The Summer of Us: A Romance Anthology

by AJ Matthews

  I chose Mama Hattie’s because I wanted Shay to try authentic southern cooking, and I wanted to introduce him to my surrogate grandmother.

  Hattie’s been a part of my life since my childhood, and I want him to be a part of my life for as long as I live.

  Shay fiddles with the radio, and I admire his long fingers as they push the buttons and turn the dial.

  My phone buzzes with a text from Bennie, telling me she’ll be at Leesh’s tonight, in case I “get lucky.”

  Which is likely.

  I bite my lip and run a hand through my hair. Yoga breathing does nothing to calm my nerves.

  Key West was a fantasy.

  This is real.

  My truck, my friends, my home.

  He’s here.

  Holy shit! He’s here.

  I need to tell him about the surgery.

  Soon. Soon, I promise. I’m not sure to whom I’m promising, but I need to say the words, even if they’re in my head.

  The gravel of the drive pops under the truck tires as we wind to the back of the house. The night is cloudy, and the weak bulb outside the door faintly illuminates our path.

  I’m thankful Bennie flipped on the switch before leaving, or else I’d be tripping to get to the door.

  Shay holds my hand, and we stroll along. It’s like he’s savoring the moment.

  I want him desperately, and I don’t know how much longer I can contain my desire.

  Nobody’s perfect, but I have yet to find the flaws. I’ll find his defects if he sticks around, but I’m happy with the illusion of the god-like status he earned in Key West.

  We get to the door, and I search his shadowed face. He looks fierce, but the slightest question remains in his eyes. “Are you su—”

  I cut him off with a kiss. No more words. Only touch and taste and smell.

  We can talk later.

  Tonight, all I want is to feel.

  My hands shake as I try to unlock the door. Shay closes his strong hands around mine and takes the keys from me, unlocking the door and closing it behind us.

  I flip the switch to the overhead light, so we don’t trip on the furniture on the way to the bedroom.

  His nimble fingers are soon on the hem of my shirt, easing it over my head. He dips his head to my neck, kissing the sensitive hollow. I shiver as he draws circles with his tongue. His hands reach to cup my breasts. I gasp when his thumbs graze my nipples, the friction from the satin of my bra and the heat of his hands tightening the flesh to tight peaks. A bolt of lightning shoots to my core and I lean against the door for support.

  His hands slide to my waist as he presses the length of his body into mine. He kisses my forehead and gazes into my eyes. I’m drowning in the green-gold glow of his eyes as his gaze falls to my lips. He bites his lip, and all I can think of is him nipping at the tender flesh behind my knees, on the backs of my thighs . . .

  He stares into my eyes again, but this time he’s not asking for permission. I’ve already given it with my hands, kneading at the muscles of his back, with my legs, as I lift one and wrap it around his hip.

  His hands move to my face, cupping my jaw as his mouth inches closer. I shut my eyes and wait, my heartbeat counting the seconds.

  The gentleness of his lips on mine, a mere whisper, is maddening. I want to drink in every inch of him. I let him lead. No need to hurry, no matter how much I want him naked over me, under me, and behind me.

  He moves his lips to my temple, across my cheek, and I arch my head back, inviting him to take whatever he wants.

  He groans from deep in his chest as I dig my hands into his hair and urge his head to the swell of my breasts straining against my bra. I need him to undress me, kiss my naked breasts, and show me how much he loves them.

  I need him to ease this throbbing between my legs. Now.

  But he won’t rush. He kisses the top of each breast, trailing his fingers up my arms, the fine hairs standing on end. He pulls one strap over my shoulder then does the same with the other strap. When I reach behind my back to unhook the nuisance, he shakes his head and clasps my hands in his, holding them above my head.

  “Not yet.” His murmur tickles my cheek.

  His fingers return to my shoulder, and he dips his head to drop kisses across my collarbone and back to the hollow of my neck.

  The delayed gratification is maddening.

  He cups one breast in his free hand, and my flesh tingles in response to his touch. My stupid bra is nothing more than a frustrating barrier between my skin and the rough warmth of his large hand.

