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

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 almost 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. Insincere.

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.

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 the 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.