by K. A. Tucker
“Yeah, I don’t think she likes you.”
“So then, every girl except Christa.”
I laugh. “Wow! Aren’t we cocky.”
He smiles through a puff. “Hey, you said it.”
I let my gaze drift over the landscape as I absorb the hum of motorboats and nearby birds chirping. “I can see why this is your favorite place.”
“You want to jump again?”
A rush of adrenaline spikes through my body at just the suggestion. With him, a hundred times over, until my throat is hoarse from screaming and my legs wobble from the climb back up. But I’m not getting paid to go cliff diving and gawk at Kyle. “What time is it?”
He shrugs, not making a move for his watch or his phone.
“Don’t you think we should get back soon? I mean, before anyone notices that we’re missing?” I’ll be surprised if they didn’t hear my scream as it is.
“Do you always worry so much?”
“I’m not worried,” I lie, because I’m betting Kyle isn’t the type of guy who would be attracted to a worrier.
“Why’re you here, anyway?” he asks around a mouthful of smoke, smoothly diverting the topic.
Catching me off-guard. “Uh . . . I needed a summer job?”
“Your mother dropped you off in a brand-new, fully loaded Nine-Eleven, Piper. Something tells me money is your family’s last problem.” And, by the tone in his voice, that’s somehow a strike against me.
There’s no point denying it. “Yeah, my family has some money.” A lot of money. More than Kyle can possibly imagine, I’m guessing. I hear the defensiveness creeping into my voice.
So must Kyle, because he holds a hand up in surrender, murmuring, “Relax. I’m just trying to figure you out, is all. You seem out of your element here.”
“Like I said last night, my mom went here when she was growing up and she really wanted me to come for a summer.” After a moment, I add, “And she thinks it’ll look good on my college applications.”
Kyle’s lips twist in thought, seemingly pondering that. “Fair enough.”
I wait for him to ask me who my father is, what my parents do that has made us wealthy, but he doesn’t. I wonder if it’s because he doesn’t want to know, or doesn’t care.
“So, why’d you come?” I finally ask.
“Because I actually need a summer job and this place beats flipping burgers at Johnny B’s any day of the week. Plus, Eric is basically my best friend and everyone’s pretty cool, for the most part anyway. The kids are fun.” He takes another long drag, his mouth working around the O’s. He smiles slyly. “I had the best summer of my life last year.”
“Because of Avery?” I dare ask in a nonchalant tone, though I’m dying to get his take, now that she offered me hers.
He snorts as he studies the end of his cigarette. “Because of everything. But Avery and I had fun, yeah.”
That stir of jealousy sparks in my gut. I struggle to push it aside. “That’s what she said.”
“You two were talking about me?” There’s no mistaking the surprise in his voice.
“I didn’t bring it up. I swear.”
“What’d she say?”
“Exactly what you just did: that you two had a lot of fun.”
“Anything else?”
I open my mouth, intent on saying “Nothing,” but I decide I’d rather go with the truth. “That you don’t let people get too close.” I watch him carefully for his reaction.
He seems to consider that. “I guess she’s right, I don’t. Not her, anyway. I knew right away that it wasn’t gonna last past the summer, so I made sure to keep it easy. You know, so no one got hurt.” He pauses. “It doesn’t bother me at all if she ends up with someone else this year. I haven’t thought much about her, to be honest.”
What about this? Me? Has he already dismissed me as this year’s summer fling? And will I be okay with that? I want to ask, but I bite my tongue.
His crooked smile tells me he somehow knows what I’m thinking anyway.
“This summer will be even better,” I dare say.
“Oh yeah?” He squints against the sun as he studies my face. “And why’s that?”
“Because I’m here.”
He chuckles. “Now who’s being cocky?” Taking one last haul off his cigarette, he butts it out on the stone and then sits up. He reaches for his shoes, a pair of suede Adidas that are literally falling apart—the seam on one toe broken, the ends of the laces frayed, the dark gray material severely stained.
“Can’t let go of them, huh?” I tease.
