Chapter 11
eleven
. . .
RORY
Inside the van, I hand Summer a coffee. It’s a small space and Walter is working right behind us but as he hums along, I notice he’s put ear buds in to listen to music.
I’d thought her van was incredible when I saw it last night, but seeing the space in the daylight intrigues me even more. In the small kitchen there are wooden countertops and white cabinets with antique glass knobs, along with a cast iron stove and a small refrigerator in a teal color that matches the exterior of the van.
A group of plants hang from macrame pots between the kitchen and living area. A plush, patterned rug runs along the length of the floor where the loft is located toward the front of the van. Wooden shelves are built above the sitting area for book storage, and of course the dining nook with Edgar’s dog bed underneath.
Summer sets Edgar down in his bed and he immediately props his chin on the corner of it, his big eyes shining up at us for a moment before his eyelids sink.
“Wasn’t sure how you like it, so I left it black.”
She studies it a moment before taking the cup and setting it on the wooden countertop.
“Thanks.”
I watch as she reaches into the refrigerator, my eyes following the line of her long, bare legs extending from her tiny sleep shorts. Her blonde hair is tousled from sleep and her eyes are puffy from the crying she did last night. None of that changes the fact that she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Did I have a raging boner half the night?
Not while she was upset and crying, but later, in the middle of the night when her ass had nestled itself against my crotch and every nerve ending in my body sprang to life. I would have had to be dead for my body not to respond to the feel of Summer pressed up against me.
She pours some oat milk from the refrigerator into her coffee then reaches for a mug from the small cupboard above the sink and dumps the coffee mixture from the to-go cup into it.
She catches me staring and narrows her eyes. “What?”
“Not a fan of paper cups?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I like drinking from a real mug.”
Summer’s secretive nature makes catching a glimpse of something simple, like how she takes her coffee, feel like discovering buried treasure.
Even now when she’s staring at me like I’m a problem to be dealt with, her attention on me ignites a ripple of heat that expands throughout my chest.
I remind myself that not only am I avoiding Daphne because I don’t want to get back together with her, but I’m steering clear of any commitments outside of swimming. When I was younger, there was leeway for distractions without suffering the consequences, but injury and the miles on my body now require complete focus. Now, I need to be one hundred and fifty percent focused on my training program.
It’s what I told myself when my watch alarm buzzed at four-thirty this morning interrupting a cramped, yet peaceful slumber. I’d done a few of my physical therapy stretches while I waited for Walter to arrive, then rushed home to grab my gear and was in the weight room by five-thirty.
It had been a leg day, which I used to love, but now I’m cautious about my knee. Even with a reduced weight program, my legs are killing me. I drop onto the bench that serves as a couch, picking up one of the pillows there to move it aside to make room for my sizable frame. That’s when I notice it’s in the shape of a pickle.
Beneath my fingers, it’s pleasantly soft, so I give it a squeeze. Under my hands, the pillow’s plush material shrinks down before expanding upon my release. “This is cute. I didn’t realize the pickle thing extends to décor.” I sniff the air. “Wait a minute. Does it smell?—”
“Like a pickle? Yes.” She takes it from my hands and sets it back in its place beside me on the cushioned bench. “My best friend, Scarlett, gave it to me.”
It’s the first piece of information that Summer has willingly offered about herself since I met her.
“And Scarlett is a childhood friend?” I prompt.
“We met in college our freshman year. Both reluctant legacy pledges for Delta Zeta at UT.”
“Texas?” I inquire.
“Tennessee,” she clarifies.
“You didn’t want to be in a sorority?” I ask.
“Do I seem like someone who would fit into a sorority?”
I scan her from head to toe. With her bed head and clear-rimmed glasses, and those threadbare cotton sleep shorts exposing her long, tan legs, she’s gorgeous and mysterious. Honestly, Summer doesn’t seem like the sorority type, but only because she doesn’t fit the mold people expect her to. She appears to be someone who refuses to be boxed in.
“Um—"
“Never mind. Don’t answer that.”
