His for the Summer: 50 Loving States, Florida

by Theodora Taylor

  Also, she needed time to come up with a good argument against it that wouldn’t a) trigger a meltdown and/or b) let her sister know how close she was to complete and utter destitution.

  But as Dana rattled off a list of all the specialized master classes the program would be providing with renowned opera singers, Cera couldn’t think of a single legitimate reason against Dana’s participation. It sounded like the opportunity of a lifetime.

  One she unfortunately would still have to say no to. Cera’s heart sank like a stone in her chest.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” she said, cutting her sister off. “Someone’s at the door. I’ve got to go.”

  “But I haven’t told you where to send the check. Or about the opera we’ll be performing at the end of the program. Or about the special one we’ll be rehearsing in our workshop. It was written by two Rise students whose parents met because of them, they actually got married so Kenji and Sparkle could finish writing it together—”

  “Can you email me the rest?”

  “I guess, but—”

  “I really have to go, honey. Sorry!”

  Cera hung up before her sister could ask any more questions.

  Yep, that was the way to teach your autistic sister good interpersonal skills. Cut her off, then hang up on her.

  Cera sighed out loud. Well, now that she was good and depressed, she might as well go through her mail. She picked up the pile of envelopes on her lap.

  Bill…bill…postcard reminding her she was now two years overdue for a dental check-up…bill…plain white envelope with no return address—wait, what?

  Cera frowned at the letter. Her name was written across the front in strong, black handwriting. Maybe it was a personal letter from Ms. Knarik explaining how pissed of she was about the late rent.

  Cringing, Cera opened it…only to nearly fall off the couch when she saw what was inside.

  An unsigned cashier check for $15,000. Made out to her.

  “What the…” she said out loud and her eyes immediately darted to the Memo line. Searching for some clue about why anyone would send her a check for this much money. Enough to pay her back rent. Enough to make sure she could do without a job until she graduated from her program in May, and hopefully started a new teaching job at Lighthouse, the private school for kids with autism where she’d done her student teacher hours. It would also be enough to pay for her sister to go to the New Mexico Opera program.

  But the only thing on the Memo line was the word, “June” and the current year typed out beside it.

  What did it mean? Was this a repayment of some kind? But then why would the issuer have written the current year in the Memo line? Or signed the check?

  No, it seemed like—scratch that. It felt like this was some kind of payment for something. Something that hadn’t happened. Yet. Something she’d be expected to do, if she cashed it.

  Cera dropped the check.

  I can’t, she thought to herself as she watched it flutter to the ground. No, she definitely couldn’t…

  Could she?

  3

  “She deposited the check,” Hank’s gruff voice told him on the other end of the line.

  Gus let loose a feral grin as he boarded a private jet with Benton Brothers Ventures scrawled across both sides. It had been two days since Hank placed the envelope. Gus had nearly given up hope of Plan C working. But only one day before the police were due to forcibly evict her, she’d deposited the check.

  Which meant she’d agreed to his terms.

  Which meant his obsession with her was about to take a $15,000 trip out of fantasyland and become a very real thing.

  His cock pulsed at the idea of her. Real and in his bed.

  “You’re not really one of my brother’s friends, are you?”

  He could still remember her, pretty as a magnolia blossom in a pale green sundress as she set a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice down in front of him. She’d made the accusation with a quizzical smile. Squinting at him, like he was out of focus and she was trying to figure out how he fit into her brother’s perfectly preppy world.

  “Why you think that, baby?” he’d asked. “Your brother don’t usually hang out with spics from da Ninth?”

  Gus had meant it to sound like a joke. Smooth and a little bit dangerous, a combination he knew from experience girls liked.

  But the words ending up coming out of his mouth all defensive. Made him sure she could see right through him with that smiling squint of hers. All the damage in him. The fucked-up heart, the shitty foster homes, the arrest record, and about a million other things that would have made a rich girl like her think twice before offering him a glass of orange juice while he waited for her brother to get home—even if he did have a real pretty face.

  But she’d just chuckled. Actually laughed, like him dropping the name of one of the most notorious wards in New Orleans in the kitchen of her high-class Bellaire Drive two-story was just the kind of thing he did for shits and giggles.

  “No, it’s not where you’re from,” she’d answered, sitting down across from him with her own glass of orange juice. “It’s just that you seem a lot smarter than the dumb Lacrosse guys he usually hangs out with.”

  Yeah, well he had to be. The guys on her brother’s lacrosse team could run up and down a field, no problem. If he even looked at a treadmill wrong, he was in trouble. The only reason he had enough lean muscle to make girls linger past his face was because light strength training was about the only form of exercise he could do without worrying about his fucked-up heart turning on him.

  So yeah, he’d learned to be smart. But accepting her brother’s invite to meet him here did not feel smart. Neither did sitting across the table from Bruce Winslow’s daughter.

  The daughter he had to work hard not to stare at while he drank the orange juice he’d just watched her make herself with an actually juice machine. His dick had gone hard as steel inside his baggy jeans as she flowered around the large kitchen, playing the perfect hostess. And now that she was sitting across from him, it felt to Gus like the goddamn thing between his legs was growling with the need to be inside her.

