“And if the lady wins?” Ford asked, one brow raised. Sweet Lord, he was sexy when he did that one-brow thing.
Casey’s eyes took on a mischievous glint. “Tell you what. Ford takes the winner out for a drink. Winner’s choice,” he said.
“Deal,” Ford said, and damn if his expression didn’t match Casey’s as he looked at me. I felt beaten already, though we hadn’t even raced yet. And with Ford as the prize, I was almost scared to win. But I wasn’t going to back down, either.
“Deal,” I repeated.
Chapter Seven
Ford
“I have a simple philosophy: Fill what's empty. Empty what's full. Scratch where it itches.” –Alice Roosevelt Longworth
I’d managed to stay away three days before I couldn’t avoid her any longer. In truth, I could’ve waited until Casey had left her office before tracking him down about the vents, but the opportunity to see her in those snug pants, hair stacked in that messy bun she always wore to her “office” was too good to pass up. And I was itching to see her, to renew the image of her face in my mind. If thoughts of her were going to keep me up at night—and it was clear by now that they were—I needed an updated picture.
I wasn’t disappointed. Her hair was piled high and her bare toes, painted red, were tucked up underneath her ass in that wheeled desk chair when I walked in. She was smiling at something Casey had said and the open way she held herself, without thought or care as to what anyone thought, made me jealous of their relationship for the first time since I’d met them. I wanted her to be that open with me. To talk that freely and smile that fully because of something I’d said.
It would be so much easier if I let this go. Moved on. Hunkered down with my plants. Which was exactly what I’d spent the past few days doing. Studying, take notes, recording progress. Testing. That poison ivy on Casey’s leg was healing nicely. I still owed him a six-pack for that, though.
But even after days spent away, she was still there. Etched into my brain. And each time I thought I’d pushed her out, she’d pop up again. Either in overheard conversation or a glimpse I’d caught walking from the house to her dad’s garage or the small shed turned office for Frank set in the center of the greenhouses. And each time, the bounce of her wavy hair or the shake of her ass was like a punch in the gut.
And now they were going to do a creek race? Did that involve bathing suits? Shit, I hoped so. I closed up shop and headed home for the night. I was so caught up in thoughts of Summer, bare skinned and bikini-clad, that I almost walked right into a tree. I swore and shifted left, heading toward home. I’d been so caught up with their wager, I’d made myself the prize. Only thinking of Summer and how if she won I’d get that date after all.
Fucking A. Casey was right. I had an itch.
Chapter Eight
Summer
"Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we've ever met."
—Marguerite Duras
I held two fingers over the sprayer, pointing the half-empty can of air freshener into the corner where the filing cabinet stood. It was another attempt to mask the lingering smell of my mother’s perfume. My last one—very similar to this except it’d been the first half of the can and now I was spraying through the last half—had failed.
I’d sprayed until I couldn’t breathe and almost gagged on the droplets of scented liquid hanging in the air before I’d given up and bolted from the room. An hour later, I’d returned only to find a weird mix of the mountain berry-flavored freshener and my mother’s perfume, now stale, mingling together and stubbornly hanging on.
That was yesterday.
I’d quit early and hadn’t returned to the office until first thing this morning. I’d crept carefully to the corner, hopeful when the air by the door and my desk had both smelled clear. But when I reached the cabinet and inhaled, I smelled only the perfume. No trace of mountain berry.
This was ridiculous. What was it about that damned perfume that wouldn’t quit? Time for round two of mountain berry. And if this didn’t work, maybe I’d call a fumigator.
I sprayed until the can was empty, holding a bandanna I’d swiped from my dad over my face to mask the worst of it. I dropped the spray can into the garbage on my way out and closed my office door behind me, heading for the kitchen. If Mazie was cooking anything with berries, I’d vomit.
Bright female laughter made me look up, and I froze in the doorway. Mazie sat at the table in my usual spot, smiling and chatting away with her guest. Across from her, sipping on a glass of sweet tea, sat my mother.
