Summer Love (14 page)

YOU
get to the bar that's overlooking the tennis courts, and Dex orders you both virgin piña coladas. They arrive with mini-umbrellas and a wedge of pineapple on top.

“These are my favorite,” he says. “It's like summertime in a cup.”

You take a sip and realize he's right. The mixture of coconut, pineapple, and icy coldness tastes like everything summer should be—sweet, tart, nutty, and delicious.

“This is phenomenal,” you tell Dex. “Thank you.”

He smiles and takes another swallow of his drink. It looks as if maybe he's building up courage for something.

“Do you want to try something even more phenomenal?” he asks.

You quirk one eyebrow up at him, trying to master Tasha's eyebrow communication. Could this mean what you think it means? “It depends what it is,” you say, hoping your smile tells him that if the more phenomenal thing is a kiss, you're totally game.

It must work, because without any more words, Dex leans in and kisses you hard on the mouth, sliding his tongue between your lips. He tastes salty and sweet and tart and nutty and delicious. “It's that,” he says, pulling away from you for a second.

“You were right,” you tell him, slightly breathless. “That was phenomenal.”

You can tell he's a little breathless, too, but he gives you a lazy half smile and kisses you again, slower this time.

When he stops, he says, “You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do that.”

“Really?” you ask.

“Really,” he says. “For at least three years. Since the summer you had that white bathing suit with the ruffles.”

You remember that bathing suit. And that summer. “I had no idea,” you tell him.

He kisses you again. “But now you do.”

“Yes,” you say, your mouth barely an inch from his, “now I do.”

Soon your drinks are forgotten, and you let yourself relax into his arms, tasting his lips and feeling them warm up as they press against yours. After a few more kisses you decide that kissing Dex is much, much better than kissing Tyler Grant ever could be. Especially when he tastes like summer.

CONGRATULATIONS!

YOU'VE FOUND YOUR HAPPY
ENDING!

“WALK
, bike, or car?” Tasha asks, as she throws a hat, sunglasses, some magazines, a book, and an iPod into her tote.

“Walk,” you answer, and pack up your own tote.

Tasha's house is on a street that has its own private beach for everyone who lives there. The beach is kind of fantastic and is only about a six-minute walk away. (Biking takes three minutes. And driving takes about one.)

Once you get to the beach, you and Tasha survey the sand. There's an open space down close to the water, but Tasha had a bad experience with high tide the summer before—when it came in superfast and carried her favorite Ray-Bans out to sea—so you opt not to take that one.

“How about the spot by the lifeguard stand?” Tasha asks.

You look up at the lifeguard. There's definite flirt potential there. “Looks good to me,” you say.

You and Tasha lay out your towels side by side and stick your flip-flops and bags in strategic spots to stop the towels from blowing away in the wind. Your eyes keep zipping up to the lifeguard, but his eyes are on the ocean. He's clearly a very responsible guy. Usually, that would be a mark in his favor, but not when it keeps him from noticing you!

You rummage around in your bag and pull out your book. It's one that's on your summer reading list for school, but it's not half bad. It's about this guy who wakes up one morning and he's a bug.

Tasha looks over at you. “You're reading
The Metamorphosis
at the beach?” she asks.

You shrug. “Good a place as any to read it.”

“Beach books are supposed to be, you know, about summer and friendships and weddings and things like that. See?” She pulls a book out of her bag with an ocean and sand and a beach chair on the cover. “This is a beach book.”

You look around at the other people on their
towels. You point to a man about your dad's age about four spots over to your left. “That guy's reading a very fat book that looks like it's nonfiction,” you say. “About wars.”

“Guys are different,” she tells you.

You shake your head. “You're being ridiculous. I'm reading my bug book at the beach.”

She sighs. “I think I'm going to go swimming.”

“Because I won't stop reading my bug book?” you ask.

She tightens her ponytail. “No, because the ocean looks beautiful, and it's hotter than Grandpa's barbecue sauce out here.” She pauses, probably thinking about your shared grandpa's barbecue sauce, which totally once gave someone a lip blister. “But you and the bug book aren't giving me a reason to stay on this towel.”

You roll your eyes. “Go swim in the ocean. My bug book and I will be fine here on this towel all alone.”

Tasha heads toward the ocean, and you get back to reading. But before you've even finished a chapter, the lifeguard behind you blows his whistle and then comes flying off his chair. A woman down by the
shoreline starts screaming. You follow the lifeguard with your eyes and see him dive into the ocean. He takes a few steady strokes, goes under, and comes up with something under his arm. You stand up to see if it's a person. It looks as if maybe it is. A smallish person. With long hair.

You can't believe the lifeguard just rescued someone in front of your eyes! Except as he gets closer you realize it's not a person. It's a golden retriever. The cute, responsible lifeguard just rescued someone's dog. This makes you like him even more.