  Yeah, this whole night already felt like one huge, seriously dumb-ass mistake.

  “How did you say you and Bruce Jr. knew each other again?” she asked, her dark brown eyes curious as she raised the glass of homemade OJ to her full lips.

  He watched the magnolia girl take a dainty sip of orange juice and wondered how old she was. Her body was lush with curves. Full breasts modestly tucked into a cap-sleeved, button-up top and wide hips that refused to be completely hidden underneath a somewhat dowdy plaid skirt. She also had long, thin braids that had probably never been left in for even a day longer than they had to be while her single mama waited for the next paycheck.

  Gus’s hand itched to touch those braids. To push them behind her ears, so they didn’t get in the way when he leaned across the table to—

  “I didn’t say,” he answered, forcibly cutting off that vision before it could finish forming in his mind.

  But it had been too late. He could feel his dick thick and hard inside his pants, pulsing with the need to see that fantasy come true. Pulsing back then just like it was now, fifteen years later, at the thought of finally having her.

  “Good,” Gus said to Hank, taking the first seat he came to on the plane.

  A well-made-up flight attendant appeared like a genie as soon as his butt hit the leather with a glass of champagne in her hands. “Good to see you again, Mr. Benton.”

  At the same time the voice on the other side of the line asked, “Anything else?”

  Gus took the champagne, ignoring the flirty look that accompanied it.

  “Yeah, keep on watching. Make sure nothing interferes with the rest of the deal,” he answered. The last thing he needed was another predatory boss offering her a job. Or even a nice boss, for that matter. He needed to keep her hungry for Plan C to work. “Then wait until the end of the month, and im
plement the July phase.”

  “Will do,” Hank answered.

  They hung up and Gus turned to look out the window, purposefully acting like he wasn’t aware of the still-lingering flight attendant with the hopeful look in her eyes.

  He’d banged her on the way out to Miami back in November, and she was probably expecting a repeat performance. But he wouldn’t be taking the flight attendant up on her unspoken offer to renew his mile high club membership. Or any other woman.

  Only her. He only wanted her. And Plan C more than anything proved just how far he was willing to go to get her.

  4

  “I’m so sorry, Cera. I thought we’d definitely be able to offer you a teaching position at the center—especially in light of the amazing work you’ve already done for us.”

  Cera, who’d just been walking out of the grad student lounge when Nancy Dulcene’s name popped up on her phone’s caller ID, cringed. And then her heart sank as Nancy explained why she wouldn’t able to offer Cera a teaching position at the Lighthouse Center for Autism, even though she was more than qualified for the job.

  At least she didn’t bother to lie about strong applicant pools and tough decisions, like the other three autism programs in Florida to which she’d applied. But, Lighthouse, had been where she’d done her Practicum hours for the Special Education part of her dual degree. And Nancy had all but assured her Lighthouse would send her an offer letter before the end of the school year.

  “In my opinion your parentage has nothing to do with your qualifications. We’ve really enjoyed having you here over the last semester. Also, I can see from your application that you’ve worked hard to not only support your sister, but also turn your life around after what your father did. But unfortunately, I’m not the only one who has any say in hiring here and someone influential on our board put in a call to the head of the Center…”

  She didn’t finish, but she didn’t have to. Basically, someone didn’t want the daughter of Bruce Winslow teaching the children at Lighthouse, no matter how qualified she was for the job. Which was kind of funny, she guessed.

  Back when she’d been in high school, non-profits like Lighthouse had fallen all over themselves to recruit her. Back then having Councilman Winslow’s daughter in their volunteer ranks might have meant more funding when their non-profits applied for state grants. Cera could still remember one of the older women at their family’s church telling her quite seriously that she’d only need to go to college to find a husband, because she’d easily get a position at any New Orleans non-profit she wanted.

  But that was before her brother died. Before everything about her father’s multiple crimes came spilling out, like a Pandora’s Box cracked open. Before her father, a greedy bottom-feeder until the very end, had seen the writing on the wall and shot himself in the head while under house arrest rather than spend the rest of his life in jail. Leaving yet another mess behind for Cera to clean up.

  Nonetheless, she’d been determined not to let her father’s crimes ruin the lives of the two daughters he’d left behind. That was why she’d scrimped and saved and borrowed to get enough money to move to Florida and pursue her General/Special Education dual degree when Dana left for Montana.

  She’d thought getting her dream job of working with autistic kids would be easy after school. She’d thought she’d be able to prove—with her hard work, good grades and stellar recommendations—how dedicated she was to improving the lives of kids on the spectrum.

  But apparently it hadn’t been enough to pull her out from under her father’s dark shadow. And now Nancy was telling her that thanks to what Bruce Winslow had done fifteen years ago, he’d ruined any chance she had of working at Lighthouse.

  “I really am sorry about this unfortunate situation. I think you would have made a valuable addition to our staff and if not for that board member—“

  “I understand,” Cera said, not wanting Nancy to feel bad about a hiring decision that had obviously been taken out of her hands.

