I pour a small measure into her tea and then recap the flask. We each take a sip, silence settling between us.

“Thanks for coming over and rescuing me. Again. Let me look at that lip for you . . .”

“Uh. Sure.”

Summer turns and kneels, facing me on the small sofa, and brings her palm to my cheek. Her hand is warm and soft and a little forceful as she turns my face toward her. My pulse spikes, and there’s an unwelcome twitch in my jeans.

She inspects my lip carefully, which is swollen but not otherwise cut. “Are you going to tell me what this was about?”

This was me running my mouth at Graham more than anything, and Graham does not like to be questioned. Lesson learned. But I don’t tell her any of that.

“Are you ever going to stop trying to be my therapist?”

“Point taken. How about we just work on being friends?” she says, dropping her hand from my cheek.

Missing the warmth of her palm more than I expected to, I say softly, “I might be able to do that.”

She’s still facing me, and my gaze drops to her lips. I want to kiss her. And for a second, I’m certain Summer wants that too.

But then she smiles, settling in beside me again before she takes a sip of tea. “Drink your whiskey.”

When she nods at my cup, I down its contents in one long gulp, hoping it will drown out this bolt of misplaced lust that I’m feeling. Then I set my empty cup down and rise to my feet.

“I’d better go. Add another log or two to the fire before you go to bed, and it should keep the heat overnight.”

Summer nods. “Thanks again.”

“Good night,” I say, heading for the door.

Usually, being home clears my head. Not this time, though. The fresh mountain air has been doing nothing but making me all hot and bothered. Actually, that distinction belongs to a certain five-and-a-half-foot curvy brunette who’s invaded my family’s property.

I add a log to my own woodstove and shuck off my hoodie and jeans before climbing into bed. For a moment, I consider jerking off, thinking maybe that will clear my head, but I’m not even in the mood.

I should be thinking about my team. Saint. Alex. Reeves. Even Lucian.

The guys need me. Or at least, it’s a nice thing I tell myself.

Frankly, I’m starting to think my brothers might need me here even more. If only I didn’t have a million-dollar paycheck on the line, and if my parents hadn’t paid for every hockey camp, lesson, and league . . . I wouldn’t feel so conflicted about walking away from that dream and giving it all up to stay here.