“How about we keep it simple. Just a strawberry daiquiri for me. Make it a virgin.” Much like myself. Virgin—Izzy Sawyer, they’re interchangeable at this point. But just the reaction my body is having to Holt lets me know it might be time to rectify that. Maybe it is time to switch things up in my life.
That amber bottle my mother keeps in the kitchen flashes through my mind.
“You know—make it whiskey,” I say. It was my father’s favorite drink. My mother has kept his unfinished bottle of Jack Daniel’s just above the stove for the last twenty years, and I’ve hailed it as a shrine ever since.
“From virgin to whiskey in a single bound. Whiskey it is. How do you want that?” Holt growls it out like a sexual command, and my entire body responds.
“Make it any way you like,” I purr right back. I can’t help flirting a little with him. His brand of perfection demands it.
“That’s always a brave answer, sweetie.” He gazes at me a moment too long, and I drink him in with his dark stubble peppering his cheeks, his intense glowing eyes—lips of crimson—and my stomach squeezes tight.
He takes off, and Jemma starts in on a series of spastic kicks under the table.
“Would you stop?” I retract my feet and scoot back an inch. “I’m going to bruise. And I have a class to teach in a few hours.”
“He called you, sweetie.” She presses her lips together, but a laugh bubbles through anyway. “Oh, hon, he just tapped you on the shoulder and told you to get in his bed.” She shakes her head, pleased with her ability to connect the sexual dots—albeit incorrectly. “Ten bucks says you can have that shiny tight ass on a platter by midnight if you play your whiskey right.”
“Please. I’m not plating him or anybody else up by midnight, and I don’t plan on touching the whiskey.” Maybe just enough to wet my lips.
“Knew it.” Her eyes pull with sadness, an almost foreign emotion for Jem. “Does your daddy ever leave your mind?”
I slide down in my seat a few inches. Jemma Jackson has always had the uncanny ability to read me like a book—more like a picture book that shows the same heartbreaking scene on every single page.
“He does,” I whisper. “But lately he’s really been on my mind, and it makes me wonder what it means.”
“I know exactly what it means.” She touches her hand to mine. “It’s time to get you to a good therapist. Trust me, hon, this is long overdue.” She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip. “Make sure you get one of those touchy feely ones that know how to make you feel extra good when the session is through. We’ll find you someone who’s ready and willing to straighten you out a little.”
“I know where this is going, and I don’t need a sex therapist, Jem.”
Holt pops up like an apparition. “I should hope not.” His dimples dig in and—oh crap.
Turns out I don’t need to worry about Jemma’s wayward mouth. My own is quite capable of landing me in a steaming pile of humiliation.
He leans in, and his cologne washes over me like a heat wave at midnight. His cheek glides up one side as if all hell were about to break loose. And, judging by the way my thighs are quivering, it so is.
“Here you go.” Holt sets a pair of matching amber drinks in front of us and the vanilla rich scent permeates my senses. It’s a far cry from my usual catalog of virgin cocktails, and I’m pretty sure the only virgin in this scenario is me. It’s nothing I’m shouting out over the rooftops, but it’s something that’s been swirling around my mind now that Jemma so subtly suggested I see a therapist who might be bribed into a one-night stand with the hope he’ll straighten me out a little.
Holt lands a plate of burger and fries in front of Jem before directing his attention to me.
“Thank you.” I give a weak smile. I’ve known Holt forever. His little sister, Annie, took private lessons at my mother’s dance studio for years. Annie is one of the sweetest kids I’ve ever had the pleasure to teach. She was born completely deaf, but her determination to live a full life has put it in her heart that she can do anything she sets her mind to, and, for a while, that happened to be dance.
“How’s Annie?” I drink him in. Holt is the all-American real deal—the perfect package for any princess in the market for a genuine prince charming. Six foot two, dirty blond hair, muscles for miles and, judging by that semi-lewd grin that knocks the girls off their feet, I’m guessing a quasi-dirty mind to boot.
“Annie is doing great. She’s headed to Whitney Briggs in the fall. Her dorm is all set to go, so it’s a done deal.”
