Page 20 of The Rookie
Saint:So, what’s up, man?
I sigh and roll onto my side as I type out a reply.
Just hanging with the family. Helped my brother fix his truck today.
Saint:Cool. Well, hope to see you soon.
Even if it was a brief conversation, part of me is happy that Saint reached out. It’s nice to feel a connection with my team still. I feel so far away being out here in the mountains. I shove the pillow under my head and gaze up at the ceiling.
I’m still figuring things out after my dad’s death—we all are. But I’m beginning to realize that Graham has it the worst of all of us. Taking over the family business is a big responsibility, and his life will never be the same. Not that the guy was a barrel of fun before Dad’s heart attack, but now? Shit, I’ve been home for three days, and I’ve yet to see him smile or laugh.
And I shouldn’t have lost my temper on him earlier. He didn’t deserve that. He has a lot riding on him, and not in the fun, sexy way. I’m sure he hasn’t been on a date in months. Not that this town has much in the way of single women.
Except Summer. She’s single and smoking hot, none of which is all that helpful. Having her here is a distraction.
Though if I’m being truly honest, it’s a good distraction, and part of me is grateful for her presence. Something to distract me from family-related stress. Maybe I should be embarrassed that she’s here to witness it all, but I don’t. She said she’s not staying, so I guess it won’t matter anyway.
I’ve wanted Summer gone from the moment I first saw her, so why does the idea of her leaving now make my chest feel tight?
10
SUMMER
The mountain air must be getting to my head.
That’s the only logical explanation for what happened last night. Or rather, what I think almost happened.
Last night, when my hand was pressed against Logan’s cheek, his soft blue eyes dropped to my lips, and I felt something transfer between us. A spark, big and hot like the glowing embers of my fire this morning. I swear that in that second, he wanted to kiss me.
What’s crazier? The fact that I wanted to kiss him too. More than anything. I wanted to feel his firm mouth moving on mine, I wondered what it would be like to be the object of his attention… those big, rough hands, his muscular body…
As I brush the tangles out of my bed head and prepare to face the day, I replay that moment over and over in my memory.
There was something in his eyes, this brief flicker of ... what? Interest? Desire? Whatever it was, it only lasted a fraction of a second, and the next thing I knew, it was gone, that stern mask firmly in place again as he turned to head back to his own cabin.
Part of me was disappointed over him leaving, but logically, I knew he had to go. Logan Tate is my client, and kissing him would be almost the least professional thing I could do. A slipup like that would ruin my career before it even began.
So, why am I still daydreaming about it a full ten hours later?
I sigh, tucking my hairbrush back into my toiletry bag, and check the time on my phone. I hardly get a signal out here, meaning the latest and greatest smartphone I invested in is practically a glorified pocket watch now. It’s nine thirty, which I decide is late enough for me to venture to the house without worrying about walking in on breakfast.
Not that I’m not welcome at the breakfast table, but considering how the last Tate family meal went, I’m more than slightly nervous to face everyone again. Pair that with these weird feelings I’m having about a man who should be just a client, and I’m tempted to hole up in the cabin all day and hide from the Tate clan.
But I can’t be a coward forever, so after a mini pep talk in the mirror, I shrug on my jacket and brave the icy path back to the house.
“Morning, Summer Sausage!”
Jillian is up to her elbows in dishes, but she greets me with the kind of sweet smile that sayswe won’t be discussing last night. I’m relieved, to say the least, although a little perplexed about this new nickname.
I quirk a brow at her, slipping off my jacket and boots at the door. “Summer Sausage?”
“I’m trying to find a nickname that suits you,” she says. “Not sure I’ve landed on the right one yet.”
“I told her that not everyone needs a nickname,” Grandpa Al mutters from his usual spot in the recliner.
Apart from the two of them, the house is quiet, and the table is cleared except for a sliced bagel and a bowl of fruit that my growling stomach hopes are for me.
“Can you do me a quick favor, Summertime?” Jillian tips her chin toward a jar on the counter containing a gooey white concoction. “Feed that sourdough starter a cup of flour from the tin above the oven, would you, hon?”
