Pieces of Summer (A stand-alone novel)(6)

I’ll have to switch to a local provider if I want to ever get any signal at all or be damned in the middle of the woods next to the lake where axe-murderers like to lurk.

Too much research. Don’t ask.

“Nah. He’s probably already found a summer bunny to f*ck. How the hell does a guy wear pants that tight, bitch about a woman’s clothing the way he does, and still get more action than me? He’s an interior decorator, for f*ck’s sake. Life doesn’t make sense anymore,” Aidan jokes, walking out on the front porch as he laughs.

I laugh, too, because it’s very true. Hunter has a way of literally getting almost any girl he wants, even though it makes zero sense in today’s alpha-male craze. I follow behind Aidan, still laughing as he mutters something about Hunter probably packing something his tight jeans aren’t showing.

A shiny black Chevy truck draws my attention as it idles in my driveway. Company already?

Hunter?

Hunter is definitely getting out and fist bumping the driver. He struts toward us as the Chevy backs out, and I make eye contact with a guy who seems vaguely familiar, even though I have no idea where I know him from.

He eyes me as well, studying me like he’s experiencing a touch of déjà vu. Finally, he drives off, and I shake free from my thoughts as I turn around to face Hunter.

“New friend?”

“Yeah. Thankfully the owner of the garage gave me a lift when my damn rental broke down. I had to wait on him to get back from towing my ride because that garage was busy first thing this morning. I’m calling the rental place to get a new set of wheels and let them deal with that shit.”

Shrugging, I guide him in, listening to him whistle low as he takes in all the surroundings. Our lake home is still just as amazing as ever, even though it needs some updating.

“This place is one hell of a gem. Why is it in a dying town?”

“Same reason I am,” I say quietly, running my hands over the railing of the staircase, silently adding, Hayden never lets you go. “Hayden is small, but it’s not dying,” I tell him as I turn around, changing the subject. “It’s actually growing economically. I think my new purchase will do well.”

“Why are you buying a bowling alley again? I don’t get it. You’re a murder/mystery writer. Not a damn bowling alley owner.”

“Yes, well, in my next book, the victim dies in the bowling alley. I need to do some research,” I deadpan.

He’s not getting the real reason.

“Why do I ever expect you to be serious?” he groans. “I’m going to start sketching up some designs after I inspect the place a little better. Hope you know you’re paying me a pretty penny.”

“I’m aware,” I say with a smile, considering I’m paying him in wine and chick flicks for a solid weekend. It’s not like he needs my money. I had to force him to take money for the bowling alley he handled for me.

“I’m about to head over to see how the renovations to the bowling alley have come along. Lanes to Strike is having its grand opening next weekend.”

“Wah wah wah,” my * brother says dramatically, giving it a thumbs down. “Seriously keeping that name?”

“I like it. It’s straight to the point.”

“It’s annoyingly obvious,” Hunter chimes in from somewhere near the kitchen.

“Whatever. Sign is already hanging, so f*ck off. I’m going to meet the floor manager and operations manager if I can catch them before they leave. They’re doing a walk-through today.”

Aidan flips me off while smiling, and I roll my eyes while leaving.

The drive to town is short, and I wipe my sweaty palms on my jean shorts as soon as I pull up. I don’t care if I look professional or not. That’s the beauty of owning a place; people can’t tell you how to dress or act. Especially in a town like Hayden.

For the first time in so long, I feel good. This was a good idea.

Out of paranoia, I glance around, searching for a man who no longer lives here, thankfully. I sort of stalked his Facebook once I found out he had an account. He left Hayden five years ago, and his social media was shut down after that. I don’t even know where he went or what he did. I’m just glad he doesn’t live here. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have come back.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

No, no. It’s true.

As soon as I walk in, I’m greeted by a very blonde, leggy, gorgeous girl who is wearing a set of cutoff shorts that look much better on her than me. She’s model thin and showing off just a peek of her stomach.

I subconsciously tug at my shirt, making sure none of my less-than-perfect skin is showing like her firm, flawless skin is.

“Hi, you must be Ms. Dalton, right?” the girl asks in her thick southern drawl that only adds to her charm.

“You must be Whitney West. No wonder Chuck said guys would be pouring in off the streets when they got a look at who was running the floor,” I tell her, smiling when she blushes. “And call me Mika. Everyone else does.”

She sticks out her hand and I shake it, as she adds, “Everyone just calls me Whit.”

Before I can say anything else, Chuck rounds the corner, smiling wide as he takes me in. “You’re here! You’re really here!” he exclaims excitedly.

He’s the short, bald, older, sweet guy I’ve spent months talking to over the phone about this endeavor. Even though he has no clue I used to visit Hayden every summer, he does know I’m familiar with the area. I only wish I had bothered to get to know more locals during my visit, instead of spending every waking moment with—