When she caught sight of me, her smile faltered but she recovered quickly. “Hello, Summer,” she said.
“Cathy,” I returned, my tone chilly.
Mazie’s smile faded instantly, replaced by a scowl. She rose from the chair, heading for the hall I’d left behind. She stopped when she reached my shoulder and hissed, “She is your mother. Don’t you forget that.”
I ignored her and the pricks of guilt. Her footsteps faded as she left.
If my mother reacted to me calling her by her name instead of addressing her as “Mom,” she didn’t show it. Her expression was neutral, unreadable. I worked on doing the same with mine, but I’d never been good at hiding my thoughts from my face. I opted instead for anger.
She looked good. Shit, if I was being honest, she looked great. Her hair had been cut and colored, back to the lighter shade she preferred that left her just this side of blonde. Her business suit was pressed like new and as always, the simple yet elegant way she accessorized made me envious of her effortless beauty. But it was more than that. She had a glow in her cheeks, a spark in her I’d never seen. Not even before I’d left for school when I could remember happy times. Or maybe I’d been a poor judge.
Hot tears welled and I blinked them back. How could she live a lifetime with a husband and daughter that so obviously didn’t make her happy like her new life could? What did that say about our family?
I still hadn’t moved from where I stood in the middle of the hardwood floor, the bandanna clutched tightly in my hand. I suddenly had the ridiculous urge to put it on. Even from here, I could smell her perfume. After what I’d just done to erase it back in my office, the scent made me furious. I tried holding my breath; I refused to move away.
“Would you like to sit down?”
“What are you doing here?” I asked without bothering to acknowledge her question.
“I stopped in to see your father. And Mazie. And you,” she added, although the last part was said with a noticeable amount of hesitation.
“I don’t want to see you.”
Her expression finally changed, giving away her thoughts. When it did, her brows drew together in a look of pleading and she leaned forward across the table. “Summer, I miss you. I hate that we don’t talk. Will you please just tell me what it is you’re so angry about?”
“I would think it’s pretty obvious,” I shot back. “Or is your list of betrayals so long, you can’t sift through it?”
She flinched. “I didn’t betray anyone,” she argued, but her words lacked conviction.
“So Dad and me—we’re no one now? I guess that doesn’t surprise me.”
“That’s not fair. You are very important. But I didn’t betray—”
“I’ve already heard the heartwarming details of you finding your true happiness—a new job, new house, new men—so you can save your breath. I have better things to do now. Like your old job, which went to shit thanks to you leaving, and taking care of your husband.” I spun on my heel and stomped my way toward the door, pulling up short when a body blocked my exit. I shoved a little in an attempt to push past whoever had interrupted, but the chest was solid—and purposely blocking me in.
“Move—” I began, and stopped when I looked up at my dad. Judging by the shade of red covering his face, he’d heard it all. And he wasn’t happy.
“Summer Elaine Stafford, you apologize to your mother right now.” Dad’s temper wasn’t ea
sily lit but once you got him there, it ran hotter than a pig on a spit. And it was definitely there.
His tone always went deeper when he was angry, but I couldn’t remember ever hearing it quite that low. Shit, he was really pissed. Suddenly, I was eight years old again, facing the music for a broken window when Casey and I had played baseball with the turnips my dad tried that year. We never grew turnips again.
I took a step back and turned, ready to make whatever mumbled apology would allow him to let me pass. “Dad,” I began.
Mom was already there, abandoning her place at the table to join us in the foyer. “No, it’s okay, Dean. She should say what’s on her mind,” she said.
“That may be, but she can’t disrespect you in the process,” he said, a deep frown casting lines around the edges of his mouth like the ripples from a rock thrown into a pond.
“Maybe. Or maybe she can’t be any other way right now.” Mom looked at me with understanding. Which tugged at me—and then pissed me off. I stuck my chin out. “We did spring all this on her without much warning.”
