Summer Ever After

by M. C. Cerny

  I nod. “Yeah, or at least when I go back at the end of summer.” This time he nods leaning back to wipe down the bar.

  “Well, I’m sure you can put your sharp tongue to good use then.” He smiles and I regret a lot of things like how I treated Roman from the beginning. It’s kind of funny how can I flay open a witness in a courtroom, but I can’t tell my dad how much I regret going into law. I can’t even tell my boyfriend what I need in our relationship or the bedroom. I suppose he’s teetering closer to an ex-boyfriend at this point. I pause for a moment to think when our interlude is interrupted by another guy behind the bar.

  “Hey, Roman, thanks for covering. I got it from here, bro.” The dark haired guy takes the towel from Roman’s hand and directs him out from behind the bar with a shooing motion.

  “So you’re not actually a bartender?” I look at them both incredulously. They glance at each other, laughing and clapping the other on the back—as if we ladies would understand what that means in bro-code.

  “Nah, but this here is the greatest guy you’ll ever meet. I promise you. Best guy in Gold Beach.” The stranger claps Roman on the back again, and I can tell Roman is clearly embarrassed, but I’m interested in learning more about him for some reason, and tonight our banter hasn’t gone downhill as I usually expect it to.

  “What Jake means is I’m the best bartender he ever fired.” Roman fake punches his friend in the gut and the two do some kind of ‘bromance’ hug there are no words for. It’s cute, but not redeeming—and I still hate men, I remind myself. Except maybe I hate Roman a little less.

  “Yeah sure, Ro. The job is yours if you ever decide to give up those pretty boats of yours.” Jake winks at me and walks away to fill some new drink orders at the other end of the bar, leaving me with more questions about Roman Winters. So he’s into boats—not surprising if he lives here, I guess.

  “Hey, you wanna dance?” Roman walks around the side of the bar to stand at my side as he runs a hand through his messy hair. The music playing has a good beat to it and several other people are out on the floor dancing already. I glance at them, nervously licking my bottom lip, unsure if he means dancing with me or in general.

  I am a shitty dancer by my sister Leah’s observation, but she also took two decades’ worth of dance classes—whereas I barely made it through one abysmal season after tripping the entire chorus line and bawling my eyes out on the stage. My dad was mortified after having sat through four hours of tiny ballerinas prancing around. My sister demanded to switch dance schools after that epic screw up of mine. Yet another reason I miss my mother. Her hugs got me through the humiliation

  “Hey, Blondie, dance or no dance?” Roman leans in to nudge me, and I think what the heck. I let my lemon drop buzz continue to fuel my poor choices tonight.

  “Sure, why not.” I slam another drink down and lick the sugar rim again, letting the taste of tart and sweet assail my tongue. The rush feels good, but not as good as Roman taking my hand in his and pulling me off the stool and onto the dance floor. My legs are wobbly, like a new born deer, but he pulls me close and my body brushes his, and for one brief moment, everything seems so right.

  ROMAN

  If Abby licks around the rim of the martini glass one more time, I’m going to embarrass myself right here in the local watering hole in front of people who have known me since I was in knickers. I figure I should torture myself some more, and I grab her hand in mine, pulling her to the dance floor. She’s a bit unsteady on her legs and I wonder if I got Hollywood a little drunk. I kind of like the idea of a softer, tipsy Abby. I’d been working the bar all night waiting for Jake, and this is the first conversation Abby and I haven’t tried to slay each other verbally.

  Her flashy gold sandaled feet match my fumbling steps. The stereo is playing something popular and the beat is decent for dancing to, if that’s what you’d call what we are doing together. Normally, I don’t dance, but I guess that’s what you do when you want to rub your body all over a pretty woman and not get arrested for it. Abby is about a good of a dancer as I am, which makes us terrible together. I don’t care. Like I said, I just want to rub my body all over her now that she’s pulled her claws in and our banter is much friendlier.

  Jake sets us up with drinks and we have a few more—well, I have about three beers and Abby is drinking an ungodly amount of lemon drops, which I lose count of. I try to push the water on her, but she’s not drinking any of it. I’m hoping I didn’t get her drunk. I only wanted to thaw her out, but this Abby is friendly, a little touchy, and I want to get to know her better.