“So, you and Scarlett didn’t pledge?”
“Oh, we pledged. It was that or break our mom’s hearts. In my case, lose my spending stipend.”
“Did you get in?”
She nods. “Yeah, unfortunately.”
“I went to UC-Berkeley. No fraternity for me. Swimming was my life. Still is.”
That’s when I see the box of art supplies on the shelf above the window by her dining nook. It’s tucked away, almost hidden, but the streaks of dried paint along the side make it more noticeable.
“Are you an artist?” I ask, reaching for the box to get a better look.
Not answering my question, Summer snatches the wooden box out of my hands and places it back on the shelf. “I think we’re done with whatever this is.”
“This is called getting to know each other.”
“Really? Because it feels like you going through my stuff. Should I come to your house and rummage through your personal things?”
My lips twitch at her proposal. “I did extend the invitation last night.”
“Hmm,” she murmurs, as if she’s not exactly sure how to respond.
While I’m an open book and wouldn’t mind if she came to my house and looked through my stuff, Summer is not the same. She doesn’t like talking about herself.
At that moment, Walter yanks the van door open, a shiny new set of keys dangling from his hand. “Miss Summer, you’re all set.”
Summer accepts the keys, and Walter packs up his tools then gives me a nod before he leaves. He’ll send me the invoice later.
With Walter gone, Summer and I sit in silence for a moment. We both watch Edgar get up, take a drink from his bowl, then settle back in for another snooze.
“Thank you for calling the locksmith, and for everything last night.”
“You’re welcome.”
Summer reaches in her purse and pulls a wad of cash out. Her tips from last night.
“How much was the lock?”
I shake my head. “I’m not taking your money.”
“Rory, you have to.”
“No,” I stand, “I don’t.”
“Fine.” She stuffs the money back in her wallet. “I’ll call Walter and pay him directly.”
I shake my head. “Not happening, Wildflower.”
Her eyes flare, at my unwillingness to let her pay for the lock, or at the nickname, maybe both.
“You’re so fucking stubborn.”
She crosses her arms and juts out her chin, giving me the most cock-stirring look of defiance. The urge to push her up against the counter and explore that obstinate mouth of hers is strong.
I take a step closer.
“Look who’s talking.”
Her eyes narrow at me, but it’s the way she sucks in a shuddering breath that tells me she’s not used to anyone pushing back. To wanting to challenge her, break through this wall she’s got up.
It also makes me wonder how often her asthma is triggered.
“How’s your breathing been? Since the other day when you had the attack?”
“Good. Nothing to worry about. I’m fine.”
Her response rolls off her tongue, her features never wavering.
My watch buzzes with a schedule notification. I don’t have to check it to know what it says. My weekly schedule is engrained.
I’ve got a meeting with my nutritionist in twenty minutes, followed by race footage analysis, then practice, so I can’t stand here and argue with her all day, no matter how much I want to.
“I have to go. I’ve got an appointment.”
Her eyes fill with relief. She thinks she won. Goal achieved.
She has no idea how badly I want to prove her wrong right now.
But I can’t, so I back up and reach for the door handle.
She scoops up Edgar and follows me out of the van.
“Fine. Pay for the lock. But let’s not make this into something it isn’t.”
“Maybe Edgar wants to see me again.”
“He just met you last night. He’ll move on.”
Summer holds Edgar tight to her chest, like she thinks I’m going to snatch him up.
“Oh, I forgot,” I say, reaching for the bag sitting in the front seat of my Jeep. “I found these on the sidewalk down the street when I was walking Edgar this morning.”
She peeks in the bag and gasps. “My paints.”
“So, they are yours?”
She nods.
“You said nothing was missing.”
“I guess I didn’t notice.”
“They looked brand new. Never used. I didn’t even think they were yours until I saw your bin of painting supplies.”
When I hand her the bag, her eyes light with exhilaration, then as she tends to do, she contains it, and casually takes the bag from me.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see you later, Wildflower.”
I hop in my Jeep and shut the door before she has time to argue with me.