You watch as he returns the dog to an older woman who looks as if she maybe could be some-one's grandma. She grabs onto the dog's collar and starts shouting at it. Then she's hugging it. And then she's hugging the lifeguard. You take a few steps back to your towel and sit down, watching people slap the lifeguard on the back and high-five him as he heads back to his chair.

While he's walking, you notice how ripped he is. Amazing pecs. Really cut arms and legs. You know it takes a lot to be an ocean guard, and this guy looks as if he's more than strong enough.

You let your gaze travel up to his eyes and you
find them looking right at you. Coffee-bean dark and deep, like there are secrets in those eyes. He smiles. You smile back. Then he keeps walking and climbs up on his chair.

You look at the bug book in front of you. Then you look over to the lifeguard stand. After a look like that, you wonder if you should go over and see if he wants to talk—or flirt.

AS
much fun as it would be to get prettied up by Jade, the boys at the beach seem like a more exciting way to spend your birthday weekend. And since Dex is nowhere to be found, you and Tasha call a cab to come take you home.

“I so wish I had my car out here,” Tasha says, as she pays the cabby and steps out onto her parents' pebbled driveway.

“We could've driven,” you say, shrugging. “I said I would be your map reader and iPod manager.”

“And get stuck in all that traffic?” She shakes her head. “We made the right choice. More vacation time this way. But I still wish I had my car here.”

You drop your big bag on the floor in the kitchen
and pull out a tote to pack up. You are so ready for the beach.

“GUYS
are jerks,” she says, flopping down on her towel and wringing salt water from her hair.

“What happened?” you ask, sitting down cross-legged next to her.

“So I met this adorable guy in the water,” she says, “and we got into a splash fight, and then we were dunking each other, and he took, like, every opportunity possible to touch me, and then just now, like, so long into the whole flirty business, he mentions his effing girlfriend. Who
does
that? Who meets a new girl in the ocean and plays around with her and then has an effing
girlfriend
!”

“A jerk,” you say. “A total jerk.”

“A total complete one hundred percent effing jerk.” Tasha leans back so the sun can hit her body
directly and dry her suit. “How was your time on the towel?”

You shrug. “Not too eventful. But on the plus side, I didn't flirt with any guys who have girlfriends.”

Tasha groans. Then she says, “Are you hungry? I'm hungry.”

You take a moment to take stock of things. “Not really,” you say. “But I'll take a walk with you if you want to get something.”

“Oh good!” Tasha says. “Let me grab flip-flops and a cover-up, and we can go to the food trucks in the parking lot.”

“I thought you weren't into food made in a moving vehicle,” you say. Tasha has had a thing against food trucks since they started inundating the city you both live in. You don't share her opinion and happen to like a bunch of them, especially the one that makes waffles.

“I'm not usually,” Tasha says, as you both start heading over to the parking lot, “but Jade said that the guy who runs the lobster-roll truck is adorable and really sweet. And my love of adorable non-jerky guys is stronger than my dislike of kitchens on wheels.”

“Fair enough,” you say.

You get to the parking lot and see four food trucks—the lobster-roll one, a fro-yo one, a hot-dog one, and traditional Mister Softee. If you got any-thing, you'd get that. A swirl of soft-serve chocolate rolled in chocolate sprinkles. But you're a good cousin, so you stand with Tasha in the lobster-roll line.

“Did you see the menu?” she asks. “There are, like, seven different options! I thought there was only one kind of lobster roll.”

“I knew about two,” you say. “The one with mayo, and the one with butter.”

“Hmm, interesting,” Tasha says. But she's clearly focused on the menu and not you.

Your eyes start to wander, and you notice the guy working the lobster-roll truck. He is all kinds of adorable with freckles and spiked hair and eyes the color of blueberries. You also see one of those chalkboard signs with two sides to it. The side facing you says,
NEW! SURF SCHOOL! JEAN PAUL FROM BIARRITZ WILL TEACH YOU TO SURF!
You are very intrigued.

“Did Jade mention anything about the new surf school?” you ask Tasha.

She shakes her head. “But Jade isn't so much into
swimming in the ocean, so she might've ignored it.”

“How could she ignore it if there's a French instructor from Biarritz named Jean Paul?”

Tasha laughs. “True. If she'd seen that, I bet she would've explored and been able to give us a full report.”

The lobster-roll line moves, and you take a couple of steps forward. There are about five people between you and Mr. Blueberry Eyes now. He looks up briefly, as if he's checking out the length of the line, and his eyes catch yours. Your gazes lock, and he smiles for a millisecond before getting back to work.

“You should explore,” Tasha says, elbowing you. “Maybe Jean Paul is your birthday kiss!”

“Just flirt,” you remind her. “Not necessarily a kiss. And I thought we were here to check out the lobster-roll guy, who, by the way, just smiled at me.”

Tasha raises both eyebrows. “So many boys, so little time!”