CHAPTER 4
Declan
It bothers me so much because Summer’s my best friend, the best friend I’ve ever had.
Even the SEAL buddies I relied on in the face of extreme danger never reached that kind of level of connection.
Summer and I hit it off immediately when she showed up at Yosemite Ranch, looking for a job.
I was getting ready to leave home and she was still in high school, but in that short time, we found a deep appreciation for each other.
We became joined at the hip.
When I left for the Navy, she wrote to me on the regular, encouraging me through SEAL training.
She wrote when I was stationed at Little Creek in Virginia Beach and then when I was deployed.
Her letters and emails kept me up to date on happenings at the ranch, far more than anything I got from Dad or Aunt Phyllis, the second wife of Dad’s late brother.
Those notes from Summer always made me laugh. They made me homesick. And the letters kept me company and kept me smiling, the way Summer herself had.
The girl has a superpower—she makes me laugh. Always has. And I don’t think there’s anything better than the feeling of satisfaction I get when I make her laugh in return. It’s doubly satisfying if I say or do something that makes her stop in her tracks, think for a moment, and then howl.
She’s my buddy.
To have her look at me with disappointment was a real kick in the sac. I don’t want her to lose respect for me or feel that I’ve let her down somehow. That would be a burden too heavy for me to carry around. Her friendship is far too important to me.
She’s too important to me.
Summer and I have a lot of things in common—our love for the ranch, for the MacLaines, for fast horses and faster motorcycles. But like Summer, I usually don’t give a flying fuck what anybody thinks of me. Doesn’t even cross my mind.
With one exception: Summer herself. I care what she thinks of me. A lot. And dammit, that look on her face has left a hollow pit in my gut. If she’s disappointed in me, I’m disappointed in myself.
I take another peek at the women, still talking.
Slanted sunlight hits Summer’s face, adding a glow to her rich, silky brown hair falling down the middle of her back.
Her eyes are a stunning deep gray blue, framed by dark brows and lashes.
And like always, there’s nothing artificial on her face—no mascara or blush or lipstick.
The only thing I’ve ever seen her put on her face is sunscreen and lip balm on those long days working cattle out on the range.
I’ve known a lot of women in my life. And I’ve never met anyone with Summer’s absolute lack of self-consciousness. Here’s the message she broadcasts to the world: I am what I am, and if you don’t like it, move along. No offense taken. I’ve always loved that about her.
But as well as I know her, I don’t have a full picture of her life before she came to Yosemite Ranch, or why she wandered our way at the age of sixteen.
She’ll drop a tidbit here and there, but she’s never wanted to talk about it.
On those rare occasions when she mentions something about her childhood, she cuts herself off. Like it’s too hard to talk about.
Like she’s afraid I’ll turn away from her if I know the details.
The fact that she had a hard childhood makes her happy and positive enthusiasm for life that much more impressive.
I love that girl.
But I’ve always known she’s off-limits.
Waaaay off-limits.
Untouchable.
Like beyond-the-atmosphere, past-the-Milky Way-galaxy, off-into-deep-space kind of unreachable.
Summer has permanently locked and loaded me into her friend lane. It’s been an unspoken rule since the beginning. There’s no room for a player like me in that lane, and if I want Summer to remain in my life, which I absolutely do, we keep it friendly.
For one simple reason—Summer isn’t just another girl I date, bang, and say goodbye to with no hard feelings on either side.
If I lost Summer, there would be plenty of hard feelings. Mine and hers. I can’t speak for her, but I know for damn sure that I’d be lost without her.
Off course. Empty.
About two hours after I file my amended flight plan, I’m on the approach to Harry Reid International Airport in Vegas, on the radio with the tower. I tell my passengers to buckle up for landing as I get cleared for approach.
Honestly, I’m bummed that no one is paying any attention to my hot-pilot talk as we land.
“Roger that, Vegas tower. Phenom six-niner-Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot inbound on the ILS Zulu for runway two-six left. We’re number two, clear to land two-six left.”
Eventually, we taxi to the tarmac and roll to a stop. I step into the cabin and open the door, waiting for the ground crew to bring the passenger stairway. I look over my shoulder to see both women studying me. I smile.
Bryttni blows me a kiss. Summer rolls her eyes.
I help Bryttni down the stairs and onto the tarmac, since those high heels are not made for any kind of downward slope. Once on the ground, I raise her hand to my lips and place a soft kiss on her knuckles, pausing dramatically as I make eye contact.
From the top of the stairs, Summer clears her throat. I reach out my hand in an offer to help her, but she snorts.
“Knock it off. As if.”
She clomps down the stairs, but at the last step, her boot heel gets caught and she goes flying. I launch forward and catch her before she lands on her face. I clutch her tightly until I’m sure she’s stable, plus a few seconds extra for good measure. I can feel her heart pound against me.
“You all right?” I ask softly.
“Back off. Please.” She looks up at me, confusion in her eyes. “Have mercy on me, Declan. Let’s just hurry up and stop the wedding. I want to catch the first Greyhound bus smokin’ out of here and get back to the ranch.”
My gaze wanders over the smooth skin of her cheek, the dark pink of her pretty mouth. “I’ll fly you back. A bus isn’t necessary.”
“Wrong. I’ll do whatever’s necessary to get out of here and get home.”
She pushes me away, which is enough to snap me out of whatever trance had me thinking it was a good idea to clutch Summer close to the front of my body.
Holy shit.
She felt so good.
Summer spins away from me, her long hair catching the wind and flying up and over her shoulder.
An intoxicating whiff of her shampoo hits my nostrils, and I inhale deeply.
I’ve been right at Summer’s side when she buys her no-nonsense, deep-discount shampoo at the Sweetbriar Drug & Dime.
It’s called Peaches and Cream Deluxe. The family-sized bottles are two for five dollars.
On Summer, it smells like a million bucks.
“This is us?” Summer pats the hood of the black Escalade I requested.
“There should be a key inside, but you’re not driving,” I tell her.
“Fine by me.”
I’m surprised that she isn’t arguing. Maybe it’s because Summer’s a homebody, someone not used to being out of her element, and the kind that never wants to go anywhere. I can relate to that, which is ironic for a man who’s always flying off somewhere.
The truth is, unless I’m at the throttle of something flying, I’d rather just stay at the ranch.
I watch Summer open the back door and slide into the back seat, leaving the front to Bryttni and me. Not a word of protest. Not even a subtle dig about me being her chauffeur.
“Shall we?” I offer my arm to Bryttni. She giggles and takes it. She hops into the passenger seat, giving me an eyeful of her upper thighs.
Once I get the bags in the trunk, I race around to the driver’s side, snap my seat belt, and start up the engine. The instant my door closes, Bryttni smiles at me. We stay like that for a long moment, looking at each other. It’s silent.
Until my date says, “I’m in the mood for a cum in a hot tub.”
I know it’s physically impossible, but I swear I can feel my pupils dilate. Other body parts are dilating, no question about it.
“I can make that happen,” I say.