The Summer I Fell for My Best Friend: A Sweet, Heart-Felt Summer Romance (Legacy Inn Book 1)

by Sara Jane Woodley

  Summer I Fell for My Best Friend

  Legacy Inn

  Sara Jane Woodley

  Cover Photography by

  Kamil Macniak

  Eleventh Avenue Publishing

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  Contents

  1. Bree

  2. Bree

  3. Noah

  4. Bree

  5. Noah

  6. Bree

  7. Noah

  8. Bree

  9. Noah

  10. Bree

  11. Noah

  12. Bree

  13. Bree

  14. Noah

  15. Bree

  16. Noah

  17. Bree

  18. Noah

  19. Bree

  20. Bree

  21. Noah

  22. Bree

  23. Noah

  24. Bree

  25. Bree

  26. Noah

  27. Bree

  28. Bree

  29. Noah

  30. Bree

  31. Noah

  32. Bree

  33. Noah

  34. Bree

  35. Noah

  36. Bree

  37. Noah

  38. Bree

  39. Bree

  40. Bree

  41. Noah

  42. Bree

  43. Noah

  44. Bree

  45. Noah

  46. Noah

  47. Bree

  48. Noah

  49. Bree

  50. Bree

  51. Noah

  52. Bree

  53. Noah

  54. Bree

  55. Noah

  56. Bree

  57. Bree

  58. Noah

  59. Noah

  60. Bree

  61. Noah

  62. Bree

  63. Bree

  64. Noah

  65. Bree

  66. Bree

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  Also by Sara Jane Woodley

  1

  Bree

  I park my Ford Escape just inside the gates, grazing my mom’s prize hydrangeas. My mom yells at me when I park this close; she tells me that my cheap SUV will destroy her flowers. I park there anyway, just to see her sweat a little.

  The portable radio blasts static — soothing white noise — before I turn it off and kill the ignition. The world is silent and I look at the dark windows of our house.

  Tonight’s storm was mediocre. The storm was moving fast over the prairies about an hour from Edendale High, turning the sky to bruised shades of blue and purple. While others took cover inside, I drove into the darkness, headed straight for the whirl of angry clouds.

  The wind howled and ripped leaves from tree branches. Rain fell in torrential sheets as the sky turned black. Parked on the side of a gravel road, Garth — my SUV — rocked on its tires. My adrenaline pumped the way it always does when I chase storms. I chewed a fruit roll-up and waited for the first strike of lightning.

  Then, the weather shifted. The sky went from an angry black to a dull grey, the storm merely a whisper of what I’d hoped for. I sighed, turned on my thriller audiobook, and peeled out. The storm in the prairies was disappointing, but another storm awaited me at home.

  This particular storm had been building all year, courtesy of my strategy and hard work.

  The noise of the lock echoes as I shut the door behind me. The house is silent, but there’s no point in trying to be quiet. There’s a single light on in the family room, and I know what awaits me at the end of the long, dark stretch of hallway.

  Wanting to build up to the fireworks, I take my time, stopping to straighten one of our family photos. In the photo, we all look so happy. Posed. Fake. Me and my sister, Isla, are grasping hands as we stand in front of my parents.

  Right after the photo was taken, my parents broke into an argument. To distract Isla, I poked her in the side and got her to chase me. Those stupid hay bales… I tripped over one and went down screaming. Isla landed on top of me and we fought in the hay until we couldn’t breathe from laughing. My mom’s face was a brilliant shade of burgundy as she pulled us up and glared daggers at me.

  Here we go.

  I take a breath and saunter into the family room.

  My mom is sitting straight-backed on the sofa like a British royal. My dad is next to her, head tilted to the side. Probably sleeping.

  “So.” My voice is breezy. “Who had a good day?”

  I flop onto a chair and open my pre-packaged sandwich. A loaded silence echoes from the sofa… the calm before the storm.

  “I had a great day,” I say, speaking with my mouth full. “The seniors pulled a prank on the teachers for the last day. You’d be amazed what you can do with a dozen fake spiders, three socks, and—”

  “This is funny to you, Aubrey?” Mom’s voice is low, the rumbling of distant thunder.

  “Dearest Kate, to what are you referring?” I look at her innocently. She hates it when I use her name.

  She stands, holding my report card in her hand. My dad is slumped over and she shakes his shoulder. “Lionel. Wake up and discipline your daughter!”

  A snort and my dad’s eyes pop open. His glasses hang off one ear and his hair stands on end. “You know exactly what you did, young lady.”

  The classic Lionel answer. I refrain from rolling my eyes.