“Really?” I clutch my chest without meaning to. In my mind, Annie is still that lanky thirteen-year-old who wears coke-bottle glasses with a mouth full of braces. “College?” I swear I’ve inadvertently discovered how to fast forward time without meaning to. Sometimes it feels as though my whole life is riding on the tail of a shooting star—evaporating to nothing right before my eyes.
“Yup. Her move-in date is mid August. Bryson is still hanging around campus, so he can keep an extra eye on her.” Bryson is Holt’s fraternal twin. Their parents own a string of bars, and the Black Bear happens to be one of them.
“Hard to believe. Please tell her I said hi.”
He glances toward the door and breaks out into his million-dollar smile. Aside from his eyes, and that decidedly perfect body, his big toothy grin is almost always guaranteed to melt a girl’s panties. I should know. I speak from experience.
“Looks like you’ll get to tell her yourself. She just walked in.” He gives my shoulder a playful tweak and heads over to his sister who’s currently being accosted by Bryson’s other half, Baya.
“He touched you.” Jemma gives that knowing look which is alarmingly always wrong.
“That’s because he’s comfortable with me.”
“Oh, trust me, that boy is interested in making you real comfortable. Did you see the way he looked at you?” Her pale eyes pierce into mine with all kinds of inappropriate thoughts flickering through them. “He’s interested in touching all of your comfort zones.”
“Trust me, he’s not interested. And would you leave my comfort zones out of this? See all those girls drooling over the bar?” I nod at a gaggle of coeds transfixed by Holt and his mixer-inspired magic tricks. “He can have any one of them—and, newsflash, he probably has.”
“And what exactly is wrong with you?” Jemma kicks me under the table once again. “You’ve got ten times what those girls have.”
“Would you stop using your stilettos as a gavel to prove your point? And for your information”—I glance back at Holt manning the bar while whipping the girls into an ethanol frenzy—“I’m no coed.” I twist back and inspect Jemma for the first signs of crow’s feet. Jemma’s heavily drawn in eyes and disparaging choice of blue-red lip color really prove my point. “We’re not on the same playing field as those girls. My mom always says—”
She holds up a hand quick to stop me. “No offense but your momma should be taken out back and shot on site for the welfare and safety of others. And then I should probably come back in and pistol whip you for believing a thing that woman has ever said.”
Jemma isn’t my mother’s biggest fan. Although I doubt the working end of a rifle is in my mother’s future either. They have a hostile relationship and still seem to get along better then she and I ever could.
“How is it that you call my mother ‘momma’ and yet want to hogtie her and riddle her body with bullets?”
“That’s the beauty of who we are. Good old Bobbie and I understand each other because, deep down, inside we’re the exact same person. We refuse to tell anything but the truth.” My mother legally changed her name from Roberta to Bobbie when she was eighteen. Her father used to call her Bobbie, and she refused to answer to anything but. I guess we have that in common—our father’s giving us pet names we prefer over the ones they originally gifted us with. Although if I called myself Little Bit, I wouldn’t run the risk of being mistaken as a man like my mother so often is, I’
d be mistaken for a less-than-amply-endowed pole dancer.
“The truth, huh?” I’m blinded momentarily by my mother and her stab-you-in-the-heart brand of candor. I love her to death, but she’s honest as an assault rifle all day long. “Yeah, well, sometimes the truth feels a lot like a two-by-four.”
Jemma slinks down in her seat, examining me with a slight look of pity. I know what she’s thinking. About a decade ago I made the mistake of letting her in on my darkest hour. Sometimes I think the memory of it eats at her as much as it does me. But that’s one truth Jemma will never espouse because I made it clear as the crystal meth her husband smokes that it’s not her place to do so—it’s mine. And I never will. Some things are best forgotten. And as soon as I can figure out how to forget it I’ll be golden.
Jem picks at her food. “Rumor has it Greasy D is back in town—sniffing around old stomping grounds.”
Greasy D—Don, is my mother’s ex-fiancé who just so happened to remember our address last week and planted his drunk self on our couch.
