Saugatuck Summer (Saugatuck, #1)(4)

She squeezed my hand without a word. Eventually, I laced my fingers with hers and squeezed back. After a moment I shook off my bout of self-indulgent moping and straightened up, trying to be a good guest.

“So, what’s the nightlife like around here?”

She shrugged. “Well, there’s a really good theater company here in town. I thought we might go see a show or two this summer. And I expect we’ll head over to the club at the Dunes at least a couple times while you’re here. I mean, you can’t tell me you don’t want to party and check out the action at a famous gay resort. Other than that, I suppose we’ll drive into Grand Rapids if we want to hit some different clubs.”

“Just like we do when we’re at school.” I chuckled. I didn’t know why I had it built up in my mind that we were going away this summer. I knew how close Saugatuck was to the city near which I’d spent the last nine years of my life. I guess it had only felt far off and exotic because I’d never spent the summer in a beach house.

“Yeah, well, this time you’ll be twenty-one, so that’ll be different at least.”

I snorted. “Only a week more. You know, it f*ckin’ blows that you’re not going to be here to take me out on my birthday.”

“Hey, the weekend I’m back after that, we’ll rock the f*ck out of this town. Promise.”

“Sounds like a good deal.” I gave her a wan smile and stood. “I think I’m gonna go lust after the lake a bit longer before we head out for dinner.”

She started packing up her book. “Okay. I’m going to go up to the house and take a shower, scrape off all the sunblock. Meet you up there.”

I helped her fold the blanket, then padded down the beach and stood with my sandals off while the frigid waves lapped at my feet. I imagined myself stroking out for a vigorous swim, fighting the tide. It helped lift my mood out of its abrupt downward spiral. What Colleen wanted me to do didn’t matter. I wasn’t going anywhere. I was here for the whole summer, and here was awfully damn nice. Over the next four months, I’d find a way to make money and cover the shortfall from my scholarship so I wouldn’t have to deal with relying on my aunt and uncle’s dubious, strings-fully-attached assistance. And in a few weeks, I’d be in the water and everything would be good again.

I turned back to head up the beach toward the house.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs that climbed the dune, a man was coming down. He was dressed preppy-sharp—stonewashed blue oxford shirt with well-fitted tan slacks—and he looked like Robert Redford in his prime. Only not quite. His bone structure had that same sort of chiseled definition, but the eyes were long-lashed and feminine, more like Tom Hiddleston. And the mouth was softer and fuller, like David Wenham.

So, okay. He was basically an amalgamation of every redheaded man to ever turn my crank (and how!). And he lived in a popular gay resort town, which meant the chances were above average that he might actually be interested. Watching him trot lightly down those stairs to the beach, I realized what my third objective this summer would be.

Agent Carlisle, your mission, should you choose to accept it, will be to find out which of these residences belongs to Mr. Strawberry-Blond Hunka Burnin’ Love and convince him to do you on every horizontal surface—and against a few of the vertical ones.

I was so up for that gig.

He appeared to be out for a stroll, not coming down to lie around the beach. He flashed a smile at me as he reached the bottom of the stairs and slid his sunglasses down his nose, revealing eyes such a dark and sparkling blue they made sapphires turn green with envy. He had deep smile-creases in his cheeks, too long to be called dimples. Suddenly I wondered if my loose shorts were loose enough.

And he was smiling like he knew me. What—?

His hand darted out to shake mine. “Hi, you must be Topher. I’m Morgan’s dad, Brendan Gardner.”

Abort mission! Abort! Abort! Abort!

Seriously? Fuck my life.





I want you

But I can’t have you

And I understand it

No one is wrong this time

—Casey Stratton, “Cruel Hand of Fate”

“You can stop drooling over my dad anytime now,” Mo teased as we drove back to the beach house in Douglas after having dinner in picturesque downtown Saugatuck.

“Sorry,” I muttered, slinking down in my seat a little. Good thing my complexion was dark enough that blushes never really showed.

Of course, that could also be trouble for me this summer, in a town where less than five percent of the population was non-Caucasian and only about half of one percent was black. I foresaw the possibility of being pulled over for Driving While (Half) Black in my near future. Which, really, was nothing new after living in the suburbs of Grand Rapids, where I had been one of five students of color in a graduating class of over four hundred.

But at least I wasn’t blushing.

“Come on, though. Really. Damn, woman.” I recovered and sent her a chiding look. “Give a gay boy some warning next time.”

She chuckled. “Okay. Fine. If I weren’t obligated by all known laws of God and man to find the subject disgusting, I could possibly admit that my dad is a bit of a hottie and—except for him, you know, being straight and married—would probably appeal to any number of gay men. So, you came, you saw, you salivated, now stop being gross.”