The Summer We Fell (The Summer, #1)(44)

Thoughts of him are normally painful, but for some reason this one isn’t. I picture him happy, and my mind allows itself to empty at last. I start humming and I know that it will eventually be a song about him—most of mine are—but it’s been a while since I’ve felt so alive in the creation. It doesn’t feel distant, for once.

The slam of the screen door knocks me from my reverie. I jolt, dropping the paint brush. The ladder rocks as I reach for it, the paint can above me wobbles, and suddenly I’m no longer on the ladder at all, but flying backward toward the ground.

Somehow, though, I land safely in Luke’s arms, his body tight around mine as he absorbs the blow.

I land on top of him, blinking in shock.

His breath is on my neck and my heart is pounding at twice its normal rate. I know it was an accident and yet it somehow feels like I wanted it to happen. Like my subconscious did it on purpose.

He runs a hand over my back. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I exhale shakily. “Thanks.”

He releases me and I clumsily right myself and climb off him.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ, Juliet. You could have broken your back. Let me handle the climbing from now on.” His chest rises and falls rapidly, like he just finished a sprint.

Luke, who’s never scared, was scared for me.

I don’t want it to affect me, but he’s already shaken a little more of the past loose. Enough to be dangerous.

THAT NIGHT his footsteps echo in the hall and falter outside my door. I silently will him to enter, to be the guilty party so I don’t have to be. But his steps continue on, and a moment later his door shuts

behind him.

I remain in place another five minutes, but when the decision is made, I stop thinking entirely. I can’t get to him fast enough, outrunning the doubts that will come if I give them a chance.

I try his handle, wondering if he’ll have locked it, but it turns easily in my hand.

He’s on his back, with his arms folded beneath his head, his eyes heavy-lidded—but not with sleep—as if he was waiting for this.

He watches me approach, and when I get close enough, he moves fast, his hand coming from behind his head, reaching out to wrap around my waist as he pulls me on top of him. I feel his low groan as much as I hear it.

He slides his fingers through my hair, pulling my mouth to his.

He smells like soap and salt, his chest damp with sweat though the night is cool. His cock is a thick steel rod between us, ready long before this moment. Did he know I’d come, or has he just waited like this, night after night, the same way I’ve waited for him?

I run my tongue along his neck and reach for his boxers, pushing them down.

If this were different, if we were different, I’d slide down the bed and pull him into my mouth. I’d tease him and torture him until he was gasping, begging to come. But I can’t. There’s no time.

I slide my shorts to the side and work him inside me, biting my lip to stifle a gasp. I’m so full, for a moment, that it hurts to move. But it also hurts not to.

His hands grip my hips, pulling me up an inch and back. Up two inches and back. He releases a small groan, desperate for more. “Jules. Fuck.”

I brace my hands on his chest and begin to move, and his hands continue to grip my hips, slamming them against him, harder and harder, faster and faster.

We say nothing. I’d like to tell him how good it is, how it’s never been like this with anyone else, but I don’t.

I just dig my nails into his skin as I break, hoping this was enough to drive him out of my system so I can finally move on.





20

THEN

JULY 2014

H e comes into the diner almost every morning now, and I wait for him. I wait for him like a child waiting on Santa. I wait like I’ve left my family behind to pan for gold in 1860 and he’s my monthly letter from home.

I wait for him as if he means everything to me.

I have no idea what we’re doing, but all that matters is the sight of him, ducking a little as he walks through the door, his eyes catching mine. There’s a secret knowledge resting there. It feels good to be known, to be seen, to be believed in.

We have our routine. I bring him what I can for free, and also a Danish, which I pay for myself because Charlie caught me. I put in his order and ask how the waves were, and he lies and tells me there wasn’t anything going on.

He walks in this morning, seeking me.

I grab a menu, not that he needs one, and start walking to a free table in my section. He follows.

I pour his coffee and his fingertips brush mine as he takes the cup. “You changed up that song you played last night. I like the new bridge.”

I smile, suddenly shy. “Thanks.”

I’ve stopped waiting for the house to empty to play my guitar. I have four songs now, songs I wrote mostly in my head before attempting them outside. I recorded them using the mic, too, though I haven’t quite summoned the courage to send them out.

Danny seems slightly irked by the guitar playing, as if it’s an embarrassing hobby he wishes I’d let go of. If he comes outside, it’s mostly to see if I’m ready to leave. But Luke is out there often, and I only realize it when I hear the shuffle of feet as he goes back inside.

He isn’t Donna, saying, “Doesn’t she sing like an angel?” as if I’m a child who needs to be propped up because she has nothing else going for her. Luke’s quiet words in the diner mean more than all the faint praise about my voice in church ever could. He understands how much the songs mean to me, songs Danny doesn’t want to hear, and he’s listening more carefully than anyone else ever has. He will never get a quiet pat on the back for who I’ve become. He just wants me to know I’m