Finding Summer (Nightwind Book 3)

by Suzanne Halliday

  “I cannot believe that just happened.” She scowled at the goo.

  What did he do? His inner caveman pretended to act like a good guy who was just trying to be helpful. He took a napkin in one hand, held her boob with the other, and carefully dabbed the saucy splotch.

  She didn’t object, and she also barely breathed while he skirted the line of a public fondle.

  “You’re something. I don’t know what that something is, but you’re it,” she said with a trace of laughter in her voice.

  “I’m just trying to stand out.”

  “Well, it’s working. Hey, when we’re finished here, I saw something when we drove around the block. A karaoke club. You wanna check it out?”

  Karaoke? Sure. Why the hell not? He nodded. “I should warn you that I do a mean Robert Plant.”

  “Who’s Robert Plant?” she asked so earnestly that he was momentarily startled. A heartbeat later, he sensed her rock ’n’ roll innocence was a smokescreen and felt his whole being pulse with happiness. Summer was one-of-a-kind.

  “What’s the first song you remember as a kid?”

  The smokiness in her eyes turned to a gleam. “You mean what’s the lead-in on the soundtrack of my life?”

  Yep, no doubt whatsoever. She was fantastic.

  “That’s easy. My dad was hard-core into 70s and 80s singer-songwriters. Jackson Browne. James Taylor. Joni Mitchell. Whenever I hear ‘Take It Easy,’ I’m singing into my hairbrush.”

  “Mine is ‘Don’t Stop Believing.’ Journey. My mom was a fan, and Dad never let go.”

  Her smile was incandescent. “Karaoke takes balls. Think you have what it takes?”

  His normal, flippant comeback about having a bionic testicle died on his tongue. He didn’t want to play that game—not with her. If he had to one day explain his urologist’s autograph stitched on his inner thigh, he would, but until then, he decided to lay off the bullshit war hero talk.

  “My balls will rise to the occasion, pretty Summer.”

  She giggle-snorted, covered her nose and mouth, blushed, and giggle-snorted again. “You’re shameless.”

  “And now you know my superpower,” he boldly declared.

  With the prospect of foolishness hanging in the air, they finished their delightful foodie feast and dashed in the direction of the karaoke bar. Summer picked up their pace. Her excitement was adorable.

  He took care of the cover charge and got them a table situated in the middle of the action. The little club was boisterously alive despite it being so early in the evening.

  “I’ll put our names down for a spot,” he told her with a wink. “Last chance to chicken out.”

  “If you’re waiting for me to have a change of heart, you’ll be waiting a long time.” She made a brush-off gesture. “What do you want to drink? I see the waitress headed this way.”

  “What are you having?”

  “Cosmopolitan,” she stated in a powerful voice. “Liquid courage.”

  “In that case, I’ll have a dirty martini, extra olives.”

  At the check-in, he gave their names, earned a chuckle from the guy keeping the list, and dropped a wad of bills into a donation box for the local animal shelter. He got back to the table just as their drinks arrived.

  “Here,” he said with a laughing smirk. “Got you a name tag. Look, it’ll cover the stain on your sweater.” He peeled the backing paper off and carefully applied it to her rack.

  She laughed the whole time, and asked, “Barbie?”

  “Yep.” He smacked a name tag onto his chest. “And I’m Ken.”

  “Very blond.”

  “I know,” he drawled. “But put on the spot, I couldn’t think of another blond duo. I’ll do better next time.”

  The first few performances ranged from appalling to a guy who should be on tour. He had a blast due in no small part to the vivacious lady at his side. She loved everything, even the off-key singers. Her positivity glowed like a halo.

  When a trio of grandmothers took the little stage and ripped through a perfectly staged rendition of “Come See About Me,” the classic 60s pop hit by The Supremes, Summer bopped along from her seat.

  “They have moves,” she pointed out. “We need some moves.”

  They needed more than moves. They needed a song.

  She must have noticed his worried expression or read his mind because she turned suddenly and leaned across the table until her face was inches from his. “Have you ever seen Grease?”

