Snowbound Summer (The Logan Series Book 3) (14 page)

Summer’s Kitchen was dead, and
she had no desire to resurrect it. She didn’t want to live in London any
longer. Didn’t want to try and recapture her old life. To deny, hide and fix
her failures.

If she’d said yes to Michael’s
proposition, no-one would even have to know that she’d lost it all; that she’d
so comprehensively failed. She could spin it any way she wanted—that she’d
decided to sell the restaurant as a business decision, while retaining the
cachet of being the chef whose name was over the door.

She could pretend.

Or she could tell the truth.
Embrace the fact that she’d tried something, it hadn’t worked out, and she had
learned something important—how to fail.

There was a new life waiting,
full of undreamed of possibilities. She had no time to waste on yesterday’s
life.

She pulled the blanket up around
her ears and closed her eyes. Tomorrow would be a busy day; she’d need to hit
the ground running.

Chapter
Eighteen

Nick had thought there could be nothing worse than getting
up on Christmas morning with a hangover.

He was wrong.

Being hungover on Christmas
morning with one hand stuck up a turkey’s ass was way worse. A new admiration
for his mother was born as he withdrew a small, slimy bag containing God knows
what, and the turkey’s severed neck from the body cavity and flung it into the
trash.

“You should have saved that for
the gravy,” a voice said from the doorway.

Val.
Clutching her
ever-present camera, even though she was only dressed in pajamas.

“Want to stick your hand up there
again and smile for me?”

Nick swallowed his initial
response—Bugger off seemed an uncharitable Christmas retort—and shook his head.
“No way. What are you doing up? It’s barely eight.” He frowned at her camera. “I
thought you wouldn’t have to work today.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Val
pulled a couple of mugs from the cupboard, and spooned coffee granules into
them. “Ellie has me on standby for the entire day. I’m supposed to record every
single moment.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “Especially all
evidence of you cooking.” While the water boiled, she wandered over and took a
picture of the nude, raw, turkey, lying on a bed of foil in a baking tray. “Looks
like I’m a bit early though.”

She pointed the camera his
direction, and snapped off a shot. “Can I ask about the sunglasses?”

Nick waved to the ceiling. “The
kitchen light. My hangover...”

Val winced. “Hangover?” She
grabbed another mug and readied it. “You need some coffee too then.”

“Bring it on.” He washed his
hands.

Val made the coffee and brought a
mug to the table. “I’m back to bed. See you later.”

Was this how it always was? For
years, Ellie must have got up early doing all the preparations for Christmas
lunch while her layabout family lazed in bed. “Aren’t you going to help me?”

Val grinned. “I’ll help with the
vegetables in an hour or so, until then you’re on your own.” She glanced
around. “Where’s Summer? I thought she was on duty this morning with you.”

“So did I.” Nick drank a slug of
coffee, then added another spoon of granules to the cup. Dark chestnut grounds
swirled in miniature chunks on the surface, so he had to swirl up a mug whirlpool
to disperse them.

“Looks like you have it covered.”
Clutching the two cups, and wearing a rueful smile, Val left.

Great.

His mother had presented him with
the Christmas recipe book, which detailed a step by step of how to make
everything, so he peered at the page for what was next.

Smear the outside of the bird
with butter.

If and when Summer finally
arrived, he felt damned tempted to smear
her
with butter.
Where the
hell is she?

Apparently, melting butter in the
microwave was a fine art. One he hadn’t mastered. The surface looked fine, but
when he scooped up a handful, the inside was liquid, rather than soft. With a
curse, Nick poured it over the top of the turkey and rubbed it in with his
palm. If he’d written this bloody cookbook, he’d have done it differently. He
would have written: “Take the butter out of the fridge the night before. Open
the packet of bacon before you do the whole smearing butter thing, because the
packet is impossible to open with slippery hands.” Eventually it was done, with
rashers of bacon overlapping on the bird’s breast.

The book said:
stuff the neck
end with the stuffing you’ve made
—so he squeezed in a couple of tubes of
sausage meat.

Another hand wash, then he
stuffed the whole thing into the oven with a sigh of relief.

“How’s it going?” Ellie walked
into the kitchen.

“I have the turkey in.” He
deserved a medal. Or at least a woo-hoo. He got a pat on the back.

“Why are you wearing sunglasses?”

