My surprise at his willingness to just outright refuse my help must be written all over my face. Inhaling sharply, I turn toward his mother for reinforcements.

“How about some tea? Can I get you some tea, Summer?” Jillian asks sweetly.

“No tea,” Logan says, his voice a deep rumble. “She’s not staying.”

“That’s crazy,” Jillian says, scolding her son. “She came all the way here. Let the girl warm up and at least hear what she has to say.”

I’m liking her more and more.

Logan exhales, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Fine. You have five minutes.”

Turning back to me, Jillian grins. “Great. Would you like chamomile or English breakfast? I have coffee too.”

“I’m fine,” I say, waving off her hospitality.

“Get her one of those cinnamon buns with her coffee, Jill,” Grandpa Al calls out from his armchair.

“Okay, that would be lovely,” I say cautiously, giving her a grateful smile. At the mention of food, my grumbling stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast, which was an awful breakfast burrito at the airport that I only managed a few bites of. It hardly counts as breakfast.

I’m sensing that while Logan might not want me here, his mother and grandfather seem to understand my presence here is important for his future. I guess that’s one tick in the plus column.

Taking a deep breath, I follow Jillian to the kitchen. She gestures for me to take a seat at the table while she retrieves a mug from the cabinet. I follow her instructions, pulling out a sturdy wooden chair and sitting down.

The kitchen is large with plenty of cabinets, all painted in a soft gray color. Healthy plants fill the window box, and there’s a big bowl of fruit on the table, along with a half-finished puzzle. It’s a family home—the kind I always dreamed about while growing up, but never got to experience. Complete with creaky wooden floors and books overflowing from the bookcases.

I ramble when I’m nervous, so it’s no surprise that I begin filling the empty silence with nonsensical chatter. “It’s a lovely property you have here. So serene.”

“Cream or sugar, honey?” Jillian asks, holding up the coffee carafe.

“Both, please.”

As she pours me a coffee, Logan wanders in and leans against the doorway, appraising us. His cool, indifferent gaze makes me nervous.

Jillian places a steaming mug of coffee before me and sits down. Folding her hands on the table before her, she meets my eyes. “So, you were saying you’re a sports . . .”

“Psychologist, yes.” I take a sip of my coffee.