  He must be a mind reader because he finally releases my hands and reaches behind me to release the hooks.

  I tug at his shirt, frantic to touch him.

  The shirt comes off over his head, tousling his perfect hair. He’s even sexier, tousled and desperate-looking. I feast my eyes on his hard body, then stroke my hands over his steely forearms dusted with dark hair. I clutch at his biceps, caress the rigid planes of his chest. The muscles flex in response, encouraging me to explore more. His hot skin burns my lips.

  His moan fans the flames of my need for him.

  My hands skim lower, over the six-pack granite of his abs, and I undo the buckle of his belt, slide the button of his shorts open, and yank at the zipper. I slide the shorts over his solid thighs, the cotton pooling around his ankles.

  He kicks his shoes off and is standing in front of me in nothing but his boxers. I see how much he wants me, and I want to feel his desire. I cup his hard cock through his underwear and tease him as he did me.

  He grips my wrist and pulls my hand away.

  He lifts me in his capable arms and carries me through the short hall and into my bedroom.

  He sets me gently on the quilt covering the bed, and I lift my hips so he can slide my capris off. Leaning in, he cradles my face in his hands as he kisses me again, sucking on my tongue, drawing it into his hot mouth. He works his fingers through my hair, deepening the kiss even more, and I melt further into a puddle with each groan.

  I can’t tell which sounds are his and which belong to me.

  I whimper when he drags his lips away from mine, crying out as he takes my pebbled nipple into his mouth. He sucks deeply as he massages my other breast, his callused hands setting off sparks.

  He runs his tongue along the sensitive underside of each breast, my hands in his soft, dark hair encouraging him lower still. He kisses my belly as his fingers stroke between my thighs through my panties, stoking the fire that had been raging in me since I left him in Florida.

  Our eyes connect when he hooks his thumb in the edge of my panties; he’s asking for permission. I concur by raising my hips off the bed.

  I open my legs for him. Again, he delays his gratification for me. He drops his head, his lips teasing at the damp heat between my legs, nipping at the sensitive bud of my clit. His tongue darts out, stroking the bundle of nerves as he slips his forefinger inside.

  He crooks his finger and massages the nub inside, and my legs shake in mere seconds.

  I claw at the quilt, my tenuous grip on reality slipping through my fingers as waves of pleasure spirals through my body, throwing me into an abyss I never want to climb out from.

  Shay

  She’s still panting when I stand and strip off my underwear. I cover her warm body with mine, her tight nipples rubbing against my chest. I’m lucky I don’t come before I can even slide into her. She pulls my head to her and kisses me hard, licking my lips.

  So hot.

  I want to dive right into her, but I stop. “Do you have . . . ?”

  She reaches for her nightstand but can’t get to the drawer. I open it and find the box, pulling out a foil packet and tearing it open.

  She parts her thighs, welcoming me, and I ease into her wetness. My arms shake with restraint as my traitorous body threatens to lose control.

  She’s so tight, so hot, squeezing me in a decadent rhythm. Even better than I remember. I plunge in, pull out, and then drive
into her again, touching her deeply. I smother her cries with my mouth. Her hips match mine stroke for stroke, arching upward to meet my thrusts. Her hands clutch and knead my butt, keeping me trapped inside her.

  I drag my lips from hers, nuzzling her neck, inhaling the sweet, fruity scent of her skin mingled with the sweaty musk of sex.

  I grab her wrists and pin her hands above her head, thrusting harder and deeper into her. Faster and faster until we both cry out. I collapse on her, rolling over and pulling her sweat-slicked body into my side. I’m spent and ridiculously satisfied. She falls asleep in my arms, and I soon follow.

  Thea

  The room is pitch black when I wake up, my legs tangled in the sheets and my hair sticking to my face, a dribble of drool on the pillow . . .

  Drool!

  I dart up straight in bed but find I’m alone.

  Good he didn’t see the drool.

  Bad he’s not here. Where is he?

