Mom’s been away from the dance studio for weeks now ever since she turned her ankle. The doctor’s been after her to lose some weight, but, by the looks of how she’s eyeing that box of Yo-Ho’s next to her, it’s a farfetched idea.
She reaches for the carton as if reading my mind.
“The doctor said—”
She holds a Yo-Ho up victoriously. “The doctor can pry this out of my cold, dead hands.”
“He might get the chance.”
My mother never listens. I learned that the hard way the summer I turned eighteen. I brush the memory out of my mind before it ever gets the chance to fully form.
“Classes were fine. Bella wants a raise. She says—”
“Tell her to get in line.” She lifts the stack of envelopes once again and snarls. “I can’t stand this bull anymore. Some days I think it’s just not worth the headache.” She pulls the hair at her temples. “It’s either this mother isn’t happy with the coaching—or that one wants her daughter to have a solo every damn week—and I’ve got fifteen building inspectors breathing down my neck nagging at me to make repairs, or they’re going to nail the doors shut. It’s all a load of bullcrap if you ask me.” She bites the Yo-Ho’s chocolate head off as if she means business. “Donny and I were talking about firing up the motorhome. What do you think of that?”
My heart stops. “Donny” is a moron who, if memory serves correct, believes in tweaking my ass when he’s wasted out of his mind on a bender.
“What is it exactly that draws you to him?” For a woman who seems to have every single answer in life, she can never really figure out men. Over the years, Mom’s rendition of a good catch has been—same loser, different body. If there’s a bad batch of assholes out there, rest assured, my mother has plowed through them all.
“He’s tall, dark, and dangerous, and he gives me the time of day.”
“So you’re settling.” At least she got the dangerous part right.
“You wish. Bobbie Sawyer never settles.” She darts a pudgy finger at me. “That man is a saint for putting up with her, what with all the foul language and condescending remarks—and those are just the verbal love pats she directs at him. Any lesser of a man would have long since sliced his own balls off before hightailing out of town. He gets her. He knows her love language is lethal and that she’s not afraid to abuse it.”
“Nice. And, by the way, speaking about yourself in third person is creepy, knock it off, or I’ll flex my power to have you committed.” I’m only half-kidding. Greasy D is an asshole. The D might as well stand for douche—although, I’ll give him points for dealing with my mother. And if he ever shows up smashed and tries to cop a feel, I’ll be the one slicing his balls off. I’m not some helpless teenager cowering in the corner anymore, hoping he won’t hit on my sister or me. In fact, if things get crazy, I might slice off his man parts for kicks, too.
I fill the cats bowls and give them each a quick scratch behind the ears. Three orange Tabbies and a white Persian. They’re my babies, my family, and no matter how insane I look by collecting them en masse, I’m their furless mommy for the long haul. Besides, if it weren’t for their fluffy warm coats, who would heat the sheets with me at night? It’s a sad day when you’re able to admit the only attention you get in bed is of the feline variety. Speaking of attention…
“So”—I stand and arch my back until my lungs fill with the unfortunate scent of tuna and salmon—“I’m headed to the Black Bear again. Laney is determined to set me up on a series of bad memories in the making. I thought I’d go ahead and humor her once or twice.”
“Bad memories as in bad dates? Blind dates?” Her sea blue eyes dart up to mine. “So that’s what it’s come to, huh?” She plucks another Yo-Ho out of the box and pulls back the wrapper like peeling a banana. “Well, good riddance. Maybe we’ll both get some action for once. I’m tired of watching those damn cats rut around the house like this is some sort of feline brothel. Where’s our rutting? Where’s our cat on a hot tin roof moment?”
“I’m leaving now. And you can add another word to the make Izzy-evacuate-from-the-room list.” I almost trip over the small herd of felines twirling around my feet. If anything my mother doesn’t mince words.
“What word is that? Rutting or brothel?” Her voice fades as I pick up my purse and throw on my jacket. She stagers out to the living room. “Where you headed?”
“I told you, the Black Bear. Holt Edwards is giving me a few pointers on how to improve my game.”
“Annie’s brother? That little piece of crap?” She digs her palm into her eye as if the idea gave her a migraine.
“That’s the one.”
“I’ll bet he’s got a pointer for you—in his boxers. I told you, years ago, we should have gotten a restraining order against that twerp.”