“That he is.” I blow out an exasperated breath because I’m not ready to go there. My mother has had a string of ex-boyfriends, husbands, significant other pretenders. You name the scoundrel, my mother has already teased him out from under a rock and brought him home. Most of my mother’s suitors think they can make their way into my pants when she’s not looking—one of them did. I shake the past out of my head easy as clearing an Etch A Sketch.
Jemma raps her knuckles over the table pulling me from my momentary trance. “Never mind all this bull. We need to get back to the topic at hand—you and Mr. Comfortable.” She snatches the pickle from her plate and holds its long, bulbous body up for display. “Now—I know his type—things are going to move quickly. He’s going to flick his zipper and expect you to know what comes next. You’re gonna want to pay careful attention, sweetie, because this is one pop quiz you’re not going to want to fail.” She plunges the poor defenseless pickled veggie into her mouth and proceeds to pull it in and out.
“Would you stop?” I do a quick sweep of the facility to see exactly how mortified I should be.
“No teeth,” she barks over at me as if I were getting intimate with a cucumber myself.
“You can quit the tutorial. I won’t be pleasuring vegetables anytime soon.”
“You’re not pleasuring anyone.” She takes a hard bite. “Tell me this—you pleasing yourself?”
“I’m not doing this with you.” I sink lower in my seat and clamp my hands over my ears.
“Come over some time. I’ve got a closet full of peckers that are guaranteed to make you blush for weeks. Of course, you’ll have to get your own batteries. I wouldn’t trust—”
“Jemma, I’m blushing now. Can we end this? I’m no more in the market for one of your closet peckers than I am for pickle tutorial. But, trust me, the next time I’m in a relationship with mildly-processed produce you’ll be the first to know.”
“No teeth.” She bites the air. “One day you’ll find yourself playing with Holt Edwards’ pickle, and you’ll remember this very conversation.”
“God.” I lean in hard. “You just said his name and the word pickle in the same sentence.” I glance over at him still ten skanks deep as he shakes a martini mixer over his head. “Do you know people are able to hear their names at freakishly low decibels? He’s going to think we’re perverts, when we both know the only pervert around here is you.”
“Guess I’ll be his favorite.” She smashes the butt of her cigarette into the table as if she were putting it out. “The things I could teach you if you only let me. Believe me, I’ve got a sexual IQ that would baffle the scientific community.”
“In that case, you should consider donating your brain to science. Right now. Go.”
Jemma and I enter a standoff, just staring one another down with nothing but a headless pickle between us to pass judgment.
A pair of pale arms wave from the bar, catching my attention. Laney smiles like a loon as she heads this way. My heart warms at the sight of my sweet baby sis. She’s been working here for almost a year, and, each time she talks about the place, she seems really happy as if she’s wanted to do this all along. But, then, everything always works out for Laney. She and her longtime boyfriend, Ryder, are getting married in a few short months, thus the spastic text to meet her at the Black Bear this afternoon. I don’t mind. It’s actually quiet here today. It’s officially June, so most of the people who live in this college town are gone for the summer.
“Bring Lila down to the studio.” I tap my fingers over the table to garner Jemma’s wandering attention. Every time Holt walks by, her eyes sway in his fitted-denim direction.
“Are you kidding? And reward the little brat? She turned the channel yesterday and forced her brothers to watch a horror movie.”
“That’s a new one for her.” Lila is Jem’s six-year-old daughter, and according to Jemma, she might be Satan’s spawn. “And where were you while the kids were subject to teen vampires in love?”
“Napping. Believe it or not, I’m the only damn person in the house who appreciates a good snooze-fest in the middle of the afternoon. I’m telling you, this summer is going to be the death of me.”
“Have they already handed out mother of the year?” I tease. “Because I think you’re a front-runner.”
“Damn straight I am.”
Laney fast approaches with two girls in tow.
“Izzy!” Laney pulls me into a hug and her cute, perky friend, Baya, gives a shy wave from behind. Roxy Capwell, her soon to be sister-in-law is next to her. “You remember Baya and Roxy, right?”
“Of course, I remember Baya, and I’ll never forget Roxy.” I lean over and give a deep rocking hug to my once upon a dance student. When Roxy was coming to the studio she was a shy, sweet thing, and now she’s a gorgeous-as-all-hell Goth girl who looks like she’d gut you for kicks if you smile the wrong way.