  I climb out of bed and throw on a tee shirt and pajama shorts from the basket of clothes I’ve needed to put away since last week.

  From the hall, I hear a hushed voice. His voice, the soft tones of his whisper.

  Not husky like earlier. A concerned urgency laces his words.

  He paces in front of the couch, wearing a path in the dark brown carpet. Between him and Bennie, I’ll need to replace the carpet or get charged when I move out.

  He glances over when I flip the kitchen light on, raising his hand in acknowledgment. I pour a glass of water and offer him one. He shakes his head.

  The clock on the microwave reads 1:27 a.m. What’s going on at this hour?

  My thoughts normally kick into overdrive, with self-doubt plaguing me like it does every day.

  But not tonight, not with Shay. No doubt, no shame, no hesitation. Everything is perfect.

  Except the black cloud of “omission” hanging over my head.

  I need to tell everyone I love.

  I’ll tell him as soon as he gets off the phone and tell Daddy when I drive out to Fayetteville Sunday evening for family supper.

  Shay hangs up and walks into the small kitchen, sliding in behind me, wrapping one strong arm around my waist and resting his chin on the top of my head. I finish my drink and put the glass on the counter before leaning into the hard wall of his chest.

  “Is everything okay?” It’s none of my business, but he’s rubbing his temples, making me think something serious is going on.

  “It’s Mac. He’s been having issues the past few weeks. I won’t bore you with the details, but his old therapist passed away a month ago, and they’d built a strong relationship the past five years. Changes in routine and new people make him uncomfortable. He took off a few hours ago, and no one could find him.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah. He wouldn’t answer the phone when Mom called. I heard my phone buzzing when I got up to use the bathroom, and I had a dozen calls from her and Da. She wanted me to call, see if he would answer for me. Luckily he did, and I talked him home. Mom said he fell asleep, but she’s still worried.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s got to be tough being so far away.”

  “Yeah. When I was in Miami, the drive was a few hours. Not being able to rush back when they need me sucks. But I can’t fix everything for Mac. We’re a tight-knit bunch since my . . . the suic . . . you know. He’s depended on me. He’s a good kid, and I love him, but he needs to depend on himself.”

  “I understand.” It’s only me and Jen, but I would do anything for her. Though our mother didn’t commit suicide and try to kill us, life without her hasn’t been easy.

  I wish I could talk to her. She’d tell me what to do about everything.

  At least that’s what I wish. She’d most likely tell me to follow my gut, listen to my heart, and tell my head to take a hike.

  Gut says get the surgery, heart says keep Shay around for as long as I can.

  These two things are in conflict with each other, and I’m clueless how to resolve the struggle.

  I can’t tell him about the mastectomy tonight, with everything going on with Mac.

  Turning in his arms, I paste on a wide smile.

  “Everything will be all right with Mac. He’s lucky to have your mom and dad and uncle to support him. You can’t take care of everyone.”

  But he sure took care of me earlier. My face heats at the memory.

  I lay my head on his chest, the slow, steady thrum of his heart soothing.

  “I’m sleepy. Let’s go back to bed.”

  We settle on the mattress, but sleep doesn’t happen.

  He needs me to take his mind off family problems, and I need him to take my mind off the impending surgery. His touch is the distraction I need.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thea

  “I guess you’re studying today.” I take a bite of the buttery ham and cheese croissant at Campus Edge Café, then sip my water and wait for his answer.

  He stirs sugar into his black coffee and drinks. “I was thinking about catching up on sleep today.”

  He grins, dimples framing his mouth. My fingers are drawn to the deeper dimple on the left side of his mouth, and as I touch him, I act as though I’m brushing crumbs away.

  After the things we did to each other last night, I don’t need an excuse to touch him. Old habits and all. They linger even when they should be kicked to the curb.

  “What’s on your agenda?” He takes another drink from his steaming mug and points at me. “Are you rendering anyone else useless today?”

  His smile tells me he’s joking, but I still defend myself. “I told you in Florida, this,” I wave my hands back and forth between us, “is not something I make a habit of.”

