Sweet Summer Love (The Sweetest Thing, #3)

by Sierra Hill

  Carver blinks and shakes his head.

  “Are you a thenis?”

  A giggle inadvertently slips past my lips because when he says this, spittle launches from Carver’s mouth and lands on his arm. I use his bib to wipe it off at the same time he reaches for it too.

  It’s the briefest of touches, but it creates a flare of friction. He quickly retreats, allowing me to finish cleaning him up. I’m slammed with memories of his touch, but they dissipate in a flash.

  Shifting in my seat, I shake my head. “No, I’m Dr. Connell’s assistant.”

  I’m about to explain further – how I bypassed college and had to work for a few years before getting my dental assistant training at a community college. Really, Carver doesn’t need any of that background. It would serve no purpose and wouldn’t change anything between us. He’s going to leave tonight and never look back.

  “Ambithus.” Again, it’s slurred and pronounced with the lisp of a toddler, adding a ‘th’ at the end.

  I wave off his ambitious comment. “Nah. Just had to earn a living.”

  What I don’t offer up is the reason. Why I had to learn how to survive on my own at a young age. I’ve been doing it now for the last five years. From the moment my dad booted me out of his house.

  I clear my throat of the sudden emotion pricking at my tear ducts, returning my attention to the after-care instructions I need to provide him.

  I’ve done my best to place him in the back of my mind, in a special spot reserved for happiness, joy and bittersweet memories. If I think of him too often, I’ll be overcome with hopelessness and resentment. For the cards that fate dealt me and the way that life can leave you alone and abandoned.

  I lower the chair down by depressing the foot lever, bringing Carver to a sitting position so he can get up. He twists to the side, his feet hitting the floor slowly and our knees bump together. I scoot back to allow him room.

  Reaching for the small prescription note on the counter, I hand it to Carver who glances at it for a second and returns his gaze to me.

  The warm chocolate of his eyes has always been my undoing. Melts me. Makes me fall in love with him.

  I give myself an internal tsk. Move along, sister. Don’t even go there.

  Carver’s soul-searching stare tells me everything. Confusion. Bitterness. Loss. Hope. Disgust.

  I don’t blame him. And yet, I do.

  He left me when I needed him most.

  “Dr. Connell has written you prescriptions for a pain med and an antibiotic. You can get them filled at the 24-hour pharmacy down the street and need to start taking them right away tonight. Don’t wait, because you don’t want to get an infection. You don’t have an allergy to penicillin, do you?”

  I raise my eyebrow and he shakes his head.

  “Okay. You’ve been fitted for a permanent replacement tooth, so you’ll have to either schedule a return visit in the next ninety days, or we can work with your local dentist in Phoenix, if that works better for you.”

  I look away under the scrutiny of his stare. I’m sure there is nothing Carver wants less than to return here for a follow-up visit. Or to ever see me again, based on the intensity of his glare.

  Carver turns his head suddenly in the direction of the office door.

  “How’d I get here?” He asks out of the blue.

  Oh, shit. I forgot that he doesn’t have transportation back and has no personal belongings with him. No phone or credit cards. Just the blood-soaked jersey he came in with.

  “Um, we brought you here. Do you want me to call someone to come pick you up?”

  He continues to stare at me. I honestly don’t know what he’s thinking. I assume his parents must have been at the game and worried sick about him. Who knows? Or maybe there’s a girlfriend or fiancée waiting to hear from him? That thought is like a thousand pin pricks to my heart.

  “Your parents?” I ask tentatively.

  Carver sighs deeply, like it’s a ridiculous question I’ve just asked him.

  “No. My theam is proly sill playing. Can you thrive me back?” He’s still talking funny. Had this been five years ago, we’d both be laughing hysterically right now.

  But we aren’t those people any more. And the situation isn’t at all funny.

  This is such a weird predicament. Considering Carver has no other alternative of getting back to his hotel, unless I put him in a cab with a twenty-dollar bill, he’s reliant on the doctor or myself to transport him. My car is parked outside in our employee parking ramp, where I left it prior to my date, but it feels strange to offer to drive him.