He slipped them off and shoved
them into the pocket of the apron. Which he looked ridiculous in—whoever
thought it was a good idea to give his mother an apron with stripper legs in
stockings printed on it was a damned idiot.

“I was hungover.” The light didn’t
hurt any more, and the dull ache in his head had faded. “I think I’m over it
now.”

“Good. It’s time for
breakfast—the others will be down in a few minutes.” She walked to the fridge
and started to assemble ingredients. “I’m guessing you’d like me to do the fry?”

Every Christmas morning, Ellie
provided a full Irish breakfast spread on the dining room table. While she was
also preparing Christmas lunch. Who would have guessed her serene exterior
covered a superwoman interior?

“How’s your arm? They could just
have toast.”

Ellie’s eyes widened. She planted
her hands on her hips. “Nick Logan. My arm was just sprained, it’s totally
better now. You know perfectly well breakfast is part of the Christmas
experience. You always loved it. What’s different?”

“What’s different is that I now
know how much work this all is.” He piled the dirty bowls into the sink, turned
on the faucet, and squirted detergent under the stream of hot water. “I’ve
barely started—there’s so much to do. How on earth do you manage to make
breakfast as well?”

“I’ll cook breakfast.” She took a
bottle of champagne from the fridge, and a carton of orange juice. “You make
the drinks. I’ve found that the orange juice helps. It must be the vitamin C.”

The booze, more like.

He put glasses out on a tray.
Poured in a measure of orange juice into each one, and topped them up with champagne,
while Ellie grilled sausages and rashers, whipped up scrambled eggs, and made
toast.

“Pass me over a glass, and have
one yourself,” Ellie said. “Cooks’ privilege.”

Footsteps on the stairs. Then one
by one, the rest of the family poured into the room and descended on the
mimosas, like a murder of crows landing in the top branches of a beech tree.

*****

The doorbell worked; it pealed inside the house, but five
minutes later, Summer still stood on the doorstep, clutching Fella’s lead.

She pressed the bell again,
hopping from foot to foot in an attempt to keep warm.

A shadowy outline appeared in the
frosted glass panel in the front door, grew larger, and then the door was
opened. Nick’s father stepped back to let her enter. “We were wondering where
you’d got to.” Dermot bent and rubbed Fella’s ears. “Come on in, everyone is at
breakfast.”

She couldn’t believe she’d slept
in—today of all days. Her insomnia had struck again last night. Her body had
been tired after the double shift in the restaurant, but her mind had been
racing like a greyhound on a dog track. She’d said no to a job at the
restaurant, but hadn’t made it a definite refusal, stating instead that she
didn’t know exactly what the new year would bring.

She’d wanted to talk to Nick
about it. She still wanted to talk to Nick, needed to understand if his
attitude the previous night had been born from irritation that she’d not
contacted him, or a different reason. If there would be a chance for them he’d
have to accept that her profession had unattractive working hours. By the early
hours, she’d at least worked out a few things. That she wanted to move back to
Ireland. To Brookbridge. And she wanted Nick to be part of her future.

She wouldn’t hide the facts any
longer, surely he would understand why she’d hidden the truth of the restaurant
from everyone?

She shed her coat, wooly hat, and
gloves in the hall, and followed Dermot into the dining room.

Conversation at the table
silenced for a moment as everyone looked at her, then Ellie stood up and waved
at the sole, unoccupied seat. “Come and have some breakfast, love.”

Nick’s face was impossible to
read. He called Fella over and showered all his attention at the grateful dog.
She sat down next to him, a chill seeping into her bones as he refused to look
her direction.

“Good morning.” She addressed her
comment directly to him—knowing the presence of others would mean he’d have to
reply. “I’m sorry I was late, I overslept.”

“Good morning.” His gaze
flickered to her, but he didn’t smile. “I’ll just give Fella his bone.” He
stood and walked into the kitchen.

Ellie set a plate in front of
her, and Val passed a dish of sausages.

She had to talk to him. “Excuse
me for a moment.” She stood up and dashed into the kitchen after Nick.

She walked to him, and touched
his arm. “Why are you being so distant?”

He pulled back. “I’m not distant.”
His mouth compressed. “What do you want from me, Summer? Congratulations?”

She frowned.

“Look. I understand. You and I
were only ever going to be a short-term thing—you wouldn’t even consider
letting your brother know about us. I would have liked to have more time with
you, but it didn’t work out. Don’t make a big deal about it.”

