Logan collapses back into his seat, throwing his arms in the air before slapping his hands on the table. The sound is loud enough to make me sit up a bit straighter. “Well, I’m home now, aren’t I?”

Jillian reaches over to squeeze Logan’s hand, her eyes pleading for peace between her sons. “And we’re so glad you’re here, honey.”

Graham is less hospitable. “Sure. Some visit. Treating your family home as a rehab for angry assholes. Right down to the live-in shrink you’ve brought with you.”

My heart plummets to my stomach, and I wish I could slip away or suddenly turn invisible. The need to get out of here hits me.

Before I can make an escape plan, Austen catches my eye from across the table, instantly sensing my discomfort and need to escape. He mouths the words “come on” and rises to his feet, tipping his chin toward the back door, and I follow without saying a word or looking back toward the kitchen. Exactly where we’re going doesn’t matter. I’ll take any excuse to get out of the line of fire.

“Sorry you had to hear all that fighting and cussing,” Austen says as we step away from the house.

“I work with athletes for a living,” I remind him, zipping my jacket up to my neck. “Being around fighting and cussing is sort of the norm for me.”

With a low chuckle, he motions for me to follow him. “I promise this is pretty standard when Logan’s home. We have some strong personalities in the family, and when you add stress to that, it’s a recipe for disaster. In this case, an argument. Don’t sweat it, though. We’ll leave them to argue, and we’ll get the bonfire going.”

It takes me twice as long as Austen to make the short trip from the house to the firepit—partially because his stride is twice as long as mine, and partially because I’m moving at a snail’s pace so I don’t slip on the icy path and end up with a concussion. The temperature plummeted after a wintry mix this morning, leaving frozen patches of snow here and there.

Austen chuckles when I finally catch up with him. “We oughta get you some new boots with better grip. That is, if you’re sticking around.”

Unsure of how to respond, I focus on the firepit, then the neat stack of wood a few yards away. “How can I help?”

He waves off my offer. “I’ve got it. You just grab a seat and try to stay warm till I get this thing roaring.”

I do as I’m told, settling on the edge of one of the worn wooden benches.

Austen gets all the wood he needs in one trip and goes to work arranging the firewood how he wants it. He’s quiet as he works, and I figure now is as good a time as any to do a little more client research. I got a taste of the Tate family history from Logan last night, but now I want to hear Austen’s thoughts.