For one, I’m developing some not-so-professional feelings toward my client, who is currently sitting across from me, taking long swigs of coffee and dodging my gaze. He’s definitely been a bit off this morning since what happened between us last night.

Which brings me to reason number two—the fact that Jillian is ultra-aware of reason number one.

But I’m not going to mention either of those reasons right now. Instead, I’m sticking to the practical truth.

“Logan’s cleared to conduct the rest of his sessions with me virtually, so there’s no need for me to stick around and wear out my welcome.”

“You’re not wearing out anything,” Jillian tells me, reaching over the table to give my hand a gentle squeeze. “We love having you around. Don’t we, Logan?”

The sweet, slightly pushy smile that she gives her son is met with silence from him and a visible cringe from me.

I love Jillian, but I don’t love the fact that she knows what’s going on between Logan and me. We haven’t gone five minutes this morning without her suggesting that Logan take me to see the local sites like the waterfalls in Aspen Park, or mentioning a new restaurant in town the two of us could check out.

And I’m guessing she may know exactly what her phone call last night interrupted.

I should have gotten off my knees the second she called, and booked a flight instead of proceeding to . . . I’m not even going to think about that. What happened between Logan and me last night was so wildly unprofessional, even thinking about it feels dirty in a hundred ways, both good and bad. And the fact that I would gladly repeat my actions this evening means it’s absolutely time to get out of Dodge.

A labored grunt comes from across the room as Grandpa Al pushes up from his recliner. I’ve hardly seen him leave that thing since I first arrived, aside from meals, and I’m actually a little surprised to see how agile he is. I could have been convinced he was confined to that old leather chair.

“I’m going to check on the chickens,” he says firmly. “And Summer here is coming with me to the coop.”

My stomach does a flip in my belly at the mention of the chicken coop. “I am?”

“Sure are.” He points his thumb toward the door. “Get a move on. We’ve got eggs to collect.”

“Since when do they produce eggs in the winter?” Logan asks, his voice suspicious.

“They can do anything if you keep ’em warm and happy.” Grandpa Al pulls a scratchy-looking wool coat off the rack and shoves his arms into it. “Just like me. C’mon, Summer, let’s go.”

Not one to argue, I lace up my boots and follow him outside.