There was a pain in her chest. “Are
you ending things with me?” Happy bloody Christmas.

The sound he made was closer to a
bark than a laugh. “Don’t push this all on me. You’re the one...”

“Summer, your breakfast is
getting cold,” Ellie said from the doorway. “Come back in. We’re opening the
presents in a minute.”

Never had a group of people been
more annoying, even when they were trying not to be. Val kept snapping
photographs, and when breakfast was over, the presents were dragged from
beneath the tree and distributed. “I’ve left mine in the hall.” She dashed out
to retrieve the large bag she’d stowed with her coat.

She had to give Nick that
present. The one she’d thought perfect just the day before, but which now
seemed horribly inappropriate.

“Here’s one for you, Summer.” Val
handed over a beautifully wrapped parcel.

“And one from me.” April shoved a
present wrapped with penguin-covered paper her direction. “Is everything okay
with you and Nick?” She glanced over. “Did you have a fight?”

“I haven’t seen him since
yesterday morning, he was out last night.” And he didn’t come home, even when
he knew she was there, waiting. “He’s angry with me over something.”

“Is your brother back in town?”

What?
“My brother lives in
Spain. My parents are out there right now for Christmas. What made you think he
was here?”

“Ah.” April rubbed the back of
her neck. “I saw you yesterday, with a man. I thought he was your brother—I
told Nick...”

Understanding flooded her, as if
someone had turned on a light in her head, banishing the fog of confusion. “Nick
knows I was with a man yesterday?”

Before either of the women could
respond, Elle was there, shoving a parcel into Summer’s hands.

It was impossible to talk in the
crowd of Logan’s clustering around the tree, but at least she had some idea of
why Nick was acting so strangely. He knew about her meeting with Michael. She reached
into the bag and pulled out her stack of wrapped parcels and started to
distribute them.

When she was done, only one more
remained to be given. Clutching it, she walked to Nick.

*****

She’s here.
When Summer hadn’t turned up that
morning, he’d thought he must have totally screwed up last night. Last night,
he’d drowned his sorrows in a bottle of whiskey, and had snapped out a few
terse words to her when she’d eventually called, instead of doing what he
yearned to—to lay his feelings out there, to ask her to choose him, rather than
Michael. But she was here. And she was trying to connect.

Even now, when he’d given her no
opening.

Nick blew out a breath and picked
up the small wrapped box he’d shoved under the tree. When he straightened, she
was in front of him.

“This is for you.” She held out a
small, gold bag. “It’s not much, but I thought it was perfect.”

I thought it was perfect too,
I thought we were perfect.
“Thank you.” For the first time that day, he
smiled at her. “And this is for you. I hope you like it.” They exchanged gifts.
“I’m sorry I was being a bit of a jerk earlier.”

Her lips turned up at the corners
in a half-smile. “I guess I gave you cause. My cell phone died last night, I
would have called if I could.”

Everything about her, the way she
leaned in a little to him, the glance that flickered from his eyes to his
mouth, her smile, showed she wasn’t indifferent. She was here, when she could
still be in a hotel room with Michael. He didn’t know what that meant, but it
was an opportunity he wasn’t prepared to squander.

“Thank you.” He leaned in. So
close he could see her pupils expanding. He wanted to kiss her more than he
wanted anything, but if he started, he’d never stop.

Her lips softened and her hands
rested on his chest. He breathed in the scent of flowers that hung around her
in a fragrant mist. When he pulled back, her breathing had quickened. There
were too many damned people around. “Come into the kitchen with me.” He placed
the bag she’d given him down on a nearby table. “Now.”

Her eyes widened. She put the
small box onto the table. Nick curled his fingers around hers and walked her
out of the room.

In the kitchen, he closed the
door and backed her against it. “Tell me you want me.” His hands were at her
waist, his face inches from her own. He wasn’t playing any longer, was done
with playing it cool, waiting. She’s here. That had to mean something.

He kissed her mouth, trailed his
lips down the curve of her jaw, then down her neck. She was wearing a dress
with a deep V in the front, the curves of her breasts driving him wild. He
cupped one breast, and she arched her neck and groaned.

“Your family is just next door…”

“I don’t care.” He bent his knees
so they were at the same level, claimed her mouth again. Being without her
wasn’t an option. She had something to go back to in London, but he’d make it
as difficult as he could for her to walk away—he’d show her how much she had
come to mean to him.