Summer Love (5 page)

AS
cute as retro-glasses guy and his dimple are, you decide you'd rather keep reading your book. You sunscreen your back as best you can and flip over onto your stomach. But before you have a chance to get too involved in your book, a Frisbee comes sailing out of nowhere and conks you in the back of your head.

“Ow!” you say out loud to no one in particular.

You sit up and rub the spot where the Frisbee collided with your skull. It's not the first time you've been hit in the head with a Frisbee—your neighbor from home is part of an Ultimate team, and has convinced you to play a few times—but it's never pleasant when it happens.

“You okay?” you hear the lifeguard shout down to you.

You look up at him. “I think so,” you shout back.

“You want me to take a look at it?” he asks, still in his spot on the guard stand.

“I think I'll be all right,” you answer.

Then you hear someone shouting at you from farther down the beach. “Hey! Chick in the red bathing suit! Can you toss that disc back?”

“You just hit me with this thing!” you yell, picking up the Frisbee and standing next to your towel.

“I'm so sorry! It got caught in the wind,” the guy answers. “Can you throw it back?”

With a smirk, you toss the Frisbee so it lands halfway between your towel and the place he's standing, right on top of a garbage pail.

“Sorry!” you yell back. “It must've gotten caught in the wind.”

You hear someone chuckling and look up. It's the lifeguard. “Nice one,” he says, when he sees you facing him.

You find yourself laughing, too. And wondering if maybe flirting with a nice Boy Scout–type could be a good thing after all. But before you can make your decision, Frisbee Guy comes over, having retrieved his Frisbee.

“I want to apologize,” he says, “and compliment
your arm. Not just anyone can pitch a disc onto a trash can like that.”

You smile and feel yourself blushing. He totally knew that you threw the Frisbee onto the garbage pail on purpose. “Sorry about that,” you say.

He smiles back. “I'll forgive you,” he says, “if you agree to play with us. It's co-ed, and we need a girl—especially one with an arm like that.”

You thank him for the offer, but you're not completely sure if you want to play. Plus, Tasha's been gone for a while. And there's the lifeguard you shared that moment with before, who saved a dog's life and seems like he might be much more interesting than he first appeared.

As Frisbee Guy starts to walk away, you're still not certain what to do next.

THINKING
about it a little more, you decide that ice cream with J.R. actually might be the perfect cure for seeing someone almost drown.

“Sure,” you say. “Ice cream sounds great.”

“Let me just grab my shirt and wallet,” he says. He jogs over to the lifeguard stand and pulls a red duffel bag out from underneath it. When he slips on his T-shirt, you're a little disappointed. Muscles like his should never be hidden under clothing. You throw on your cover-up and a pair of flip-flops, and then J.R.'s back and walking with you over to the ice cream stand.

“What a crazy day,” he says.

“That sort of thing doesn't usually happen?” you ask.

J.R. shakes his head. “Not at all. Like, maybe
ten times all summer. This is a private beach, so it's pretty small. Not a ton of people means not a ton of problems, usually. But today, I don't know. Maybe it's a full moon or something.”

You wonder if it is. And if that sort of thing really makes a difference.

“Do you believe in magic?” you ask him.

“Magic?” he asks.

“You know, the full moon affecting people.” You're asking because of that, but also because somehow, you're feeling drawn to J.R. Almost magically. You're not sure if it's because you watched him save someone's life, or because of his underwear-ad-campaign-ready body, or because he actually seems like a really nice guy, but there's magnetism there.

“Oh,” he says, and then stays quiet for a moment. “I believe in the possibility of magic.”

You nod. “I like that. I think I believe in the possibility of magic, too.”

You've made it to the ice cream stand, and you look at all of the options written on the chalkboard wall.

“What would you like?” J.R. asks. “My treat, because you spotted that guy first.”

“Oh, you don't have to!” you say.

“I know.” He reaches into his bathing suit pocket for his wallet. “I'm not doing it because I have to. I want to.”

That magical magnetism feels as if it just ratcheted up a notch, and you can't quite look away from J.R.

“Double chocolate chip with chocolate sprinkles,” you say. “In a wafer cone.”

That's your favorite ice cream combo and has been forever.

J.R. smirks.

“What's so funny?” you ask.

“I was planning to get vanilla with rainbow sprinkles in a cup.”

“Opposites attract?” you ask out loud, before you realize the words have made it from your brain to your mouth.

But thankfully, J.R. smiles. “Opposites attract,” he says.

J.R. pays, and you take your ice creams over to a bench. You lick your cone quietly, feeling the stress and panic of the near-drowning situation leaving your body. You look over at J.R., wondering if he's feeling the same thing.

He's already looking at you. “I liked what you
noticed about me before. About me taking care of people. That . . . it meant a lot somehow.”

You shrug. “It seemed obvious,” you say as you lick your cone again.

“Not to everyone,” J.R. says. “Not everyone listens like that. Or bothers to notice.”

You move your cone up and run your tongue around the edge to catch all the drips before they make it down to your hand. Then you say, “People must be nuts not to listen to you. Or notice you.”

J.R.'s quiet for a minute. “You have some ice cream on your lip,” he says.

You're horrified. It must be pretty disastrous if he bothered to say something to you about it. “Where?” you ask, swiping at your mouth.

“Let me,” he says.

You tip your face toward him, and the next thing you know his lips are on yours. You're surprised for a second, and then he slowly pulls away.

