The Summer We Fell (The Summer, #1)(41)

I know I’m supposed to be grateful, but all I hear is I’ve arranged for you to work full-time, for free. You don’t need anything of your own because we’ve got you covered. It leaves me wanting to press my face deep into my plate and cry.

Across the table, Luke’s gaze meets mine, and something clenches deep in my stomach. He’s the only person in this house who’d think I was right to be upset. He may be the only person in this house, and maybe this state, who really gets me at all. And that should scare me, but it doesn’t. It’s just such a fucking relief to have someone understand.





17

NOW

I wake alone. The sun is pouring through the windows and the smell of coffee wafts toward me. I wonder, for just a moment, if last night was a dream. But there is an ache between my legs that is unmistakable.

God. How did that happen? What was I thinking?

But I wasn’t thinking, and that’s the problem. I just spread my legs for him like a fucking whore.

He didn’t even have to ask.

Donna sits at the table alone, reading the paper. “Well, good morning, sleepyhead,” she says.

“Luke is painting outside. Good day for it. Not too hot.”

I pour my coffee, barely able to meet her eye. How could I have done that, last night, in her home?

In Danny’s home?

“I have an interview,” I reply. “I’ve got to get cleaned up.”

Get cleaned up and avoid Luke, both. I have no idea how I’m going to face him now.

“New York Times or something else?” she asks.

I give a small shake of my head. “Some dumb paper I’ve never heard of.” One of the ones Hilary set up, I don’t add. I don’t like Hilary and I don’t trust her motivations, nor do I trust her to run Danny’s House when Donna’s not around to monitor things…but who the hell am I to judge anyone’s motivations? No matter how bad Hilary is, she isn’t as bad as me.

“If you need anything in town, just give me a list,” I tell her. Hopefully this will postpone another of her forced trips with Luke for a day or two.

She smiles at me over her coffee. “Great. Can you check on Luke before you go and make sure he doesn’t need anything too?”

Dammit. I was hoping to avoid him. Given the way I told him to leave last night, maybe it goes without saying that what we did won’t be happening again. But if I’m wrong about that, I’m not ready to deal with it now.

I walk out the back door and cut across the yard to find him painting the left wall of the garage.

For a moment, I lose track of why I’m out here at all, watching the muscles flex in his back as he leans



over the ladder, his arms tan and capable. I think of his weight on mine last night, the huff of his breath against my neck as he pushed inside me, the way his hands bruised my hips. I never, ever, want to forget.

When I jolt myself back to the present, I know I’ve been standing here too long. It’s not like it matters—he’s ignoring me, his specialty. Maybe nothing needs to be said. Maybe he just wanted to see if he could still get some and wasn’t planning to try again anyway.

I clear my throat. “Donna wants to know if you need anything in town.”

He sets the brush in the paint tray and turns. His eyes are completely lifeless, as if I’m inanimate, something that simply happens to be in his field of vision, something he won’t even remember he saw.

“Nope.” He turns away and starts painting again.

We’re back to hating each other. Good. That’s just as it should be.

I’M a little on edge as I head to today’s interview. I moved the location to a run-down tiki hut out at the beach, ten miles south. It’s not about keeping everyone in town from thinking the wrong thing about me but about keeping them from thinking of me at all.

If I could magically wipe their memories clear of me, I would.

There are miles and miles of untouched shore here, long beaches, the waves crashing in the distance. Surfers dot the water—black wetsuit-clad specks—the entire way. Of course it makes me think of Luke, but then…everything does. How could I have allowed last night to happen? Who could that have served? And why the hell would Luke even want me after everything that’s passed?

I park and trudge through the sand to the mostly empty bar. The reporter is male, my age or younger, in khakis and a polo shirt and the only person here who isn’t barefoot. His hand is clammy as it clasps mine in a polite greeting, and he can barely meet my eye. An interview like this is unheard of for a paper the size of his, and I suspect he’s a nervous wreck, which is why I forgive him for dredging up the same old questions everyone seems to ask: What’s it like? What’s next? What made you you?

I offer him my standard one-two combo of partial truths and outright lies. But today, the lies I tell are more of a struggle. Luke has shaken something loose inside me. He’s unlocked the safe place where I store my memories of the things that matter, and those memories are entirely of him: his smell of sand and salt and soap, his weight and that look in his eyes, always asking me to let him in and assuming there’s something worth caring for inside me.

The kid fumbles with his notes. “I’ve read that you got started singing in a church choir. It’s a pretty unusual place to start, given the songs you sing now.”