  My mom frowns so deeply I think her botox might fail. A thrill runs through me. She’s going to snap, which means we might have an open, honest conversation. My mom only thinks about me when she’s angry. Or does she get angry when she thinks about me? Chicken or egg, I guess.

  My mom shakes the report card in front of her. “Did you think that we wouldn’t find out about this?”

  “Paper? Oh, Kate, paper’s been around for ages. There’s printer paper, recycled paper, toilet paper, tissue...”

  My mom laughs wickedly. “So clever, aren’t you? Always so clever... But if you’re so clever, how did you end up failing English?”

  Whoa. Failed? I didn’t know I failed English. I was angling to get a solid C.

  I need to choose my words carefully. Arguing with Mom is like defusing a bomb — cut the wrong wire and everything explodes. “I did well in my classes, overall.”

  “Like that matters.” She glares. “Did you even go to school this year or were you spending all your time on your lightning hunts?”

  “Storm chasing.”

  Mom’s face twitches. “Oh, so now you care about English?”

  A lump forms in my throat. I tend to tapdance along the line of what’s considered acceptable, but it seems I’ve gone too far to one side. Time to put it in reverse. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not a good enough liar to get away with that.” Mom’s voice is surprisingly calm. “Did you really think you could pull a stunt like this and come on the family vacation to Europe?”

  My stomach drops like I’m in an elevator and the cord’s been cut. I carefully compose my face into a mask of calm indifference. “What are you saying?”

 
“Your actions over the year have been unacceptable,” my mom says. “Talking back to your dad and I, skipping out on important events, and denting your car with your foolish storm stunts. These grades are the final straw. English was the one course you needed, Aubrey. The one course we expected of you—”

  My heart pounds, blood rushing in my ears so I can’t hear my mom go on about what she expects from me and my future. I’ll be attending an Ivy League business school immediately upon my graduation from Edendale High. To get in, I’ll need to top grades in everything. Especially English. This year, I figured I could skip most English classes to go storm chasing, as long as I did well enough on the final exam.

  I knew they’d be mad. But I didn’t think they’d take my summer away from me.

  “Your dad and I have decided that you will not be coming to Europe this summer. Instead, you’ll be working at Legacy Inn. Maybe Delia can teach you some responsibility, seeing as you won’t listen to us.” My mom gathers my report card. “You’ll also be retaking English next year. And you will get an A.”

  My throat is dry and my vision is blurred. The world spins. “You’re leaving me here. Alone.”

  “Your irresponsibility, your carelessness, your deliberate disregard for anyone that’s not you hurts everyone. There are consequences to your actions, Aubrey. If you want to blame someone, blame yourself.”

  There’s a number of gestures or words I’d love to use in reply, but a sob rushes to my throat. There’s no way I’m going to let them see me cry.

  “Your loss.” I force the words from my mouth and calmly exit the room. Once I hit the hallway, I break into a run and go to my bedroom. My eyes sting, but the bedroom door is closed before I break into uncontrollable tears.

  2

  Bree

  My face is wet with tears, my breath coming in short gasps.

  A soft knock on my door interrupts my despair.

  “Bree? Can I come in? Please?”

  My sister. I have to be strong for her. I wipe the tears from my face, compose myself, and open the door. Downstairs, I can hear the raised voices — my mom’s blaring tone, and then a quick word from my dad.

  “What’s up, kiddo?”

  “They’re fighting. Again.”

  Isla rolls her blue eyes and splays herself across the bed. She’s wearing the pajama shirt and shorts I bought her to match my own. The cartoon bee on the shirt shouts to “Bee Kind,” a gentler message than the angry words downstairs. They’re arguing about me, most likely. Though it could just as easily be about the breadbox not being shut properly.

  “What was the story tonight?” Isla flips open my computer screen.

  “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?” I laugh as she enters my password. “I only listened to part of the book. It’s a thriller about a woman who goes to a haunted house in the mountains and never returns. Probably too scary for you.”

  “Is not.” Isla yawns, curls up on my bed, and rubs her eyes. With her light blonde hair and rosy cheeks, she looks like a kid from a nineties sitcom. Everyone knows we’re sisters with just one glance, except that my hair is dyed a rose-gold color. I still relish the memory of the stricken look on my mom’s face after that salon appointment.

  I sit next to her and press play on a B horror movie. The opening scene appears and I try to focus on the movie and not on the disaster that awaits me these next few months.

  “I can’t believe we’re spending the entire summer in Europe. It’s going to be amazing!” Isla’s voice is light and excited, like nothing is wrong.

  Like my parents never told her.

  “We can eat all kinds of yummy pastries and pies. My friend Cindy said that Portugal has the best candy. And think of the ways we can avoid Mom and Dad. And the beaches! I heard—” Isla’s unstoppable now, smiling, gesturing wildly as she tells me about all of the things she found for us to do online. Tours, shopping, hidden hikes.