“Try without any warning,” I muttered. Dad’s glare on me tightened. “Well, you didn’t. I thought everything was fine and then it just ... wasn’t. And she left you, Dad. Shouldn’t you be standing where I am? Telling her how wrong this is? How can you just be ... fine?”
“Summer, there are things you don’t know,” Mom began.
Dad cut her off. “Because they’re none of your business.”
“Dean ...” Mom trailed off and I wondered what they weren’t saying.
The first thing I’d asked when they’d told me they’d split was who had an affair. Not that I could picture it from either one of them, but it just seemed like the most logical explanation. They’d both been adamant that an affair was not the cause or even an effect of the divorce. And they’d said it with enough conviction, I believed it.
But, if not that, what else was there?
I shook my head. “I know the facts,” I said. “You were together. Married. You made it look like you loved each other. For years and years. I grew up thinking I should be like you, do what you did, have what you had. And then I find out it’s all been a lie. Because you don’t love each other.” I stared hard at my mom. “Or at least, one of you doesn’t. And then, instead of working on it, you just gave up. And you didn’t bother telling me, your only daughter, until Mom was already gone—and clearly happy with her choice. What am I supposed to say?”
“You have every right to be angry,” Mom said.
“Damn right. I’m pissed,” I said, my voice rising.
“Watch your mouth in front of your mother,” Dad said.
My mom rolled her eyes. Six months ago, that would’ve made me smile. Now, it just made me want to cry. Remembering the way she always made me feel like we were on the same side, even if that put my dad on the other. We would let him fuss and then we said what we needed to say, just the two of us.
Now, the sides were split into three. No one seeing it from the angle of the other. I hated it.
“I’m an adult, Dad. I can say whatever I want,” I said.
“Not when it’s directed at one of your parents,” he shot back. “Now, watch your mouth.”
“Fine. Whatever. I didn’t want this conversation to begin with. Let’s just end it.” I stepped around him, heading for the door, this time determined not to let anything stop me. “And I want a new filing cabinet!”
I let the front door slam shut behind me, validated by the loud noise. I stomped down the wooden steps, again relishing the loud thunk my boots made as I went. I hung a left, not even hesitating in my destination.
It’d been a long time since I’d been mad enough to get lost, but today, the corn stalks were just barely high enough and they were calling my name. Wandering lost in a cornfield too high to see your way out of had a way of ordering a person’s thoughts—one way or another. That and nobody was going to find you before you were ready to be found. It was the best cure for a “deep-set mad,” as Mazie called it. And it was what I intended to do.
“Quite an exit you just made.”
My head whipped up and I slowed at the sight of Frank leaning against the garage. “What if it was?” I asked, trying to read whatever meaning lay behind his words.
He shrugged. “No skin off my back. You late for somethin’?”
“Peace and quiet,” I said pointedly, continuing down the gravel path that led around the garage and out to the fields.
But Frank pushed off from the garage and stepped in front of me just as I rounded the far corner.
“What is it, Frank?” I asked on a sigh. He reminded me entirely too much of my dad. They should’ve been brothers.
Instead of answering, his eyes fixed on something behind me. I gritted my teeth, hoping like hell it wasn’t one of my parents come to finish the argument. The sound of a motor caught my attention and I turned, curious. In a cloud of dust, two dirt bikes zipped down the driveway and pulled up short in front of me. Both riders wore motocross helmets and goggles obscuring their face, but I recognized them easily by the cut of their bodies.
Casey was the leader—as usual. His shirt had an oil stain on the left sleeve and his helmet was scuffed on the left side where he’d gone sailing over the handlebars of this same machine last summer. I’d bandaged the arm he’d torn open when it slid across tree bark as he flew. He was also the show-off of the two, cocky and confident as the back tire slid around in a sharp-angled stop mere inches from my booted toes.
I waved away the cloud of dirt that rose in my face, opting for no greeting since opening my mouth would’ve allowed the dust inside.