Roxy pulls back. “How’s everything at the ELDS?”
I’ve pretty much taken over the Electric Lights Dance Studio from my mother.
“Great,” I whisper, pulling away. Her eyes shine a deep shade of navy. Her pale skin acts as a dramatic backdrop for her dark hair with its cherry highlights. Roxy is a true beauty—heck, they all are. “And I never thanked you properly for throwing up on my favorite strappy heels a few months back. I cut myself out of them, by the way.” And swore off strappy footwear for the rest of my natural days. Anytime you voluntarily place yourself in bondage to try and garner the attention of the opposite sex, it’s not worth the effort. Then again, I’m never really after the attention of the opposite sex. That night happened to be another one of my sister’s hair-brained attempts at finding me a horizontal dance partner. You would think there was a crisis situation-taking place in my jeans that only a male spare part could fully alleviate. I don’t think Laney could ever understand the last thing I’m looking for is something quick and dirty. I’ve had enough unwanted physical attention to last a lifetime. But Laney doesn’t know that either. There are some things a little sister shouldn’t have to deal with. I’ve been protecting Laney for as long as I can remember, and I’m not going to stop now.
Holt’s sister, Annie, comes over, and I pull an empty seat right next to mine. She offers the sweetest, strongest hug, and it’s not until we pull away do I even see that she’s all grown up and a beauty queen in her own right. Gone are the coke-bottle glasses and braces, traded for diamond cut eyes that rival her brother’s, and a dazzling smile.
“Would you look at this?” I gasp at Laney. “We’ve got a bona fide supermodel among us.” I look to Roxy and Baya. “All of you.”
Annie gives a bashful smile and shakes her head refuting the idea. I can sign just enough to get by, but, for the most, part Annie is exceptionally good at reading lips.
“Two of my favorite students in one place.” I take them in. “You guys should come back to the studio sometime. We’re offering adult classes on the weekend
s.”
They exchange glances, making it pretty clear they have better things to do than trip the lights on a Saturday.
“Well, I gotta fly.” Jemma gives a quick glance around. “If you see my sister, tell the little brat I waited a solid fifteen. Ron is going to hack his head off if he has to sit on those kids another damn minute.” She takes a few swigs of the whiskey concoction Holt was kind enough to bring and slaps me a high five before jetting out the door.
Laney shakes her head. “It’s always a pleasure, Jem.” She cuts her dark blue eyes to mine. Laney and I look nearly identical, but my hair is longer and darker, my eyes just a touch lighter than hers. “She stiff you with the bill again?” Laney doesn’t wait for an answer. “Seriously, Iz? You need new friends. That girl has been trouble since you were fifteen.”
“Thank you, Mom.” I take a sip of my drink and feel the burn travel all the way down to my stomach. “Is that what you dragged me here to say?”
She gives a wry smile. “I dragged you here because I thought it would be nice to have my whole bridal party together at least once before the wedding.”
Bridal party? I glance to Annie. That’s strange, I never knew Laney and Annie were that close. Roxy is Ryder’s sister so that makes sense.
“And”—she wiggles her shoulders—“we’re having a sort of impromptu engagement party next Saturday night right here at the Black Bear.” She slips Baya a secretive smile. “In fact, we’ll be making a very special announcement, and I don’t want any of you to miss it.”
“So August 10th is the big day, huh?” I’m thrilled for my sister. There’s nothing in this world I want more than for her to embrace that great happily ever after with Ryder. I love Laney with my whole heart. I would do anything to protect her. And I did vigilantly for years.
“That’s the day.” She grips Baya by the hand and giggles. “Anyway, it means the world to me that each of you is willing to be a part of my big moment. Ryder and I have decided we’re paying for each of your dresses, and I’d like for you to pick out your own from the bridal shop in Jepson. Anything you want as long as it’s black. We’re going with that whole classic theme with clean lines.” She wrinkles her nose at Baya. “Just something simple.” She loses herself in a giggle fit once again, and Baya makes large eyes at her as if telling her to knock it off.
Summer Breeze Kisses Page 2