  My ears ring and my stomach turns over. My parents didn’t bother to tell her. They were leaving that piece of dirty work to me. Probably as punishment.

  “La…” I trail off, my stomach twisted into knots. “I’m not coming to Europe this summer.”

  “WHAT?” Isla slams my laptop shut, her blue eyes flashing with thinly veiled anger.

  My stomach twists further. I can’t bring myself to face her, so I look at my hands instead. “It’s Mom and Dad. They don’t want me to come.”

  “Why not.”

  It isn’t a question. Isla knows why not. She knows about my history with our parents. I stay quiet, wishing that the floor would open up and spit me out somewhere else.

  After too many minutes of uncomfortable silence, Isla drags herself off the bed.

  “You always do this, Bree. Always.” Her voice sounds exhausted, like she’s seen one too many things in her twelve years of life. “I was counting on you this summer. I wanted us all to be there together.”

  “I wanted that too—”

  “Well, it’s too late now. We’re leaving tomorrow. You couldn’t keep it together for one more day?”

  My shame threatens to swallow me whole.

  Isla shakes her head. “Is there even a point in having a sister if she’s never around?”

  Tears sting my eyes and my cheeks burn. My throat feels raw. I want to say something — anything — but my words will only make things worse.

  With a sigh, Isla leaves my room.

  The quiet is loud and intrusive and horrible. The screaming has stopped downstairs and I almost miss it.

  I sit stiffly on my bed for what feels like hours as sadness and shame sweep through me. I had hopes for this summer. I wanted to see if we could finally, finally, be a family. You know the kind — they have dinners together, laugh together, talk to each other like equals. Now, I won’t have the opportunity.

  Instead, I’ll be spending my summer in a big, wooden building without character or magic. I used to spend my summers at Legacy Inn as a kid. Back before my parents started expanding their business and acquiring Mist Mountain Inn, Edelweiss Inn and all the others. I always wondered why they prioritized them over us.

  Screw it. I can’t sit here any longer. I’m going for a drive.

  3

  Noah

  A car screeches around the corner, jolting me from my exhaustion. Bright blue headlights race towards me. I’m in the middle of a pedestrian crosswalk, but the lights aren’t slowing down.

  Fear crawls down my spine as the car closes in.

  I dive out of the way.

  The car flies past.

  I shout a few four letter words at the tail lights of the SUV. It’s after midnight, but that’s no reason to be speeding through Edendale. I try to memorize the license plate, but within moments, the car is out of sight.

  My heart rate normalizes and I shake myself off. Lowering my shirtsleeves, I walk home, wishing I had ridden my Bonneville T100 motorcycle instead.

  Unfortunately, the night doesn’t get easier. Our house was hit by a tornado.

  I step over the shoes in the entryway, spotting the sweaters, notebooks, and make-up items strewn over the living room. Definitely the work of Hurricanes Victoria and Grace. Today was our last day of school at Edendale High, and my twin sisters celebrated by emptying their backpacks across our house.

  “Holy, Noah, you look homeless.” Grace stands in the corner of the disaster, biting into a sandwich. Her long hair is tied up in a ponytail and her blue eyes are lined with the ever-present black eyeliner.

  “Hello to you, too,” I mumble, rolling my eyes.

  “Your hair, stupid. Come with me.”

  I follow Grace into the bathroom. She pushes me onto my knees, grabs a pair of scissors, and starts snipping. I look at my reflection as she goes to town on my shaggy black hair. My blue eyes look faded and tired, and my skin is tanned. All those days working on the patio at Spruce Tree have given me a nice base for the summer.

  Grace pinches my hair between her fingers, measures it, and makes a
nother cut. “How was your shift?”

  “The usual. What’re you doing up so late?”

  “Prepping for work tomorrow.” Grace frowns in concentration and the scissors snip away. “And Victoria is hogging our room. Reading or whatever.”

  I half-smile at my reflection. When they were younger, my sisters were truly identical and they loved it. Now, they do everything they can to define their identities as separate from one another. Victoria is shy, quiet, and on a first name basis with Edendale’s librarians. Grace, on other hand, wants nothing to do with schoolwork. Clothes are her bread and butter, and her favorite pastime is talking about fashion. Or telling me how homeless I look.

  There’s footsteps outside, then Dad pops his head into the bathroom. “What’s happening here?”

  Grace jumps slightly at the sound of my dad’s voice, and makes an unexpected cut. She glares at Dad. “That’s your fault.”

  A chunk of hair drifts to the ground. A little too much hair. “This is what I get for letting you give me a haircut.”