  “Pfft, are you kidding? The movie and stage play were de rigueur in the suburbs when I was a kid.”

  “De rigueur? My goodness. Were you raised in a palace?”

  “More along the lines of a professionally decorated and maintained mausoleum. Like one of the monstrosities in the architecture magazines.”

  “We had very different childhoods,” she told him. “Our decorator was Monsieur Walmart.” Her thick fake French accent made him smile.

  “Reality caught up with me by the time I went to college.” He didn’t know why he kept explaining and just kept going. “I traded my walk-in closet and laundry service for a dresser and tiny closet—enough for sixteen hangers. Eight for me and eight for my roommate. I loved it,” he murmured as the flashpoint in time filled his thoughts. “Later, I did a lot of traveling. Business stuff,” he said in a husky whisper. “Lived out of a suitcase for a long time. Nothing permanent. Everything was temporary, furnished, and bland.”

  The next act consisted of a group of college kids attempting to sing Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” He sipped his drink and continued to huddle in the middle of the table, talking about the past.

  “When I moved to New York and joined the agency, I had a tough time adjusting to a normal life. Finally got a permanent address about two years ago. For the first six months, I only had folding chairs and outdoor loungers in the living room.”

  Summer listened closely, occasionally taking a dainty sip of her drink. She licked her lips and nodded.

  “I get it. Really, I do. My dad died a year after I got out of high school. One day, I was a stupid nineteen-year-old wasting time in a community college. In the blink of an eye, my father was gone, I cleared out our house, had an epic yard sale, and moved into a little efficiency while I thought about what the hell to do.”

  “Where was your brother?”

  “Oh, he’s older by a bunch of years and was already off doing his thing. Army,” she muttered quietly.

  Arnie swallowed with difficulty. She had an older brother in the Army. Great.

  He nodded as a bunch of things made sense—like why she was friendly but understandably cautious around him at first. Her brother was probably the reason. If he’d had a sister, Arnie was certain he would have been overprotective in a big-time way.

  “Has Santa Barbara always been home?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Sacramento. I came here for a new start.”

  He touched her hand, stroking it lightly. “I’m glad you’re here. Glad I’m here. Glad we met.”

  “Next up, we have Barbie and Ken,” the club’s comedic host boomed through the sound system. “Give ’em a big hand. Come on up, guys.”

  “That’s us.” She giggled and shot out of her chair. “Just follow along,” she yelled over her shoulder as he stumbled after her. “I did this in high school!”

  “Hi,” she exclaimed to the guy running the equipment. “‘You’re the One That I Want.’”

  “You got it, Barbie. There’s a spoken intro, and then you’re all set. Have fun.”

  She grabbed his hand, dragged him onto the little stage, and handed him a microphone. “The words are on the screen if you need them.”

  “My balls have risen, Goldilocks. Let’s do this.”

  She dropped her head back and laughed. Her tumble of long blond hair shone in the spotlight.

  The backing track started with the spoken intro. When it was time, he broke into an exuberant Danny Zucco with multiplying chills, and from there,
the performance went supersonic. Not only did his little lady have killer dance moves but she also knew how to engage an audience. As a duo, they brought the house down and had a damn fine time in the process.

  They held hands and took stage bows as the audience hooted and hollered.

  When they were almost back to their table, a random shithead sitting at the end of the bar commented a bit too loudly as they passed. “Nice job, boots and ass.”

  Arnie’s hand very nearly shot out and grabbed the fucker by the throat. No such action was necessary however because Summer stopped, pivoted in the guy’s direction, and stared him down.

  “Did you want to grow a set and say that to my face?” She leaned an inch closer, and the coward actually backed up. “Before you answer, I’m obligated by law to warn you that I have an S-class Tai Kwan Kiki Dee belt.”

  Arnie came dangerously close to laughing his ass off. He was the one who was usually cast in the role of jokester. The way she silenced the candy-ass shithead with made-up taunts was impressive.

