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“Normally, I don’t.”
“So what’s the problem now?”
Mr. Talbot’s eyes widened and then narrowed. He scratched his head and bent forward, his eyes kind and concerned. “You [i]do[i] know that there’s contact in this tournament, right?”
Stunned, Logan stared at Talbot and shook his head. The hell he knew.
“No, I…” his hands tightened at his side as a slow burn began to creep up his neck. Could she be that stupid? “Are you sure?”
Mr. Talbot set his hands on the counter. “Yes. The Cornucopia has always been a full contact tourney. Billie shouldn’t play and I told her that the other day. But that girl is about as stubborn as a mule and she just shook her head and told me I was overreacting.”
Logan grabbed his stuff. “Thanks for the heads up, Mr. Talbot. I’m sure I can convince her to sit this one out.”
Convince her? He’d make her see how dumb this idea was.
Ten minutes later he rang the doorbell, foot tapping impatiently, concern and anger battling inside him. He needed to keep a cool head—to do this right—because the Billie that he had gotten to know would push just as hard, if not harder, in the other direction if she felt threatened.
And damned if he was going to watch her get knocked around the ice by a bunch of hockey goons.
Bobbi opened the door, her bone straight hair swishing around her chin as she stepped back. Her eyes weren’t exactly cold, but they weren’t exactly welcoming either.
“Logan,” she said and moved out of the way so that he could pass.
Candles flickered softly from wall sconces in the hall and the smell of apples and cinnamon filled his nostrils. The worn wood floorboards were polished to a gleam and he instantly felt it—that sense of home. That sense of belonging.
That sense of family.
Herschel appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing dirty white coveralls and a ball cap, which his granddaughter Bobbi gave him hell for, and which Herschel pretty much ignored.
“Nice to see you again, Logan.” The old guy grinned from ear to ear. “I promise we’ve got any and all firearms locked up nice and tight this time.”
Logan couldn’t help but smile. “Good to know.”
He handed two bottles of wine over to Bobbi—a white and a red—and doffed his jacket. Herschel grabbed it and with a shrug, tossed it on the bench beneath the window just to the left of the door.
“Billie is in the dining room with Trent and Gerry,” Herschel said, ignoring Bobbi’s ‘his name is Gerald,’ shout.
He pointed down the hall. “After you.”
He followed the old man, Bobbi behind him, and paused in the entrance to the dining room. Billie stood beside her father, her hand on his shoulder while he flipped through a large scrapbook that took up at least two place settings.
“Wow, remember that one, Dad? That was the game we won in triple overtime.”
Trent Barker, nodded slowly, “Yes, I think I remember that one. You scored the winner.”
“I did.”
Suddenly Billie glanced up, eyes shining. “Logan.”
Holy hell, the way she said his name.
“Hey,” he said huskily.
Gerald pushed his chair back, straightened his tie, and stepped forward as if he was the man of the house.
“Forest.”
Logan shook his hand. He turned to Billie and his heart nearly stopped.