“They’re comfortable,” he murmurs, but I note how his cheeks flush.
Did I just embarrass the guy I’m madly crushing on? Way to go, Piper.
I quickly backpedal. “I have a pair of tennis shoes like that. They’re my lucky ones. I haven’t lost a tennis match in them, like, ever.”
His gaze is still on his grayed laces, but I see the corners of his mouth pull, in a tiny smile. A smile that says he knows I’m lying, punctuated by his quick glance at my pristine teal Nikes, bought just last week, along with two more pairs to choose from throughout the summer.
“We should probably get back.” He yanks his T-shirt over his head.
As anxious as I am about getting caught shirking responsibility, I’m not ready to leave. “Not so fast.” I reach for the brown paper bag and toss it to him.
He cringes. “I knew you had these.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yeah, I did. I saw you come out of the canteen with them.”
I frown. “Where were you?”
“Around . . .” He tips his head to gaze at me, his eyes twinkling playfully. “You’re really gonna make me do this?”
“A bet’s a bet.”
With a groan, he dumps the packs out on his lap, holding up the cherry flavor with a scowl.
“They only had nine razz apples.”
He tosses it onto my lap. “I’m allergic to cherry.”
“Really?” I frown. “But I doubt there’s actual cherry in it.”
“You willing to find out up here?” He gestures at our secluded spot, high up on the rock. “Because I’m anaphylactic.”
“Oh. No. Definitely not.” I shake my head for emphasis. “Let’s prorate it, though. You’ve gotta do nine in . . . one minute, forty-eight seconds.”
“You’re taking this to a whole new level.” Chuckling, he tears open the tops of the pouches, holding them upright between his thighs in a line. Setting the timer on his watch, he hands it to me, our fingers sliding across each other in the process, sending my blood racing through my veins.
I clear my throat to help calm myself. “Ready?”
“No.”
“And . . . Go!” I press the tiny red button and the numbers begin churning on the screen.
With a curse, he grabs the first open pack and, tipping his head back, he dumps the powder into his mouth. His face twists horribly against the tartness. “Oh, God . . . I forgot . . . how sour these are!” he manages between swallows and cringes.
I howl with laughter. “One down, eight to go!”
He fires a glare my way, tosses the empty pack aside, and collects another one. “Just you wait—I’m gonna get you back for this.”
I’m in tears by the time he finishes the last pack, just as the beep of his watch sounds. “I can’t believe you actually did it!”
He rubs at his bottom lip with his thumb, wiping away at some residual powder. “I thought I was going to puke for a minute. My mouth hurts.” He stretches his tongue out and waggles it around, showing off his green-tinged candy-coated taste buds, making me laugh harder. “Shut up and eat yours,” he mutters through a smile, as he begins collecting the tossed packs.
“I haven’t had one of these in forever.” I wet the candy stick in my mouth before dipping it into the powder, and then pop it back into my mouth. My cheeks pucker, the cherry tart on my tongue.
I glance up to find Kyle’s gaze lo
cked on my mouth. “So that’s what those are for,” he murmurs, his expression contemplative, his lips parted. It’s the same look he had earlier, when we were in the water.
When I was sure he wanted to kiss me.
I desperately want him to.
With a small, playful smile, I scoop more powder on my stick and suck it off, more slowly this time, repeating the steps several times.
Kyle dips his head. He’s trying not to laugh.
“What?” I ask, and a touch of apprehension stirs.
“Nothing. It’s just . . . your mouth, it’s stained red.”
“No it’s not.” I press my lips together.
He bursts out laughing. “Yeah. Like, all over.”
Heat floods my cheeks as I silently curse, tossing the stick into the pack. Here I am, trying to seduce him, and now I look like a four-year-old who got into her mother’s lipstick. “Yeah, well, your tongue is green.” I furiously rub my palm against my lips, trying in vain to wipe the color off.