  When the loudmouth guy didn’t move or make a sound, she mumbled, “Uh-huh,” then dismissed the moron and snapped her fingers an inch or two away from Arnie’s nose. “Your mistress needs a drink.” Then she whirled round and stomped away in her sexy boots and tight jeans.

  The implication that he was her slave boy nearly put him on the floor. He wished like crazy King and Jon were here to witness the fuckery. He’d never had more fun.

  Chuckling, he caught the guy’s gaze, and drawled, “Excuse me. Mistress gets angry if she has to ask twice.”

  Quickly targeting Summer’s sweet rear view, he followed behind and took enormous delight in watching her tight-assed strut. The boots really were a nice touch.

  Not one to miss out on a chance for playtime, Arnie hurried to her side so he could hold her chair as she sat. Like the golden queen of all she surveyed, sexy Summer planted her butt on the edge of the seat, crossed her legs, and sat ramrod straight. Her body language was a surprising turn-on. So was his certainty she was making shit up as she went along and really had no idea how to pull off a dominatrix vibe.

  God, she was fucking a-dorable.

  He leaned over her with his hands gripping the back of her chair, and murmured, “Does Mistress still want a drink?”

  Her shoulders shook slightly, and he shifted sideways to look at her face. She was biting her bottom lip and trying to hold in a laughing snort. When she recovered slightly and gave her hair a hand flip, she accidentally smacked him on the nose.

  “I’ll have another cosmo. Oh, and a soda chaser.”

  Please say Coke, please say Coke, he mentally chanted.

  “Diet Coke. Only Diet Coke,” she bitingly emphasized. “Do not make the mistake of bringing me a Pepsi.”

  Two things happened as the words came out of her mouth. First was the realization his low-rise cotton briefs were no match for what being around Summer did to his dick. And second was a blinding flash sent from the future to wake him up in the present. A vision of Summer holding a bottle of classic Coke many years from now, still beautiful, still golden, and still gigging as she performed a toast he couldn’t make out while.

  He didn’t need to hit the pause button to know the universe was telling him something.

  Arnie smirked. “I have it on good authority sipping anything other than a Coca-Cola product is tantamount to gargling with Satan’s jizz.”

  She boomed with laughter and pushed back in the chair so hard she might have tipped over if he hadn’t been holding on. Her hand pounded on the table as the giggles shook her body.

  “Satan’s … jizz,” she choked out between snorts of laughter. “What the hell is wrong with you? Bwah ha ha!”

  Without thinking it through, his grin faded, and he put a hand on her throat. She went still and looked up at him. He hesitated for half a heartbeat and then bent to place a soft kiss on her lips.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” he murmured against her mouth as they separated.

  “Th-thank you,” she stammered breathlessly.

  His grin returned, cockier than before. “Whatever pleases you, Mistress.”

  Her face flushed a gorgeous shade of embarrassed red. “I’m going to regret starting the whole mistress thing, aren’t I?”

  He tapped her nose with his finger and laughed. “Count on it.”

  On the stage, a big dude stood clutching a microphone stand while crooning a Taylor Swift ballad called “New Year’s Day.” The incongruity of his burly appearance, coupled with the soft, feminine performance, captivated the audience.

  While at the bar, he kept his body facing the table where Summer sat by herself. If anyone was stupid enough to approach her, he wasn’t sure he could avoid causing a scene. The powerful pull of possessiveness he experienced had a stripped down, primal quality. He wasn’t messing around. Something about her triggered him in very basic ways. Primitive ways.

  While the bartender made their drinks, Arnie downed a dirty martini shot topped with an olive on a toothpick. The brine-to-vodka ration was tasty as fuck. He picked the olive off the stick with his teeth and enjoyed the salty nugget.

  “Whoa,” he mumbled to himself. “That packed a punch.”

  He gave the bartender a nod of thanks and handed off a fifty for the two drinks and a shot. Then because overtipping was kind of his thing, he dropped a second Ulysses S. Grant bill in a decorated tin can marked “Tips.”