  “Maybe you should think about changing your name. No internet foot print is odd, but it’s better than…”

  Again, Nancy trailed off.

  And Cera ran a weary hand over her short, natural curls. “That’s good advice. Maybe I’ll look into it.”

  Just as soon as another magic check arrived in the mail.

  Her rent was paid through to June, as was Dana’s New Mexico program fees. But summer would be here soon enough, and Rise Academy had just sent a notice about yet another incremental tuition increase. Dana started out at the school on a full scholarship five years ago. But unfortunately, the scholarship amount had remained static ever since. Any overspill was on Cera, and tuition had gone up twice since her sister started there. Not to mention she’d have to start paying back her own student loans eventually.

  No, she didn’t dare touch the remaining money to pay for a name change. Even though it looked like that might be the only way she was ever going to get a job, thanks to her father.

  Somehow Cera found the strength to thank Nancy for her consideration and hang up the phone.

  Only to have it ring again. She could see from caller ID that it was Student Account Services. Uh-oh.

  “Hello?” she said, picking up with a frown.

  “Hi, Ms. Winslow? This is Jackie Ornell, the Student Account Supervisor. I just wanted to schedule a time for you to come over to our office to sign the papers regarding your student loan payment.”

  “Excuse me?” she said, her heart scuttling with panic. Surely they didn’t want her to start paying her loan back already? “The school year isn’t even over yet.”

  “Yes, I know, which is why we were so thrilled to receive payment for your loan in full this morning. However, there are some papers you need to sign, so if you could make time to come by our office, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Wait, what?” Cera said, shaking her head. Because surely she was experiencing some sort of auditory hallucination.

  But she wasn’t. Less than an hour later, she was sitting across from a middle-age bottle blond, signing papers that stated in firm black type that as of this moment, she owed the University of West Miami exactly zero dollars.

  She kept expecting someone to jump out of nearby cubicle and yell, “Psych! You’ve been PUNKED, Cera!”

  But no one did. In fact, Jackie was nothing but all smiles as she handed Cera her copy of the pay-off paperwork and wished her well in her future endeavors.

  Cera walked out of the office, completely shell-shocked. But not so shocked that it didn’t occur to her to…

  She picked up the phone and dialed the number for the only other Student Account Services office she had in her contacts.

  “Oh, we were just about to call you!” the secretary on the other end said as soon as she stated her name. “You’re on the schedule for after lunch. But don’t worry, I’ll put you right through to Dean Rosen.”

  “Oh no, that’s not necessary. I was just calling to—”

  Too late. The phone chimed and in the next moment, Dean Rosen, a man she’d never met and whose name she’d only ever seen written in sophisticated cursive on school marketing materials, was on the other end of the line. Positively gushing about how honored the school was by her generous donation. And how of course it wouldn’t be any problem at all for his office to book all of Dana’s travel to and from her New Mexico summer program.

  “Are you serious?” Cera asked.

  Her phone beeped once, the signal for an incoming text message. But Cera ignored it, too confused to deal with anything more than trying to understand the effusive words coming out of Dean Rosen’s mouth.

  “Yes, we’ve already got the travel agency our school works with on it. You have nothing to worry about as far as Dana’s travel is concerned.”

  “But I didn’t—I don’t understand how this happened. Could you walk me through it? Like, was there some kind of anonymous donor involved or something?”

  “Hmm. Please hold while
I check with the bursar,” the Dean answered, now sounding rather confused himself.

  He put her on hold, only to come back a few minutes later, sounding even more befuddled. “It doesn’t look like an anonymous donor, Ms. Winslow. In fact, according to the bursar, we received a check for the funds three days ago, along with a note asking us to arrange for Dana’s travel to her program in New Mexico. The note was typed, but the check was issued from the same account we have on file.”

  Cera blinked. “You mean, the check you received was written from my bank account?”

  “Yes,” answered the Dean, sounding as perturbed as she felt. “It looks that way. But if you think there’s been a mistake…well, we’ve already processed the check, but I suppose we could return the monies, if that’s what you would prefer.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Cera rushed out.

  At least she didn’t think that was what she was saying. At least not yet.

  “I…I have to go. Thanks for talking with me, Dean Rosen.”

  “Of course, Ms. Winslow. And thank you again for your generous donation. It’s supporters like you that allow Rise Academy to thrive—”

  Cera hung up before he could deliver another batch of exaltations for a check she definitely hadn’t written. Even if it came straight from her bank account.

  A chill ran up her back. She had to figure out what was going on. First step: walk to the nearest branch of her bank and find out just how much money was in there now. Because it had to be a hell of a lot more than the remainder of the original check if it was paying for Dana’s tuition with enough left over for the Dean to consider it a generous donation.

  She started to pocket her phone as she headed toward the university’s closest bus stop, but then she noticed the forgotten text message on the front of her screen.

  It read, July… followed once again by the current year.

  What. The. Hell.

  The number was one of those weird corporate ones. Six digits with a dash halfway through, like the kind JCPenney used to let her know there was stuff on sale this weekend even though she still wouldn’t be able to afford to buy anything on her tight budget. At least not until a month ago.