  If it were anyone else, would I offer to drive them home? Is it something I’d do for any other patient?

  “Wait right here. I’ll go check with Dr. Connell about the protocol. Liability and all.” I shrug, using this as a means of momentarily escaping his presence.

  I practically sprint down the hallway and slam smack into Jeff as I enter his office, who halts my forward movement with his hands on my shoulders.

  “Whoa, there,” he chuckles good naturedly. “Everything okay out there?”

  I must look a mess. To say this evening has been more than unexpected is an understatement. I’m a jumble of nerves and anxiety, my mind playing tricks on me over the complex emotions evoked over seeing Carver again out of the blue.

  “Oh, I’m not sure what to do. Carver needs a ride back to the arena. I’m heading that way on my way home, but I don’t know what you want me to do? I can drop him off. I know you have some paperwork to finish up here.”

  We both glance over his shoulder at his cluttered desk, the piles of patient records and paperwork strewn everywhere. Jeff turns back to face me, a flush of embarrassment taking residence across his cheeks. He is wonderful dentist and a great mentor and boss, but as unorganized as they come.

  “Do you mind?” His forehead and nose scrunch in question. “If it’s not an imposition?”

  While the thought of spending more time with Carver tonight has my nerves strung tight, I really don’t have any excuse not to take him, since he is right on my way home. Even though being alone with him seriously messes with my head and will open old wounds that have tried to heal.

  I fiddle with the edge of my sleeve, as I bite my lip in a nervous pattern. The sooner I can drop him off and get him out of my life once more, the better off I’ll be.

  “It’s no trouble. Shouldn’t take me more than five minutes.”

  I’m about to turn around to head out front when Jeff’s hand latches around my wrist, stopping me in my tracks.

  “Logan, about tonight. I’m so sorry I screwed up our evening together. I hope you’ll consider letting me make it up to you.”

  He looks so genuinely apologetic and hopeful. I give him an encouraging smile, even though I don’t want to go out with him again. “I have to say; I’ve never had a date end quite like this one did. It certainly was memorable.”

  No truer words were ever said.

  This garners a bashful laugh from him. “Yes, it was.”

  We stand there awkwardly for moment and I wonder if he’s going to try to kiss me. He’s looking at my lips like he wants to, but I just can’t let it go there. I take a giant step back and turn the opposite direction.

  “Well, goodnight then. I’ll see you Monday. Don’t work too late.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief that our goodbye wasn’t any more awkward than that, and startle when I find Carver sitting in the lobby reading an old copy of US Weekly. The one with Brad and Angelina’s twins on the cover. It’s probably six years old.

  “Getting caught up on your celebrity gossip and current events?”

  Carver’s head pops up and he Frisbee-tosses the gossip mag on the table in front of him.

  “Yeah, apparently, a lot has happened since I’ve been in college.”

  Isn’t that the truth? He lets those words dangle between us, the implication of the underlying meaning weighing heavy on my heart. Then he shakes his head and stand
s. “Haven’t had any time to keep up with anything outside basketball, I guess. And now I hear they’re getting a divorce.”

  Carver towers over me like a downtown high rise. He must be at least six-three or four. A full foot taller than me. Back when we were just teenagers, he was only a few inches taller. He’s definitely had a few growth spurts since then.

  It’s the middle of March in Seattle, where the temps can dip into the low thirties at night with wind and rain pushing springtime into the Puget Sound like the proverbial lion. It’s really cold, as I fumble to zip up my coat, and I realize Carver has no jacket with him. I wonder for a second if I should run back in and get him a blanket from the stash we keep for patients, but Carver seems completely oblivious to the chill as we walk out to the parking lot.

  I’m scrambling to find my keys at the bottom of my purse, pulling them out and nodding my head toward my car. Just as I round the trunk, my hand brushes against the frame and the keys slip from my grasp, landing on the ground between us. Carver bends down to pick them up and is handing them back to me when he stops.

