Chapter 2
SUMMER
“Yes.” My response comes out breathier than it should, like I’ve run around the block. Definitely not because he just stole it. I clear my throat. “Summer Season.”
“Summer Season?” His pinched glare knocks me back into reality like I’m a freshman who made the social hierarchical mistake of running smack dab into the senior star quarterback.
The memory rushes fresh through my veins, and I’m back in high school all over again.
Embarrassment fills my chest at the new tenant and his main-character energy taking center stage on this property.
Attractive. Deep voice. Brown eyes that seem to hide more secrets than they reveal.
The hardened line between his eyes doesn’t disappear. “Unique.”
“It is,” I say through a half-hearted laugh.
It’s not the first time someone has said that.
My sisters’ and my names are different, but so were our parents, who were more carefree than I am, less so than Dolly, and loved so big it was too much for the world to handle.
We’re not just their legacy. We’re the reminders of what once was.
So I’ll take their uniqueness and carry my name with pride.
“I’m grateful it wasn’t dill or oregano.
” That joke always goes over well with the community center crowd when I’m volunteering, which is mostly made up of the elderly of our small town. It doesn’t with him so much, though.
His tongue dips out to massage his lower lip before an eyebrow anchors itself in curiosity. “Rosemary was my grandmother’s name.”
I don’t know why that makes me smile. Is it because he’s relating? Or that he’s stopped staring at me like I grew a third eye? Both. “I can’t say I’d be upset over that name. It’s quite pretty.”
“And you’re upset over Summer?” The curiosity in his tone reaches his gaze as if the world hinges on my answer.
“No.” I laugh. “I love the name Summer at least one-fourth of the year.”
“Clever.”
“I try.” I’d take a bow, but I’m still in the dirt before him. “I can’t say being on my knees in front of you is the way I imagined us meeting, Mr. Sutton, but—”
“You won’t hear any complaints from me.”
My cheeks heat from the insinuation as my thoughts go where they shouldn’t—straight to hell in a handbasket with Mr. Sutton.
I grab the large plastic-wrapped double chocolate honey cookie that fell out of the basket, and say, “You might if you find my cookie dirty.” Wait .
. . My stomach drops faster than an anchor to the bottom of the ocean.
I glance up at the tops of the tall trees, watching the leaves sway in the gentle breeze as I ponder what the hell I’m saying and why everything sounds like I’m offering myself up on a platter.
“I’m sure your cookie will be delicious either way.”
Oh my Lord. My eyes dart to his, and as our gazes latch, I’m left wondering if he thinks I’m coming onto him.
An unsubtle clearing of my throat again causes me to cough as it dries out.
I turn and hack a few more times before daring to return my eyes to his and whisper, “I think I’ve given you the wrong impression—”
“That’s too bad. I was quite enjoying the impression you were giving.” One swap of a word and that sentence has a whole new meaning.
He turns to check on his son, giving me the briefest of opportunities to study him. His confidence speaks of someone comfortable in their own skin. I’m not sure what the male equivalent of pretty privilege is, but he has it.
I feign a laugh, but I’m the worst actress, so I try to clean this mess up instead. “We’ve gotten off track, Mr. Sutton.”
“Daniel.”
“Mr. Daniel?”
He chuckles. “No, it’s Daniel Sutton. My friends call me Daniel.”
“Ah. Um.” The straps of my dress leave plenty of exposed skin to keep me cool on this warm day, but a drip of sweat slides down my back. I have a strong suspicion it’s not from the heat of summer but from the hot man before me.
As if it hadn’t already been confirmed, he is real despite my initial disbelief when I first saw him.
And almost too handsome to stare at for any extended period of time.
He should come with a warning like what we’re taught in school about the sun.
Risking my retinas, I’m willing to let them burn to stare at his hotness a few seconds longer.
I glance down and grab the Go Fish deck of cards that tried to bury itself in the leaves.
Then I drop the box back into the basket as I riddle through what exactly is happening right now.
I’m the responsible one. The one everyone comes to when they have a problem to solve—the listener, the advice giver, good ole reliable Summer that can be counted on.
Just because I’m in the presence of the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on, I’m now suddenly rendered both horny and ridiculous in equal measure?
Snap out of it. Stop acting like you’ve never seen a man before. “Man” doesn’t seem appropriate to classify this specimen into such a generic category.