Behind Casey, the second rider pulled to a much smoother stop and planted his feet in a competent, practiced move. I watched him downshift to neutral and then let off the clutch, his sinewy muscles tightening with the action of his hands. I imagined those flexing muscles would look so much hotter gripping me instead of those handlebars. My mouth watered before I remembered I was supposed to be pissed. A fact the sight of Ford’s flexed forearms had made me forget in less than three seconds.
“You look like you could use some wind in your face,” Casey said. His voice was slightly muffled by his helmet, but his words were clear. And I didn’t need to see him glance at my mom’s car up ahead to know what he was trying to do.
I threw a wry glance at Frank.
“Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’m not going for a romantic evening dirt bike ride with my own son.”
My lips twitched. They wanted to smile at the mental picture Frank’s words made. I wasn’t going to let them. Or give in so easily. “No helmet,” I said, pointing to my head for effect.
“Extra,” Casey said, pointing behind him. I looked and sure enough, there was an extra helmet strapped to the back of his seat.
“I thought these babies were out of commission,” I said, still prolonging the compromise of my temper. I knew the second I got on and the wind began to whip around me, my anger would evaporate into the dust behind me. There weren’t many things as freeing as speed in the open air. And Casey was trustworthy enough with a passenger on the back not to get too crazy. Usually. Mostly. Okay, sometimes.
“That one there’s been good since last weekend. Finished this one up last night,” he said. “Ford helped me.”
“I see.” I frowned, making sure not to look in Ford’s direction, even when Casey acknowledged him. One more glance at those arms, flexing as he worked the clutch and throttle, and I was a goner.
“We’re gonna tear up the creek trail. Make sure it’s clear for Friday.” Casey winked. “You coming or what?”
I shifted my weight side to side, trying to think of another worthy argument. I couldn’t say no. Not when it meant wind and speed and most importantly, an escape. I wasn’t going back in that house until she was gone. And the cornfields were out. Casey would only follow me down there. Or worse—send Frank.
Finally, I blew out a breath and walked over to
unstrap the half-shell helmet. “Yeah, I’m coming,” I said.
Casey’s eyes crinkled with what must’ve been a grin inside his helmet. With his right hand, he revved the throttle and the engine roared. I strapped the helmet underneath my chin and put a hand on Casey’s shoulder, about to swing a leg over the back.
“Nah,” Casey said, shaking his head. “This one isn’t stable enough for two. You should ride with Ford.”
My eyes narrowed instantly. “What do you mean ‘not stable enough?’” I’d never heard of a bike not being stable enough for two. Not when the seat was big enough and passenger pegs were there. This one had both.
Casey shook his head again. “I’m serious. It’s been giving me trouble with extra weight. You should ride with Ford, just in case. I don’t want to dump you.”
I chewed my lip. Casey knew his way around anything with an engine. Either he was full of shit and wanted to see me ride with Ford—although why he cared so much, I hadn’t figured out yet—or I’d learned even less than I thought I had in all my time hanging in the garage. Either one was entirely plausible but since I didn’t have proof, and I was already wearing the helmet ...
“Fine. Whatever.” I turned on my heel and marched over to Ford. “Casey says I have to ride with you.”
He blinked. I couldn’t see his expression behind the helmet and it unnerved me. “Then I guess you have to. If Casey says.”
I put my hands on my hips. “How long have you been riding?”
“A few years.”
“Be specific.”
“Okay, um. Four years, give or take. My uncle used to motocross so he had a bunch of tricked-out dirt bikes we messed around on.”
I didn’t allow myself a mental picture of Ford in tight motocross pants. I could do that later. When I wasn’t required to carry on a conversation with him at the same time. “And you’ve ridden with passengers?” I pressed.
“Yes.”
“Off-road?”
“Is there going to be a test later?”
“Not killing me is the test.” Before he could argue, I swung a leg over the side of the seat, balling his shirt between my fists and sliding on. I settled myself, staring at Casey and trying very hard not to think about the smooth hardness of abs underneath my fingertips.
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