While the brothers were gone, Grandpa Al, Jillian, and I played cards, enjoying a lovely charcuterie board she’d put together for us to snack on. Olives and dried figs, rosemary crackers, and cheese, of course. Lots of cheese. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten so much cheese.

Logan continues. “We’d just ordered our first round of beers when Ella Emerson stumbled over to our table.”

“Ella?” It’s a name I’ve never heard him mention before.

He nods. “Our neighbors, the Emersons. Three daughters. Ella’s the youngest.”

I didn’t even realize you could consider the property on the other side of their sixty acres a neighbor, but I nod for him to continue.

“She’s just turned twenty-one and probably had too much to drink, but she was with friends, so it wasn’t something to worry about. Not really.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, wondering where this story is going.

“Except Graham was worried. Like an overprotective mother hen. First, he took off his jacket and placed it over her shoulders, even though she insisted she wasn’t cold.”

I raise one eyebrow, recalling a similar move from Logan, who insisted on buying me boots when I first arrived here last year and snow was starting to fly. “What was she wearing?”

“Uh, a dress, I think.” He scratches at the stubble on his chin.

Actually, it’s more than stubble now. He’s been working on growing a beard the past few weeks at the encouragement of the guys on his team. They’re making a push for the playoffs, and apparently playoff beards are a thing. I still have a lot to learn about hockey. But he’s handsome both ways—clean shaven and scruffy like this.

“And then,” Logan says, continuing his story, “he asked her if she had a sober ride home. She said a friend was coming by later to pick her up.”

I’ll admit, my interest is piqued. In all the time I’ve known Graham, which admittedly isn’t all that long, he’s never had a relationship. Not even a one-night thing, unless he’s just super discreet. Which is entirely possible because Graham is one of the most guarded people I’ve ever met.

“He got up right then and tossed a couple of twenties on the table, and told her he was taking her home.”

“Wow.”

Logan touches my hair, brushing his fingers through the long strands hanging over my shoulder. I don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it, but he’s always finding small ways to touch me. I love how affectionate he is.

“Yeah. And when Austen made a joke about Ella being too young for him, Graham looked like he was going to hit him.”

I laugh. Now that sounds more like the Graham I know—settling a minor dispute with the threat of physical violence.