Sweeter in the Summer

by Olivia Miles

  She followed Sam into the living room, where moonlight seeped through the windows, illuminating her most cherished possessions. She had to admit the room looked pretty—almost romantic even—in the natural glow. She hesitated for a moment to turn on a lamp, but then, catching Sam’s heated stare, she quickly flicked the switch, her pulse racing.

  A photograph of her parents sat on the end table, just below her hand. She was five years old at the time; she could tell by the yellow polka-dot bathing suit she was wearing—she loved that thing. Her mother was wearing a pink sundress, the hand that wasn’t tightly wrapped around Lila was shielding her eyes, blocking out the sun that glistened off the lake. Mary sat on their dad’s lap, round-faced and smiling. None of them could have known this photo would be the last of its kind. That by the next summer, half the people in this picture would be gone. That one rainy night and a slick back road would change their family forever—that Lila and Mary, tucked into their beds while the babysitter did her homework downstairs, would have no idea their parents were never coming home.

  Lila swallowed hard and closed her eyes to the photo.

  “Have you lived here long?” Sam was asking, and she was happy for the distraction.

  “Since I moved back,” she said. Back from New York. The implication hung in the room. “We like it here. The neighbors are quiet, and I was lucky to find an office within walking distance.”

  “This is the same picture that you have at the ice cream parlor.” Sam pointed to the photograph he’d seen last night. Mary had set this one in a silver frame on the mantel.

  Lila nodded. “It’s a special one. That place means a lot to us. It’s actually why getting this new account is so important to me. I’m planning on using the money to help Mary reopen the shop. It’s expensive, and there’s a lot of work to be done on it. She’d run it on her own, but . . . It’s our family place. Gramps wanted us both to have it. It was his dying wish, so to speak.”

  “Then you can’t let it go,” Sam said.

  Lila’s heart skipped a beat. “No. I can’t. I just hope nothing happens to mess up this account.”

  Sam nodded thoughtfully. “That makes two of us,” he said softly, taking a step closer. He set a hand on her waist and brushed the hair from her cheek with the other. “Tomorrow we’ll have to put our heads together and come up with some ideas for the design team. But tonight . . .”

  Lila inhaled sharply as his mouth met hers again. Her body was stiff beneath his touch, wanting to resist it as much as she craved it. He kissed her again, lacing his tongue with hers, and she sighed into his mouth.

  His breathing turned heavy as he pulled her to him, his hands exploring her waist, gently tugging at her blouse until his fingers tickled her skin. Her body warmed quickly with the heat of his, and she waited with growing need for his lips to move to her mouth. She craned her neck, inhaling the musk of his skin, as his mouth traced patterns on her neck, winding this way and that, until she tightened and tensed, aching for more.

  Breaking their kiss, she took his hand and led him into her bedroom. The light from the moon spilled shadows over the walls and duvet cover as he eased her onto the bed. Slowly, Sam began releasing each button of her blouse. He ran a hand over her lace bra and released her breasts, caressing them slowly until he lowered his mouth. Lila arched her back to smother a groan and ran her hands through his hair as he teased her with her teeth.

  Finally releasing her, he pushed back long enough to remove his T-shirt and reveal the smooth contours of his hard chest. Lila reached up and grazed the wide span of his chiseled shoulders with her fingertips, allowing her hands to slowly trace down the curve of his biceps to the smooth plank of his chest. His skin was hot and smooth under her touch, and she held her breath as she waited for him to lower himself to her, to feel the strength of his body against hers.

  Her skirt was hitched up around her waist, and Sam ran a hand firmly down the length of her thigh as he pushed himself between her legs, then circled his fingers around, under the back of her knee, and up, up, up, until . . . She dug her nails into his back, feeling the weight of his warm body on her chest, as his fingers pulsed and stroked and his lips again found her mouth.