  He tilts his head. “You still have this?”

  He’s referring to the fuzzy pink heart keychain in his hands. The one that says, ‘I Wuv You’ in white script lettering that’s rubbed off so much it’s barely recognizable.

  He doesn’t need to read it to know what it says. He’s seen it before. It’s the same one he gave me after winning it at a carnival game. The one and only time we ever met outside of camp during our junior year in high school.

  Back then, Carver and I had made a pact at the end of camp our very first summer. We both agreed that it would be too difficult to see each other during the school year, because we lived over an hour from each other. Neither of us had our license or a car to transport us at the time, so we made the decision to take a break between camp sessions.

  This idea was originally mine to keep Carver at a distance. It was clear early on that it would be futile to try and maintain a long-distance relationship as teenagers. No matter how much we meant to each other, we would’ve failed. We lived two completely incompatible lifestyles. I knew, even back then, that he’d break my heart one day.

  I didn’t even give him my phone number, and I wouldn’t accept his. We didn’t friend each other on Facebook or Snapchat. We didn’t have each other’s home addresses. The only thing we did have at our disposal was our email addresses. We’d promised each other we’d use it sparingly – only for the occasional good news, holidays greetings or special occasions.

  I did this to protect myself. Attending Camp Cheakamus was about being surrounded by hundreds of rich and advantaged kids spending two weeks adventuring and exploring the great outdoors in the lap of luxury.

  No one else knew it, but I was a scholarship kid. The only way I could afford to attend a camp like that was through scholarships I received from the VFW and Eagle’s charity, which my father, a retired Army man, was affiliated with.

  I feared that if Carver found out where I lived, or knew of my life outside of camp, he would have turned right around and never spoken to me again.

  But on that late fall weekend, a month after camp ended that year, Carver sent me email after email, begging me to meet up with him at the carnival. It was midway between our hometowns. He begged and pleaded with me, saying that it was his only birthday wish – his upcoming seventeenth - to see me one more time before school started. Before we were relegated back to our normal lives, where we’d never fit together in reality.

  I broke down and met him at the fair. It was, and still is, one of the greatest nights of my life. It seems that any night I ever spent with Carver happened to fall into that category. He made me feel special. Like I was the only one on Earth that he adored and loved. It was on top of a rickety old Ferris wheel that night that he told me he loved me.

  Not puppy love. Not the passing fancy or fickle crush of a teenager. The type of love that you know will never leave you because it’s sewed in every fiber and thread of your being.

  I yank the keys out of Carver’s hand with a growl, hastily unlocking my door and sliding into the driver’s seat. I reach over the console and unlock his car door, as my beat-up late eighties model-Volvo doesn’t have automatic locks.

  My hands grip the steering wheel tightly, as I turn down the arterial road heading back to the arena, and an uncomfortable silence descends us. Out of my peripheral vision, I see Carver staring out the passenger window. I try to stop myself from wondering about what he could possibly be thinking about, even though a part of me wants desperately to ask him.

  It’s none of my business, I scold myself. We mean nothing to each other any longer. We’re practically strangers; who once shared the beauty of first love, but now live completely different lives.

  As the car idols at a red light, I see the top of the Space Needle, which is an ever-present fixture in the cityscape. Carver startles me with his confession, his voice low and deep.

  “I’ve thought about you for years, Lo. I’ve wondered how you were doing.”

  My head snaps to him, his eyes holding a soft expression. Why can’t he hate me? Why does he have to be so Goddamn nice?

  I blink back the sting of my tears, turning back to the front window, concentrating on the light ahead. I have no desire to walk down memory lane with him tonight, so we need to keep things short and brief. No time for sweet nostalgia. Or sad endings.

  My throat is tight as I swallow the sharp edge of pain, the prickle in my voice harsh and cold. “Well, as you can see, I’m doing just fine.”

  “I can see that.”