“All clean,” he says, looking down at his ice cream. He eats a spoonful. You wonder if maybe he's embarrassed. You wonder if you should say, “That was nice” or “Thank you” or something, but those both seem lame.

“J.R.?” you finally say.

He looks back at you.

“I think you have some ice cream on your lip, too.”

This time, you lean toward him, and this time you're not surprised, and this time the kiss lasts so long you start to feel short of breath.

You pull away and then scoot closer to J.R. on the bench. He puts his arm around your shoulder and hugs you in closer to him. You lean your head against his chest, and he rests his chin on your hair, tucking you tight against him. And you decide that this moment—right here, right now—is exactly the birthday present you'd be hoping to get this weekend. And it makes you believe that the existence of magic is more than just a possibility.

CONGRATULATIONS!

YOU'VE FOUND YOUR HAPPY
ENDING!

YOU
look over at Tasha and Jade. They're pointing to different pages in the catalog and seem to be arguing. You look back at Adam.

“Sure,” you say. “A soda sounds great. A walk, too.”

The two of you head toward the snack bar, and you can't help but notice how tall Adam is. It seems as if he could tuck your head right underneath his chin. Actually, you might need a pair of heels to reach his chin.

“Are you six five?” you blurt out. “Six four?”

“Six three,” he tells you, with a smile. “And yes, I do play basketball.”

That might explain the abs. He's clearly an athlete.

“So where are the triplets' parents?” you ask him.

You're at the snack bar now. He orders himself a Sprite and asks what you want. “Orange soda,” you tell him.

“Huh,” he says before ordering your drink. “I had you pegged for a Diet Coke. That's what most of the girls here drink.” He signs the chit for both drinks and hands you yours.

“I guess I'm not like most of the girls,” you say. You're definitely flirting now.

He looks intrigued. “I guess not. Anyway, their dad is golfing, and their mom is playing tennis. Then she's getting a manicure and having her hair done for some party they're going to tonight.”

You nod and take a sip of your soda. The orangey tang explodes in your mouth. You can't understand why everyone doesn't drink orange soda. It's clearly the best soda ever invented.

“And how did you end up working for them?”

Adam takes a gulp of his Sprite. “My sister did it last year, but she's spending the summer in France as an au pair for a family over there. So she handed the gig over to me. We have two little half sisters—five and six now—so I've got little-kid experience, but these three are a lot.”

“Yeah, you totally have your hands full,” you say.

While you were talking, Adam steered you toward the dock, where the country club members tie up their boats. Tasha's parents don't have one, but you see Jade and Dex's dad's sailboat bobbing in the water. It's called
The Lady Eileen
, named after Jade and Dex's mom.

“But like I said before, the pay's great.” Adam sits down on the dock and slips off his flip-flops. He dangles his feet in the water. “I'm saving up for a car, and I think I'll make enough this summer to get the one I want.”

You wonder how great the pay really is. And think about the fact that Adam's saving up to buy a car himself. When Tasha turned seventeen, her parents bought her a car, and your parents said they'd do the same for you next year.

“What are you looking to get?” you ask, sitting down next to him.

“Want to guess?” He leans back on his elbows, and now his head is about level with yours.

You think about the facts you've learned. Athletic, hard worker, big family . . .

“A Jeep?” you ask.

He laughs, a rumbly one, deep in his stomach. “The exact opposite. I want a two-seater convertible.
A 1986 Corvette. It's the car my dad had in college, and he always used to talk about how awesome it was. Plus, if it's small, I won't get roped into doing too much little-sister chauffeuring.”

You could see him in an old-school Corvette. It works. Maybe better than a Jeep.

“So now you just have to make it through a summer with the triplets.” You lean back on your elbows, too, so your shoulder is next to his arm. Adam is so different from the guys you know. He seems more real, somehow. More grown-up, even though he must be about the same age as Dex.

“Oh, I'll make it through,” he says. “Especially if you're around to give me a hand.”

You give him a sad smile. “I won't be,” you say. “I'm only visiting for the weekend. My cousin's here all summer, but I'm going home on Sunday night.”

He takes another sip of soda. “Well, that's too bad,” he says. “You're the nicest girl I've run into at this country club.”

He slides his flip-flops back on and stands up, then reaches out a hand to help you to your feet. Well, that was fast.

“I can get up myself,” you tell him, as you slip your own flip-flops back on.

“Of course you can,” he answers, “but I'm being a gentleman.”

Would a gentleman cut off a conversation just because the person he's talking to won't be there the whole summer long? But still, you smile and reach for his hand. He's incredibly strong and pulls you up off the ground so quickly you lose your balance and start to fall. “Maybe I can't do it myself,” you say, as he catches you and stops you from tipping into the water.

You're wrapped in his arms and pressed against his killer abs, your head right under his collarbone. You tilt your head back and look up at him. “Happy to catch you,” he says.

You think for a moment that he might kiss you. A crazy thought, an impossible thought, but once it enters your head, you decide you might like for that kiss to happen. You lock eyes, but instead of kissing you on the lips, Adam dips his head down and plants a kiss on your forehead. Somehow it feels almost as romantic. Maybe even more so. There's something sweet about being kissed on the forehead, and you realize that no guy you've ever been with has ever done that to you before.

He sighs and looks at you like he's struggling with some sort of internal decision.

“Are you free later?” he asks, after about thirty seconds of inner struggling. “Can I take you out properly? To dinner? To the jazz festival on the beach?”