  The night passes with dancing and drinking to an overheated excess even though it’s cool outside once the sun has gone down. Both of us are a little sweaty from our dancing. I realize how much I want Abby, not just physically, but because she’s an interesting woman. I feel the chemistry between us, which has me thinking I’d like to see more of her, but I don’t know if this is the real Abby or who she becomes when the alcohol takes over her brain.

  Her hand snakes itself around the back of my neck, pulling my head closer to hers, and her short nails rake the skin just under my hairline, activating every nerve ending connected to my dick. The night is over and I don’t think I can convince Abby to continue dancing just so I can rub my body all over hers. The feel of her fingers on my skin makes me swell hard in my shorts and I really want to lean into her to feel the soft press of her body against mine. I really want to.

  “I should probably take you home, Abby.”

  Her touch is makes me groan and her small smile is doing things to me. Realizing how late it is, I sigh deeply like a teenager on a first date because I don’t want the night to end. It’s the first time since she’s been here that we’re getting along. I untangle her hand from the back of my head and hold her by her waist, trying to put a little distance between us. God, it would be so easy to rub my dick against her soft stomach, so easy since her skin is peeking out between her top and her low-rise jean shorts that lovingly cup her adorable butt, which I’d give my entire boat company up to caress just once.

  “Home?” Abby’s giggle makes it clear I could be a real asshole about this and have my way with her. Grabbing my T-shirt, she pulls herself closer to me. It’s my fault she’s drunk. I was being a smartass giving her lemon drops instead of prissy white wine. She probably knew her tolerance with white wine better than a sweet tart mix of vodka. I couldn’t believe she wanted a blow job. No girl in her right mind would drink those. Correction: No nice girl I’ve ever known would drink those.

  Abby is a sweet temptation best savored slowly, so I need to get some space to clear my beer-addled brain. With Maddie’s house being between my beach house and the cottage, she’ll make the perfect chaperone. Too bad Bella was at home with the Mayor at this hour likely snoring in her doggie bed. Does Abby realize I live so close?

  “Yes, princess. I’m taking you home. We can pick up your car later.” Scanning the parking lot, I walk her toward my truck.

  “My car?” Abby looks around the mostly empty parking lot of the bar, confused.

  “Where is your flashy car?” I look, but I don’t see the sleek silver convertible anywhere. I’m hoping the kids in town didn’t do anything stupid like hotwire it for a joyride. They’ll bring it back; she wouldn’t be the first out-of-towner they’ve done this too, but I don’t want them doing it to my… er… Abigail Holliday.

  “Oh, I rode my bicycle over.” Abby laughs like it’s the greatest joke ever, and there, chained to the post, is one of Maddie’s rickety bicycles, which come with the cottage rental. Relief washes over me and I guide her back to the truck.

  “Perfect. I’ll pick it up tomorrow. Let’s go.” I’m glad I won’t have to worry about a seventy-thousand-dollar car sitting in the local barhop parking lot, or one feisty inebriated woman driving it along the coastal highway. Thankfully, I’ve worn off the buzz from the beers I drank earlier by dancing with Abby; I’d never drive anywhere drunk as a hard rule.

/>   I pick up Abby and get her inside my truck, careful to buckle her in, but when I reach across her, she slumps forward clearly in a drunken stupor and her breasts rest against my arm. Under normal circumstances a week ago, she would have killed me for getting near her. Sweet heaven, her softness makes me hard and the curses rest right on my lips. Her breasts aren’t overly large or small—probably a nice handful if I thought about it—and having her soft mounds rest against my arm makes my mouth dry because I’m thinking about what I want to do to them and how they would taste. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was doing this to me on purpose.

  “Come on, Abby, lie back in the seat for me, sweetheart.” Groaning, I try to untangle myself, glad she’s unconscious. She’s asleep with her head against the window, which looks terribly uncomfortable. Luckily, my truck has front seats that connect, so I pull Abby over and rest her head in my lap once I’ve got myself situated and my own seatbelt on. Her soft snores vibrate against my leg and I pray my dick behaves for once in my life.