  My tone is much harsher than I intended, and he draws his head back, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  I hold my hand up. “Sorry. Family day. Makes me testy.”

  “Did you tell your parents about me?”

  Parents.

  I never told him about my mother and the cancer. “My mama passed about six years ago. She had breast cancer. My sister too. She’s recovering from chemo. Remember I told you she was sick?”

  Now the family history is out there.

  “Wow, I’m sorry.”

  At least he didn’t say, “I understand,” because our mothers’ deaths were different. Horrific, but different.

  One death was quick. The other, drawn-out, ugly, agonizing. That’s the pain I want my family to avoid with me, and that’s why I’m opting for the PBM.

  Tears threaten to spill if I say a single word. Time heals, but sometimes a single word, or look or touch, can rip the delicate scabs right off.

  I take another drink of water and clear my throat. “Ready to go? I need to get to the store to grab dessert.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He flips over the check and pulls out his wallet to pay, refusing my money.

  He’s still handsome in his clothes from last night even though they’re rumpled. I think the phrase “would look good in a potato sack” was created for guys like him.

  We walk back to my place and hop into the truck. I drive the ten minutes back to his apartment. I don’t pull into a space—that would invite a drawn-out farewell—and instead stop behind a few other parked cars.

  “Can I call you tonight?”

  “Yes,” I say, even as my stupid brain is screaming “No way, never again.”

  Go the fuck away, conscience, at least for the moment

  Let me enjoy him for another couple weeks.

  Then I’ll tell him.

  Thea

  I use the few hours before supper to prep for my group therapy session tomorrow. One of the activities my therapist, Dr. Luther, suggests for our pre-op counseling sessions is to keep a journal, or write a letter. To my breasts, telling them goodbye.

  I understand why the exercise might help. When you’re angry with someone, you can yell or call or write them a letter to express your feelings, regrets, and so on.
I sit on the couch with my journal—the letter is personal, and typing on the laptop too mechanical—and start writing. The end product surprises me.

  My darling girls,

  I can’t believe our time is coming to an end. We’ve been together for such a short time, but wow, fun times. You’ve caused me grief as well, but mostly it’s been an unbelievable ride. Especially our time in Key West. But the potential harm you could cause makes this radical step necessary. So I say:

  “Goodbye to you, boobs.”

  My prophylactic double mastectomy is scheduled for a few weeks from today. I’m scared shitless. So much pain and scarring. Most of all, there will be second-guessing.

  There hadn’t been any of the latter until I met him. The god. Apparently of Irish origin, not Greek. But hot. Like J.-Crew-model hot. Hotter, even. His name is Shay Kelly. He loves you. He likes me, but you? He can’t keep his hands off of you.

  This would be uncomplicated if I’d been able to leave him behind in Florida. But as ass-kicking fate would have it, he’s going to med school—at my college. After I ran into him at the university hospital, I was dumbfounded and speechless, like the first time we met. But he still asked me out. A wonderful, romantic date, and more after that.

  And the sex. The mind-blowing, toe-curling sex. This guy is perfect. Gorgeous, smart, and ambitious. He doesn’t know you’ll be leaving soon. The one thing he despises is being lied to, the way people lied to him for years about his mother. Now I’m lying, by colossal omission. How do I tell him? Hell, Daddy doesn’t even know yet. He’s still mourning Mama’s loss to breast cancer six years ago and helping my older sister with her kids while she undergoes chemo.

  So {gulp} I need to figure out a way to tell Shay . . . and find the strength to watch him walk away. Or worse—he’ll look at me like I’m nothing but a patient, and less than a woman.

  Deep down, I guess I’ve struggled with this outward loss of my femininity. Shay’s presence and imminent loss bring those feelings bubbling to the surface, and I don’t like it all. I’m in charge here, and you’re still going, no matter how much joy you’ve attracted these past weeks.

  I’ll miss you, but I must say goodbye. Adiós. Au revoir. Ta-ta forever, ta-tas.