  His kiss was hungry and deep and she pushed herself into him, needing him closer. She had loved this man. She had waited and hoped and then tried to forget. But now, she would just enjoy this moment.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunlight filtered through the pale blue linen curtains in Lila’s bedroom, a breeze through the half-open window causing them to billow at the floor. Birds chirped on the fire escape, feasting off the seeds Mary bought for the feeder.

  Lila stirred and then smiled into her pillow when she remembered last night—the hunger in his kiss, the swell of him inside her. She’d never have imagined they could have a moment like that again, and she wanted to savor it, and hold on to it for as long as she could.

  She closed her eyes, clinging to the memory of Sam’s touch, the feel of his warm skin next to hers, the taste of his lips. Rolling over, she spread her arm out wide, her fingers reaching for the smooth wall of his chest, but all she felt instead were cold cotton sheets on a flat mattress.

  She sat upright, breathing a little easier when she saw Sam sitting at her desk chair near the window, tapping on his phone. He gave her a lazy smile when he noticed her, but something in his eyes seemed flat and faraway.

  “There you are,” she said sleepily, bringing the sheet up a little higher. “How long have you been up?”

  “A while.” Sam looked tense and he made no movement toward coming back to bed. Instead, he stood, stuffed the phone in his pocket, and set his hands on his hips. “Lila, I’m sorry. I have to go. Something’s come up in New York. My brother texted me this morning. It’s . . . important.”

  She held the sheet tighter to her chest, wishing her robe was within arm’s reach. “You mean, right now?”

  He nodded. “Right now. I booked a flight. The cab is already downstairs waiting to take me back to the hotel to change. It’s important,” he stressed again.

  Lila frowned. Of course it was important. With Sam, business always was. She nodded, trying to hide her disappointment. If she said anything, it wouldn’t come out right, and she didn’t even know what there was to say. It was a work day, and Sam had to work.

  But something in his eyes told her it was more than that, and that’s what troubled her.

  A sour taste filled her mouth. It was all about his damn career. It always was, and it always would be.

  “What about Reed?” she asked, forcing herself to set aside her emotions and focus on the goal they still shared. “We still need to come up with the presentation.”

  “We’ll deal with it when I get back.”

  “Which is when?” Their meeting was only a week away and there were still hours of work to be done. They might have the general concept, but coming up with something to really wow a company as big as Reed was another hurdle altogether.

  “I don’t know.” He looked distracted as he pulled on his shoes and tied the laces.

  “You don’t know?” Lila repeated in disbelief.

  “I’ll brainstorm on the plane,” he added. “I’ll go over things with the team.”

  “I’m part of this team,” Lila reminded him. “Maybe I should book a ticket.”

  “No.” His tone was forceful, his gaze fiery. Perhaps noticing her shocked expression, he raked a hand through his hair and heaved a sigh. “Look, this shouldn’t take long. I’ll be back in time for the meeting.”

  Lila nodded. Back in time for the meeting. It was all business again.

  She should have kept it that way.

  “Here I thought maybe we’d have breakfast together this morning or something.” She hated the hurt that had crept into her voice. She’d promised herself a long time ago that she’d never let this man see her cry, never let him know how badly he had hurt her. Now he’d done it all over again. And she’d let him.

  F
oolish girl.

  “They need me back right away. I’m sorry, Lila. I really am.” The expression in his eyes was pained. He had one hand on her bedroom doorknob, waiting for her to say good-bye.

  Knowing she had no other choice and, no real hold on him for that matter, she nodded her head.

  His eyes lingered on her for a hopeful second before he drew a long breath and turned. Lila watched with a heavy heart as he disappeared from the bedroom, and then, out the front door. No kiss good-bye. No mention of last night. No hint of a repeat.

  A matter of hours ago he had been in her arms, and now she was alone. Even if it was her own damn fault, the knowledge did little to make her feel better. Lila looked miserably around the empty bedroom, all trace of Sam suddenly gone from her home, and allowed the tears to spill freely down her cheeks.

  She had thought this time it could be different, but nothing had changed. Not one damn thing.