  I turn into the stadium entrance and flash the VIP ticket from earlier as the guard nods me in. Before we left, I asked Carver if he was sure he just didn’t want me to drive him to his hotel. There was no way he was playing again tonight, and in fact, the game would likely be over already. But he assured me, he wanted to be back with the team.

  I drive slowly through the coned-off areas toward the doors where Carver will enter, as he once again leaves my life as quickly as he entered it.

  Shifting my clunker sedan into park, I feel a chill run through my body like the cold water of Singing Creek.

  “Lo.” He uses my nickname and I practically crumble under its weight.

  I dare a glance and regret it instantly.

  His face is etched with pain, and not the physical kind. “Was it a boy or a girl?”

  Oh, shit. Not that question. Anything besides that.

  I’m not ready for it. I will never be ready for it. The answer to that seemingly simple question will haunt me the rest of the days of my life.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and wish I could just turn invisible and fly away – leaving that question unanswered. It hurts too much to say it out loud. But maybe if I do, I’ll never have to say another word to him again. Maybe it’ll absolve our guilt, our pain and our shame forever.

  “It was boy. We had a boy, Carver.”

  Chapter 6

  Carver

  It’s been a week since the game that ended my college ball career.

  Seven days since we’ve returned from Seattle and hung our heads in defeat after the traumatic outcome of that fateful night and everything that transpired post-game. Honestly, it feels like I’m still in a drug-induced haze. Like whatever they did to my tooth has muddled my brain.

  Or maybe that’s just from seeing Logan.

  If some of the guys have noticed my surly-ass mood since we’ve returned, no one’s mentioned it. Likely for the fact that all the guys are in a similar stupor over our humiliating loss to Gonzaga. I’ve been wrapped up in guilt knowing my injury left them all high and dry when they needed me most. I’m not being overly arrogant about my impact to the team, but I was the team captain and point guard – so leaving them when the stakes were so high was a devastating blow. I mean, they had to bring in LeQuan Williams as backup point guard, a fucking freshman who hasn’t even gotten his dick wet yet, much less the skills to bring in a vic
tory.

  My mood is seriously going from bad to worse as I sit at the kitchen table, reading through all the messages left on my social media accounts. Some are words of encouragement, but others are just downright nasty jabs, which piss me off even more. I’m reading a particularly harsh comment on Twitter when Cade comes stumbling into the kitchen.

  I glance up, noticing his disheveled hair, lack of shirt and wrinkled boxers.

  “Late night or early morning?” I ask casually, my attention dropping back to my phone. “I didn’t hear the Screamer last night, so you must’ve been at her place.”

  I laugh at my reference to Cade’s girlfriend, Ainsley. I’ve been giving them shit about her loud antics in the bedroom ever since they hooked up earlier in the school year.

  Let’s just say it’s very noticeable when they’re at our place, because Ainsley is not a quiet girl in the sack. Christ, that girl has a pair of lungs on her. I’ll admit, hearing her scream that she’s coming has gotten me horny and hard many times when I’m alone in bed. Call me a perv, or whatever, but shit. When you hear porn-star moaning in the bedroom right next to yours, it’s gonna get you worked up. I’ve had to make a few late-night booty calls on more than one occasion from my ever-growing list of hoops hunnies, just to get the edge off.

  Cade grunts, turning his back to pour himself a cup of coffee. He also flips me off from behind his back, making me chuckle even harder.

  “Fuck you, Edwards. Like you’ve ever been quiet with any of your conquests. If it’s not a threesome, I swear I can hear you spanking girls. Do you have a paddle or something in there?”

  I chortle, because yeah, I do. What can I say? It’s my brand of kink. I enjoy spanking the bare ass of the girls I fuck, but I prefer to use my own hand. I like to feel the biting sting on my hand. To relish in the red mark that I leave behind, which I know gets them wet. I guess I have some sort of fetish with spanking.

  And, threesomes? Well yeah, I’ve had them. What single guy in their right mind would say no when two girls want to get it on with him? Not this guy.