“Stop! Stop . . .” He’s still laughing as he grabs hold of my hand and pulls it away, lacing my fingers within his. His eyes are twinkling with mischief as they settle on my mouth. “Actually, I like the red on you. Like, really like it.” He leans in a touch but then hesitates.
I can’t take it anymore.
I close the distance and press my mouth against his. Only for a second, long enough to feel the softness of his lips and the cold metal of his lip ring, and to taste the sour apple candy powder.
And then I remember.
I break free with a gasp, my heart rate spiking. “Oh my God! I forgot! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking! What do we do?”
He frowns with confusion. “About what?”
“Your allergy!” How far is the walk to the golf cart? Can we make it in time?
“Oh. That.” He grins. “Yeah. I lied about that.”
“What?”
He shrugs. “I hate the cherry flavor.”
Relief bowls over me, even as I smack his chest. “Kyle! You don’t joke about stuff like that!”
“I’m definitely regretting it now.” His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering for a moment before he finally leans in.
The last kiss was fast and fleeting, driven by my impulsiveness. This one, though, is all Kyle. It’s slow and intentional, his lips brushing over mine once, twice . . . before settling against them in a playful dance of soft presses and the occasional graze of his tongue. Only his tip, though, and only against my lips, moving fast enough that I barely catch it with my own. Each time that I do, I sense Kyle smiling.
Trevor never kissed me like this. He always dove right in—with passionate lips and busy hands. I thought he was a good kisser. I thought that was what I liked.
But this . . .
This is more like a game. Kyle is teasing me.
And I am devouring every second of it.
My breathing turns shallow as I match his tempo, my fists balled in my lap, heat beginning to pulse through my limbs and into my core. My fingers reach for his lap, but I hold them back, curious to see what he does next.
But he just keeps going with this torturous, slow pace for minutes that feel like hours, until he finally breaks free.
“Was the cherry that bad?” I whisper, my head swimming in a heady fog.
His golden eyes burn with heat as he smiles at me. “Actually, I think you’ve made me a huge fan of all things cherry.” With a deep—shaky, I note—exhale, he eases himself off the rock and holds out his hand. “Come on. Don’t want to get you into trouble on your first day.”
Chapter 7
NOW
“How was it?” Christa settles onto the bar stool beside me, a stack of paperwork within her grasp.
“Delectable, as usual.” I’ve never had a bad meal at Christa’s restaurant, and I’ve eaten here enough times that odds say I should have had at least one overcooked steak or crusty pasta. I shove aside my dirty dishes, the small pool of red meat juices unappealing now that my stomach is stretching the seams of my dress. “You done for the night?”
“Just need to finalize this kitchen order, if I can translate Ian’s notes.” She shakes her head as her finger drags along the margin. “The man is forty-eight years old. It’s time he learned how to spell. I mean, seriously . . . green peepers? Baycan?”
I lean over to read off the supply list that the kitchen manager pulled together. “Whatever you do, don’t forget to order the chivs and sore kreem. Can’t have the baked potato without the chivs and sore kreem.”
She sighs, accepting the club soda that Sam the bartender swoops in to set in front of her. “I gave two of my managers the weekend off and now I have no bar manager, so I’m basically chained to this place. I may as well sleep here.” She says that like it’s a punishment, but I know Christa—bossing people around is the fuel to her engine.
“I guess I have the condo to myself, then.” Ashley took the five o’clock train to her parents’, where she’ll be staying until Sunday.
“Can you feed Elton his dinner tomorrow?”
“If he’s nice to me.” I sniff.
“Can you feed him anyway?”
“Fine.”
“He won’t bother you.”
“No, you’re right. He’ll pretend I don’t exist.” That cat has mastered the art of snubbing in a way few humans can match.
“So? What happened today to make you show up here looking like your dog got hit by a car?”
I slide my empty wineglass forward and Sam fills it wordlessly, with an extra heavy hand. I guess my dour face says I need it. I take a greedy gulp, feeding the warm buzz that’s finally beginning to temper my mood. “Besides my dad telling me that I need to earn Tripp the Prick’s respect?”
