  He waited some more.

  “Okay.” She shoved her hair back, twisted it into a rope and slung it over one of her shoulders. “I give up. I don’t care if you believe me or not.” Her eyes flashed in a rare display of temper. “Do you want to ask me anything else?”

  “Where’s Michael?”

  She puffed out a breath. Closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Michael and I broke up. I haven’t told anyone—my parents and Declan are on holiday. They don’t need to know.”

  Her relationship had failed. As far as he knew, Summer had never failed at anything important in her life. No wonder she was upset. But hiding out—keeping it secret…

  “How long?” The night she’d opened the restaurant, Michael moved in to her apartment, demolishing Nick’s half-baked plan of finally making a move, maybe asking her out for a date.

  They’d been together for three years. A failed relationship must be tough, so close to the holidays. His longest relationship had lasted a few months—he’d had to end it when he realized she was thinking they’d be together forever.

  Together forever and his name didn’t belong in the same sentence.

  She rubbed her hand over her eyes again, a look of exhausted resignation on her face. “I guess if I’m telling secrets, I should spill it all out there. Michael broke up with me four months ago.”

  Four months? She’s kept this secret from her family for four months?

  She stood up. “I’ve been up all night with that dog.” She pointed to Fella snoring in his basket. “I’m going to sleep for a couple of hours.”

  Chapter Five

  Summer climbed into bed fully dressed. She pulled the blankets up around her ears and curled into a fetal position. Even four months later, Michael’s rejection hurt. A couple of good friends in London knew the truth—the whole story. They knew the truth about the restaurant.