After I close the door, I lean against it. Sunday dinner?

A couple of thoughts hit me at once. First, who is this family? And second, why am I still here?

I didn’t expect to be here more than a day or two—just long enough to show Logan I was serious and convince him to agree to work with me. And I guess I’ve done that? But it’s been on his term, and now I have no idea where we stand. I’ve probably made things terribly awkward.

One last dinner with the Tate family, and I should probably leave tomorrow. Although going back to my life in Boston is about as appealing as eating dirty socks for dinner. But I have little choice, because as pretty and serene as it is here, I can’t hide from my life forever.

Even if Mama Jillian’s cooking will be sorely missed.

• • •

When I let myself into the house a few minutes before six, Logan is sitting near the fireplace with Austen and Matt, talking in low voices. Just the sight of Logan with his hair messy from his knit cap causes my stomach to twist. He’s so ruggedly handsome—which is apparently a lethal combination for my libido.

I slip off my boots and bypass the brothers quickly en route to the kitchen.

The serenity of Jillian’s kitchen is hard to explain. It’s like an alternate universe where strangers are suddenly friends and friends are like family. I can’t say I hate it. It’s nice to feel welcome somewhere, even if this is only temporary.

She hands me a mixing bowl containing clarified butter and a small silicone basting brush. “Brush the garlic knots with melted butter, would you?”

I’m almost relieved when she puts me to work, which she inevitably does, like I’m part of the family and not an uninvited guest.

“Absolutely.”

I accept the supplies and brush the top of each golden garlic knot with a generous amount of butter. The kitchen smells amazing, and Jillian hums to herself as she slices a ham. It’s cozy and inviting, and I begin to relax the slightest bit.

I’m going to keep a low profile, eat a homecooked meal that I’ve been invited to (it would be rude not to), apologize to Logan, and figure out what in the world to do next.

Easy peasy. Right?

So, why exactly is my stomach still twisted into an intricate knot?

• • •

“Can we, um, talk?” Logan stammers when he finds me still hiding in the kitchen twenty minutes later, where I’ve just removed the garlic knots from the hot oven.

“Sure thing,” I say with a grin.