“Summer’s fire’s gone out,” she says instead. “Be a dear and go next door and get it started for her.”

I shift on the couch, straightening. “Why can’t Austen? Or Graham? Or Matt?”

Mom lets out a long sigh. “You know why. Now go.”

I groan. “Fine.”

There’s something about being around Summer that makes me feel on edge. And I know actually sitting down and talking to her in a counseling session would make me feel way too exposed. Even the whole honesty thing feels like too much. Sure, she’s a beautiful girl—gorgeous, in fact—and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to her.

What would she possibly understand about my life?

But it’s not fair to even think that. She’s dealt with just as much, if not more heartbreak than I have. She has no one, and the thought of a pretty, delicate girl like Summer with no one looking out for her makes my chest throb. No one to help her if her car got a flat tire, or with the task of starting a fire. No one to be there for her, or celebrate holidays with…

Fuck, that’s brutal. I shouldn’t have rushed through showing her this morning. I should have had her do it with my help, instead of just doing it for her. I’m still being an asshole, and there’s no way I can relax with the thought of her sleeping in her coat again. Especially with the temps dropping even lower tonight.

I grab my jacket and shove my feet into my boots without bothering to tie them, then I head outside, making the short walk next door. At the side of the cabin, I grab an armful of wood and then tap on her door with my boot.

She answers with a look of surprise. “Oh, it’s you.”

My left brow rises. “Were you expecting someone else?”

She blushes, shaking her head. “No, I just asked your mom if I could get a hand with the woodstove. I figured you didn’t want to see me right now, and that she’d send one of the other guys.”

“It’s not that.” I gesture inside since I’m standing here letting all the cold air in. “I’ll help get it started.”

She steps aside, and I head in. Summer closes and latches the door behind me while I stack the wood in a neat pile.

“Can I make you a mug of tea?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Come here. Let me show you how to get it started for next time.”

She crouches down beside me, and I motion for her to follow my instructions.

“Add the kindling first. And then light it . . .”

She does, following each step until we have a nice fire going.