  She was in love with Sam, whether she liked it or not. And right now, she didn’t like it one bit.

  ***

  The thirty-mile drive from LaGuardia Airport to Greenwich, Connecticut, felt more like one hundred. Sam glanced impatiently at his watch for the third time in half an hour, and only relaxed once the driver pulled onto the residential road that had become familiar to him in the twelve years since he’d first come here on a cold fall day, his junior year of college.

  The stone mansion was set far back from the street, sheltered behind tall iron gates and a crisp boxwood hedge. A circular drive rounded at the end of the manicured lawn, just outside the front door, where oversized urns were filled with topiaries and small red flowers. Even now, the place felt daunting, just as it had on that first, stiff visit. The halls seemed as vast as building lobbies, the grounds as large as the parks he used to play in as a kid. Everything was in its place—not a curtain off its hook, not a magazine discarded on an end table. Vases of fresh flowers were set on coffee tables and changed weekly. Professional photos were displayed in silver frames, alongside porcelain figurines, dusted daily. He knew some might take one look at the house and everything inside it and feel the need to claim it, to take what was theirs, but Sam hadn’t been impressed. He’d been furious. And sad. And hopeful.

  He still was.

  His brother met him at the door, looking grim and tired. His brown hair, so much like Sam’s, was unkempt and tousled.

  “How is he?” Sam asked, dreading the answer. He followed Rex into the foyer and set his briefcase down on a console table, and then, on second thought, moved it to the floor. Even now, he still worried about breaking something, and the crystal vase holding a dozen yellow roses looked like it could tip at the slightest bump.

  “Better than yesterday, but still not great. He’s on the veranda,” Rex said, leading the way. “It took him a while to calm down last night. He lashed out at the new housekeeper. She gave me her notice an hour ago.”

  The irritability was another part of the illness, and the revolving door of staff at the house wasn’t helping matters. “He needs a routine,” Sam said.

  “Don’t tell me what my father needs,” Rex said icily.

  Sam drew a fist at his side, and squeezed it until his hand cramped. No good would come from taking a swing at his brother right now, no matter how badly he wanted to. They were both stressed as hell.

  Still, he hated when Rex did this. Claimed his standing, reminded Sam of his place in the family. The hostility had faded over the years, and a part of Sam understood Rex’s dilemma. His father had cheated on his mother. Sam admired the side of Rex that stayed true to her, but he didn’t appreciate being blamed for their father’s indiscretion.

  It was obvious that Rex had slept very little, as evidenced by the twelve texts he’d sent Sam over the course of last night—ones that hadn’t been received until this morning, when Sam woke up in Lila’s sunny bedroom, his arm tight around her waist, his nose buried in her hair. He could have stayed like that all day, but the phone wouldn’t stop vibrating, and he knew he couldn’t ignore it forever.

  He swallowed hard when he thought of the look on Lila’s face this morning. The hurt in her eyes. He’d wanted to explain, to tell her why he had to run off like that, but he couldn’t. And now . . . He shook his head clear. He couldn’t think about Lila right now.

  “Tell me again what happened,” Sam said, and his brother started at the beginning, giving more detail to the bits and pieces that had come in through the texts. Their father had agreed to meet Rex for dinner. Rex had waited for an hour before texting Sam. After two hours, he’d called the police. They’d found Preston in his car, listening to the radio, somewhere near the state border. When they asked where he was going, he’d said he couldn’t remember. When they asked where he lived, he couldn’t remember that either.

  “He’s getting worse,” Rex stated flatly.

  Sam jutted his chin toward the back of the house. “Let’s go see him.”

  Preston was sitting on a wicker chair, sipping iced tea and reading the paper, when Sam and Rex stepped through the open French doors. The pool glistened behind him, barely used, and more for show than anything else, and Sam spotted Rex’s mother over in the tennis courts, practicing her serve with a personal trainer.