  The rush from the vodka shot was nothing compared to the tornado of desire swirling inside him as he held Summer’s gaze and somehow maneuvered successfully through the crowd. Her cheeks were flushed, and though she attempted to pretend otherwise, she definitely checked him out from head to toe with a lingering glance in the area of his zipper.

  There needed to be a new ratings system for men’s underwear to address the boner issue because while he was annoyed before, now he was damn sure the Ralph Lauren briefs were no match for his growing interest in the enchanting Summer. She was a magical creature and even in a crowded room full of other people’s energy, she glowed like fairy light.

  “Here we go.” He carefully placed the pink drink in front of her. “Got you two slices of lime.”

  She made tiny clapping gestures and smiled. “There can never be too many garnishes.”

  His dirty martini and its three olives helped make her point.

  Arnie slid onto a chair and nudged closer to hers. The joint might be hopping, but he wanted to concentrate on the two of them, and the connection they were making.

  “To ugly shoes and pretty waitresses,” he drawled with his glass held up.

  She grimaced. “What happened to all those fancy words you like to use? Run out of the good ones?”

  “Your, uh, beauty makes me stupid?”

  Shaking her head while eyes shone with playfulness, she leaned close, and said, “To blonds.”

  Her happy expression and the gentleness in her smile melted the wall around his heart. He trembled with awareness as their energies embraced. They smiled, touched glasses, and sipped in silence.

  Wrapped up in the moment, he was aware of only one thing. Summer. Her fey quality made him think of otherworldly things. Did she have second-sight? He studied her eyes, fell into the smoky depths, and found at least part of an answer. Summer possessed something quite rare—an innocent heart.

  They shared the loss of a mother early in life, but whereas he became jaded and resentful thanks to an evil stepmother, she hadn’t gone to the dark side. Instead, she protected her feelings from potential heartbreak.

  Her emotional innocence set off alarms. Alarms he ignored.

  “We’ve painted, chowed down on epic food truck cuisine, and done a Barbie and Ken performance. Best first date ever.” His smile matched hers.

  “I wanted to stand out,” she said in a teasing voice. “Not all blondes are created equal.” She tapped her temple. “Some of us can form clear thoughts.”

  Well, this seems like the perfect time for a blon
d joke, he thought and cleared his throat.

  “What do you call five blondes lined up in a row?”

  “Oh, my god!” She snickered. “I don’t know this one. Okay, go ahead. Tell me. What are five blondes in a row called?”

  “A wind tunnel.” He paused for effect and then nudged her. “Get it? A wind tunnel?”

  They shared a laugh and fist-bumped.

  Adorably bossy Summer told him to wrap it up. “Finish your drink. Enough sitting. I need to move. What time is it?”

  He finished what was left of the martini and olives and checked his watch. “Nine forty-five.”

  Standing, Arnie slipped effortlessly into gentleman mode and helped his lovely lady from her chair, patiently waiting while she made sure she had everything.

  A gust of night air greeted them as they walked along the sidewalk. He was ready to run for the car and turn on the heat, but Summer had other ideas. She took his hand and pulled him into a neighborhood park, heading straight for the playground.

  “Swings!” she exclaimed gleefully and dropped his hand. “I love swings.”

  They sat side by side, swinging lazily while behind them, a group of guys played basketball under the watchful eyes of a huddle of women.

  “One day, when I was in fourth grade, Timmy Shultz got carried away on the swings. Showing off,” she drawled. “He kept going higher and got yelled at by the playground teacher but didn’t stop. He kicked when he should have swung and ended up sailing off the seat. I remember it looked like he got shot from a cannon.”

  One good childhood memory deserved another, right?

  He thought about it for a minute and added his two cents. “One summer, at band camp …” He chuckled and checked her face to see if she got the cultural reference. Her grin told him she most certainly did.

  “There was a competition between cabins to see who could survive a supersonic twirl on the merry-go-round. Long story short, I was the muscle who got the thing whirling, and it would have been cool if only my little brother knew how to hold on. His grip slipped,” he told her with snarky air quotes, “and whoosh! Flew like water coming off a shaking dog. I peed my pants from laughing.”