  I get to look at her closely from this distance and run my fingers through her soft, pale hair. The moonlight makes it look silver. She has tiny dangling earrings in her ears, small-as-shit diamonds. I can tell the quality of them isn’t great, but I don’t know if they are sentimental to her or not. I rub the shell of her ear, touching the earring as I drive her toward Maddie’s place. If Abby was my girl, she’d have hunks of rocks in her ears. But she’s not my girl… as much as I might like her to be.

  Sighing, I pull up to the house and park my truck. When I see a shadow dart inside the house behind the curtains, I know Maddie is still awake and being nosy. The woman was probably waiting on Abby to come home safely, and there will be an inquisition in the morning if I don’t leave Abby’s cottage promptly. I get out and go to her side, opening the door. I’ll worry about Maddie’s impending censure tomorrow.

  “Come on, princess, let’s get you tucked in bed.” I pick her up and carry her down the path to the cottage. She is slight, but a dead weight under the influence of all the drinks she consumed earlier. Lemony-sweet breath fans my neck mixed with ocean air. The moonlight shining down on her unconscious body makes her appear nymph-like and even more forbidden.

  Nudging her gently, I whisper in her ear, “Abby, where are your keys?” All I get is a cute grumble as Abby digs her face deeper into my shoulder, licking her lips in her sleep. With her soft mouth now resting against my neck, her tongue slides along the sensitive skin of my neck in the process. God help me.

  “Argh. Please stop,” I implore, groaning out loud, not caring if she hears me or not. Actually, I hope she does, so she can wake up and give me a smart-mouth response to remind me of all the reasons this is a sublimely bad idea. Holding her close, I squeeze my eyes shut and pray I don’t drop her as my dick tents my shorts uncomfortably, diverting my attention obviously elsewhere.

  I listen to the ocean crashing on the beach for a moment, steadying myself, and feel the breeze kick up outside the cottage, cooling us off. This must be karma. Digging around in my pocket, I take out my set of master keys that Maddie made me and open the door to Abby’s cottage. She will freak out if she knows I have these keys, but I haven’t gone into the cottage in the last three weeks, and I certainly don’t plan on ever doing so uninvited.

  Looking around the inside of the cottage, I see how neat the occupant draped in my arms has left it. She certainly doesn’t leave a mess anywhere, except for the rumpled sheets of the bed as I carry her through the living room into her bedroom. I can just imagine her sleeping here, silver blonde hair fanned out across the pillows and kicking the sheets off on those warm nights. Abby is going to kill me with my own imagination.

  I lay her on the bed and pull the sheets out from under her. The gesture brings me leaning over her body, and for a brief second, I rest my head closer to hers, listening to her soft puffs of breath as she dreams. Her lips part slightly in a low moan and I back away, afraid our thoughts are similar in nature. My fists clench a second as I get my body and brain under control enough to slip her strappy gold sandals off her feet and cover her up.

  If I knew Abby more intimately, I’d take her shorts off to make her more comfortable, but screw that; a man only has so much patience and I’m not looking for trouble.

  I dump her little gold purse on the nightstand, and as I’m about to turn the bedside light off, it starts vibrating and dinging like crazy. It scares the shit out of me so much so that I almost topple the lamp over in my nimble efforts to not look like a complete tool in front of this sleeping angel. Afraid to wake Abby, I grab the bag and run into the small kitchen. Opening the bag, I feel like some sort of creeper as I take the phone out and turn the ringer off. Unfortunately, my finger slides across the screen and I can see the partial message from some dude named Lucas. I wonder why Abby doesn’t bother with a password for her phone.

  Lucas Crowley: Babe, call me ASAP. Need to talk to you. You should consider coming back to LA now. I still love you.

  Great, I’m about to leave Abby for the night adorably snoring and some douche-canoe boyfriend named Lucas is trying to reach her. Thoughts of another guy weighs heavy on my chest, and I feel a burst of competitive energy unlike before. I’d bet my first boat design this jerk is the cause of the ice princess’ troubles. He sounds like a demanding asshole. What did he mean he needs to talk to her and that he ‘still’ loves her? This doesn’t sound like good news—how could you still love someone? I thought if you loved someone, you always loved them. Fucking semantics at 2 a.m. is screwing with my head, and while this is probably none of my business, I can’t let it go either. I leave the phone on the kitchen counter with a growl, hoping she’s broken up with this asshole.