  In pressed khakis and a golf shirt, his father looked no different than the imposing figure Sam had shaken hands with that first confusing day in this house when he was just twenty years old. He’d wondered how the meeting would go. If his father would hug him. If he’d cry, even. Or if he’d simply turn him away. But all he’d done was look hard and deep into Sam’s eyes and then thrust out a hand. Sam had let out a long breath and taken it. It was the first thing his father had ever offered him; he wasn’t going to overlook it.

  “Heard you’ve been in Chicago,” his father boomed now in that rich, deep voice that had once intimidated the hell out of Sam. He hadn’t grown up with a man in the house, and the stories his grandmother had told him echoed in his mind those first few years, until Sam knew he had no choice but to push them back.

  “I have some meetings with Reed Sugar,” Sam said, lifting the pitcher of iced tea from its tray.

  “What’s the angle?” his father asked, and Sam had to smile. He was still sharp. Still inquisitive. Still eager to be a part of the action.

  Sam poured a glass of tea and took a long sip. “We’re still ironing out the details.”

  “We?” Preston frowned.

  From across the table, Rex glared at Sam. “It’s a big client, Dad. We’re all involved.”

  “Good,” Preston said, returning to his paper. “I knew I could count on you boys to keep things running. I went for ten years without a vacation; I suppose I’ve earned a few days away from the office.”

  Sam took a chair next to his father, feeling uneasy. “It’s nice to have a break now and then.”

  “Ah, but not for too long. Wouldn’t want people slacking off now, would I?”

  Rex leaned back against the stone railing and gave Sam a pointed look.

  “I’m a little hungry from my flight,” Sam said, rising. He moved toward the French doors to the house. Rex was quick to follow. “I think I’ll ask the housekeeper to make us some sandwiches.”

  “Good, good. And ask your mother to join us, too, will you?” Preston looked straight at Sam.

  The two brothers froze. In all these years, Sam’s mother had never been mentioned. Not with Rex, not with his mother, and not with Preston. Not even when they were alone. It was as if Sam had appeared at the gate, and the details of where he came from were not to be discussed. Once, he had mentioned something about his grandmother, a fond memory he shared over a Christmas dinner. The table had gone silent for several tense minutes, until Rex’s mother tactfully turned the conversation to the discussion of the house lights. It seemed a few had burned out a bit early, and someone would need to get a ladder out to fix the problem.

  Sam stared back at his father now, his heart pounding in his chest, until he realized that his f
ather meant his wife—Rex’s mother. “Sure,” he said, and cleared his throat.

  He didn’t look at Rex as he walked back into the house, into its cool, impeccably decorated rooms, the floors so polished and his legs so unsteady, he felt he might slip. He tried not to think of her, his mother—of what his father had done to her—but sometimes, when he was staring into the cold blue eyes of the man who had abandoned her and his child and gone on to live a comfortable life without so much as a look back, he wondered how he could even be here at all.

  “What the hell is going on?” Sam asked, once Rex firmly closed the study door behind them. With its dark wood paneling and leather furniture, it was their father’s favorite room in the house. It was where business was discussed. Where most of Sam’s connection to his family was forged.

  Now, standing in here, Sam realized just how much he hated this room. It was dark, and heavy, and it was empty. There were no framed photographs. No happy memories. It was cold. Like his father.

  Rex walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink. “You heard him. He thinks he took a few vacation days. He plans to come into the office next week!”

  Sam frowned. “Do you think he really will?”

  “Beats me.” Rex downed his drink. The only sound that could be heard was from the ticking of the old clock on the bookshelf.

  “Can we really stop him?” Sam asked.

  “Have we ever really been able to stop him from doing anything once he sets his mind to it?” Rex poured himself another drink and took a thoughtful sip. “If he finds out about Jolt Coffee, he’s going to flip. Or try to get them back. And given how he’s been lately, I don’t see that going down very well.”

  “Surely he understands that accounts are sometimes lost—”

  “No, Sam. No, he doesn’t. Preston Crawford didn’t lose clients. Preston Crawford was the one who brought Jolt on to begin with.”