Her face twists with disgust. “The guy’s a misogynist. By definition, he’s incapable of respecting a woman. How are you supposed to do that?”
“Well, probably not by telling him to shove his golf stick up his ass,” I mutter. The dick called at twelve fifteen—as predicted—and was momentarily speechless when I interrupted my lunch meeting at The Port Room to answer the call.
It started out well enough. He declared confidently that all necessary permit approvals for the Marquee would be in our hands by Monday, latest. I swallowed my pride and commended him for a job well done, and then requested that he send me the revised timelines and budgets by Monday, noon. That’s when he had the nerve to flat-out refuse to request that amount of work of his team on a Friday afternoon, especially when the work would no doubt bleed into the summer weekend. Oddly enough, for a man who doesn’t care to win my approval, he certainly cares about theirs.
So I snapped, in the most unprofessional way.
Frankly, it’s nothing my father wouldn’t have demanded, and probably not in terms any nicer, but for some reason I feel like I’m going to hear about it.
“He deserved it. Your dad should fire him.” Christa clinks her glass against mine. “What about Kyle Miller?” Her eyebrows rise in question. “Did you have a chance to talk to security about him?”
I take a big mouthful. “Kyle is security. And he’s now Kyle Stewart.”
Christa’s blue eyes are bulging by the time I’m done explaining today’s run-in.
“Kyle is in security?” she says, her voice dripping with disbelief. “Do they give those guards guns?”
“No.”
“Tasers?”
“No.”
“I guess he can’t cause too many problems, then,” she murmurs with grim satisfaction.
“Can we please focus on how he didn’t even remember my name?” Even admitting it to Christa is embarrassing. “I mean, I could maybe understand Penny or Pepper. But Sarah?”
She shrugs through a sip of her drink. “He was, like, sixteen.”
“Seventeen.”
“Fine. Seventeen. And he’s a guy. And it was one summer, thirteen years ago,” she rationalizes. “It happens.”
I give her a flat look.
“Fine. You’re right. Kyle should at the very least remember your name,” she concedes reluctantly. “I was just trying to make you feel better.”
“Exactly. So then it’s impossible, isn’t it? That he’d forget me completely?”
Because, even after all these years, with college and boyfriends, and my career and my engagement to David, Kyle Miller has always been a sliver in my heart, a shadow in my thoughts. A lingering “what if” that I have never been able to truly shake.
“I’d say so, given you guys got fired from Wawa together,” Christa mutters. “Plus that whole thing with Eric ending up in the hospital.”
“Exactly! So . . . Sarah?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he got into drugs. Like, heavy stuff. Maybe he’s a raging crack addict,” Christa offers through a draw of her soda.
I let out a derisive snort. “Yeah, I don’t think so.” I just don’t see Kyle—the version I knew, anyway—touching that stuff.
“Okay, fine. Head injury?”
“That made him lose his memory of that entire summer? It’d have to be a serious head injury. I don’t think so. He seemed . . . perfect.”
I feel Christa’s hawkish gaze on me as I sip my wine and mull over the possibilities.
“So what if he doesn’t remember you?” she finally says. “You were always too good for him. You’re smart and beautiful and ambitious. Your family is corporate royalty. You’re up here.” Her arm stretches above us, as high as she can go. “He’s down here.” She grinds her toe into the hardwood floor, like she’s squashing a bug. “He knew it back then, too. And now look at you both. You’re going to be running the world one day and he’s basically a mall cop.”
I roll my eyes. “That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”
“But that’s my point! Why would you want to be? He disappeared and never called you! Why give that jerk another second’s thought?” Her face twists with a look of disgust at the very idea.
“I don’t know. Maybe I need closure?” I toy with the cocktail list, unable to summon the same level of anger. “At least he seems to have turned out okay. He has a decent job.”
“Yeah, I’m guessing he didn’t include Wawa as a referral.” Christa snorts derisively, then gives me a knowing look. “And I’m not surprised he changed his last name.”