Adonis?
Check.
Apollo?
Check. Check.
Human rival to the statue of David?
Check. Check. Check.
When I peek up, his eyes crinkle at the sides with an air of confidence residing inside that I assume comes with knowing who he is. I really shouldn’t find that as sexy as I do, but it’s just stacking the deck in his favor at this point.
No ring is wrapped around his finger. Not even a tan line or the remnant of an indentation from wearing something that would tell me he’s off-limits.
Even the scent of him, the outdoors coating his skin like the water recently did, has my hormones going haywire.
This is a business, Summer. As if I have a chance of turning this back around, I say, “You’re here early. ”
“Traffic was lighter than expected.”
“That’s good.”
He stands, his shadow engulfing me whole.
When I swim my gaze all the way to the top of him, he offers me a hand.
I’ve made a fool of myself several times over in the span of no more than five minutes, the sweet gesture wringing through my ill-equipped-edness of dealing with a man like him.
I’m pretty sure that’s not a word, but it fits the indescribable reaction I’m having, one I didn’t think existed before meeting him.
Vicariously balancing between wanting to fasten onto him like a spider monkey and reminding myself I shouldn’t entangle myself with a renter, I know that even considering anything with this man is pointless. He’s temporary at best. A fun time at worst.
Summer . . . I blink several times in hopes of clearing my eyes as well as retrieving my brain from the gutter.
Who am I? Flirting and winning over hearts comes so naturally to my sisters, but it’s never been something I find natural.
My mom always said we each have our own talents.
I’m thinking anything to do with men is not one of mine after this catastrophe of a greeting.
There might not be any witnesses to my ludicrous behavior, but in my head, I can almost hear Dolly cheering from down the road. I’m sure my sisters would be reacting the same if they saw their trustworthy older sis as caught off guard as I am by Daniel Sutton.
“Anyway . . .” Angling the basket awkwardly under my arm, I accept his offer. Regret fills my knees, betraying me the moment his calloused hand presses against the softness of mine. The simple touch sends electricity zipping through me, and I weaken under the sturdy grasp that keeps me upright.
Our eyes connect as the bond remains strong. But as I steady on my feet, he lets go, and the magic is gone. Looking down, I rub my palm down the side of my cotton dress to ease the shock. “Well, that was—”
“Interesting,” he says, glancing at his palm before tucking it into the pocket of his swim trunks. His expression shifts into indifference as if he’d been exposed too long without his mask in place. Or maybe it’s a hint for me to get moving again.
Reaching down to dust my knees free from dirt and ground debris, I say, “We should get you and your son settled in, Mr. Sutton.”
“That’s not necessary. We’re settled.” His gaze tracks down the path to the small beach of rocks and sand mingling at the water’s edge.
“Roman has already made himself at home by the looks of it.” His son skips a rock, then searches for another to toss.
When his father’s eyes land back on me, he says, “And you can call me Daniel.”
“You’ve known me all of five minutes. Are we already friends, Mr. Sutton?”
He laughs. “We should be after filling out your guest profile. Seems you know everything about me from how I take my coffee in the morning to what I drink for a nightcap.”
“Fair trade Death Wish coffee beans. Black, no creamer.” I shrug as if I just nailed a quiz without studying.
“No creamer needed with good coffee.” The click of his tongue is an unsubtle back pat to his ego. Fortunately, I’m not too bothered by it.
Licking my lips, I hold his steady gaze. “And you like to cap off your night with an old-fashioned without the twist of orange.”
“I don’t need accessories to make my bourbon more palatable. I’m not complicated like that.”
I tilt my head and then shake it. Peering back up at him, all six-foot, wild guess, four of him, I find my body easing into the conversation. “You know, I had to drive over an hour to Stonehill to retrieve two bottles of the requested Blanton’s Single Barrel Bourbon.”
“It was worth it.”
“I wouldn’t know.” I shrug, feeling a wryness come over me as my footing with him steadies. “I’m not complicated like that.”
His eyebrows lift, not much, but noticeable. His attention loses its measured approach, and he smirks. “I beg to differ.”
“You can beg all you want,” I smart back with a scoff. “But I’m just fine with good old well drinks.”
“Come over sometime, and I’ll show you it was worth the drive.”
It’s tempting to pinch myself to make sure this is real, and I’m not dreaming.