  Slipping from the cottage, cool, salty air slaps me in the face, waking up things I buried long ago, twisting my gut. Feelings I’m uncomfortable with stirred leading me back to the girl safe in her bed right now. Locking her door, I stomp off down the broken path knowing I should leave her alone but seemingly tempt myself each time I find myself in her presence. I can’t shake off the unexplainable myriad feelings. Unexpectedly like everything else with Abigail Holliday, those feelings crash into me. What I need is to get the hell out of here, maybe drive back to Seattle or take out my boat for some alone time to think things over. Just me and the waves…and my blasted head wrapped up in this girl.

  Cursing, I turn right back around. The walk back from my beach house much is longer than usual and—what do you know? —I feel that much more bone-tired from working all day around town and dancing with Abby all night. Fuck the inquisition tomorrow, Maddie’s prying eyes will just have to wait to grill me later. I want to be here in the morning with the sassy girl who makes me questions my decisions and motivations.

  Hurriedly, I step back onto the porch and use my key again to get inside. I take the phone from where I left it on the counter, taunting me, and slip it back into her purse, putting it on the nightstand. I lock up the cottage before heading back into the bedroom. Taking off my shoes, I slip into the bed with my clothes on. I’m that stupid—I’ll probably scare the shit out of Abby tomorrow morning by being here, but at least I’ll have this one night to savor slowly while the claws are sheathed.

  I pull her against my body, snuggling her into my arms, smelling the faint vodka snores and sugared lemons. My hold is no more or less from when I carried her into the cottage from my truck. No copping a cheap feel for this guy keeping my hands in the safe zone. If Abby wants more than fleeting touches, I’ll need her to articulate that. You can question my motives all you want, but if I was a bad guy and a real dick, I’d be doing a lot more than just slipping into bed with Abby.

  Sure, I’d like for the asshole boyfriend to be out of the picture, but I can’t help that. Abby will have to make that decision on her own. For now, I’ll be the good guy and hope she sees me that way in the morning.

  Chapter Five

  ABIGAIL

  Waking up with a pounding headache and th
e taste of sour lemons rotting in my mouth is a new experience for me, far outside the regimented life of reading court transcripts, filing motions, and nail maintenance appointments. I lie still, letting everything slowly come to me in the morning—smells not quite pleasant, sounds of soothing waves from outside on the beach, and the heat, incredible heat surrounding my body. Lemon drops and Roman Winters, of course. It’s all coming back slowly to me now, like waves rushing in over the sand. I’m confused by the hard, warm body that had wrapped his arms around me sometime in the night.

  I’m caught between lucidity and regrets. That’s strange—I don’t remember Lucas coming to the cottage, and this body feels much more solid, just plain bigger all around as I let my fingers dance over what my closed eyes can’t see. Carefully opening one eye, I still my greedy finger going as still as possible. It’s not Lucas. There’s a lot of dark golden brown messy hair—and strangely, I’m thanking God, because as much as I think I miss him, I’m still incredibly wounded by his careless actions.

  Instead, it’s Roman. Shit, the guy I’ve been—I don’t know what I’ve been thinking lately. Hyperventilating, I try to wiggle my way out from under his arms so I can hide for the rest of the summer in the bathroom. Bile rises in my throat and I shimmy my arm up between us so I can cover my mouth. I’m sure the last thing any guy wants is to smell morning breath after a binge drinking fest that reeks of bad lemonade. At least that’s what Lucas would say.

  After one of our infrequent nights out with preppy friends in West Hollywood, one pair of designer shoes busts a spindly heel and instantly I’d become the group DD… He declared I was the designated driver so I didn’t embarrass myself again after ass-planting myself in the parking lot.

  “Easy, Abby, nothing happened except sleeping,” Roman whispers into my ear, and I swear he’s kissing the spot just below my earrings—a gift from Lucas, of course. Shame heats the rest of my body as he’s brushing his nose against my neck softly. I envision ripping the earrings out from my guilt for being in bed with another man—even if Lucas said we should take the summer off. This wasn’t how I, Abigail Holliday, conducted my personal business, break or no break. Ugh, where is my morality? My sense of self-respect… which is slowly falling away as I take in the warmth of Roman’s body next to mine under the blankets.