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 says we 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.