I laugh opening the door, and my heart stops cold. My mother had the restraining order part right, just not against Holt.
“Well, look what we’ve got here.” Greasy D growls while riding his gaze up and down my body—pausing at all the inappropriate points of interest. “If it isn’t the bell of the ball.” Greasy touches his hand to my cheek, and I’m quick to bat it away.
I bolt past him.
“See you later, Mom.” But with him here, home is the last place I want to be.
Ever.
Holt Edwards might just get more of me than he bargained for.
The Black Bear is jam-packed with scantily dressed bodies. A giant, life-size bear stands at the entrance, holding a hand painted sign that reads Open mike night! All coed crooners welcome. And, by the looks of things, they showed up in droves.
“Perfect,” I mutter under my breath. I started nursing a headache the second I left the house—can’t wait to round out the night listening to some college sophomore squeak out the latest not-so-greatest hits. Can’t wait for my brain to explode and put me out of my misery. My mother flashes through my mind. God, I hope that man is decent to her this time. I close my eyes a moment because I already know where this crazy train is headed.
“Hey, beautiful.” A warm arm finds its way around my waist, and I look up to find a freshly pressed and dressed—drop my panties to the floor in salute of his eminence—Holt Edwards. My heart thumps in my chest. The subtle scent from his cologne is enough to make me swoon, but Holt has the face of an angel, or with that slightly peppered scruff he’s sporting—a devil.
“Why are you always so nice to me?” I meant to say hello, but the question bubbled out instead.
His eyes widen as if it was the last thing he expected. “Because you deserve it.”
Holt bears into me with a soul-melting look that makes my insides cinch until I can’t catch my next breath. His cut features—those glowing eyes—it’s becoming obvious this was a big mistake.
“I’m the last person you should be wasting your time with.” I swallow hard. “You sure you don’t have better things to do?” Already three different girls have walked by outright gawking at him. “Honestly, you don’t have to baby sit me tonight.”
“Baby sit?” Holt steps in close, his eyes sear over mine, and, for the first time, in a long while I can feel the heat spreading through my body like a molten tidal wave, slow and determined to hit all the right spots. His sweet cologne infiltrates my senses—sandalwood and cinnamon. He takes in a breath, and his chest stops just shy of touching mine. Holt Edwards is all man. Forget those preconceived notions I’ve had about him over the years. He’s grown into his own, and, God help me, because I very much approve. He leans in further, and, for a fleeting moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. “I promise you, Iz”—he whispers right over my lips, and I’m tempted to steal it from him anyway—“there’s not a single place I’d rather be.”
He reaches over and opens the door. Holt picks up my hand and leads us out into the quiet night away from the crooning coeds and their obnoxious vocal cords.
“No Black Bear tonight?” I bite down on my lip as he leads me over to his tr
uck. My hand burns from his touch. A wave of heat travels up to my chest, and I savor it. I can’t get over the fact he just picked up my hand like it was no big deal. But then to Holt it probably isn’t. I’m guessing he’s a bit more liberal than I am when it comes to dolling out physical affection. I take in the sensation of his thick fingers closing over mine, the warmth of his flesh, and savor the contact high. I can’t remember the last time I held a boy’s hand—most likely because it’s never really happened. That night flashes through my mind like a jag of lightning, and I blink it away. I’m not inviting any of those memories to the party. Tonight is about forgetting—about learning new things with Holt, like holding hands and dating.
“No Black Bear.” He opens the door to his truck and helps me up before jumping in on the other side. “You mind if I take you somewhere quiet?”
“Please take me somewhere quiet. You’re welcome to keep me there if you like.” I press my head into the seat and relax for the first time in what feels like years. “My mother’s ex has reared his ugly head, and I want no part of that action.”
“Got it.” He winces at the road. I take him in like this. Holt is confident behind the wheel. His strong arms sit low as he navigates us through the twisted roads of Hollow Brook. He has an overall comforting presence about him. “I was thinking a nice restaurant. Maybe hit downtown Jepson?”
“For me? Don’t bother.” I’d feel terrible if he insisted on paying. “I’m sort of a drive-through kind of girl anyway.”
“You’re worth it, Iz.” He glances over with his brows knit a moment. “And I’m here because I want to be.”
“You’re here because I’m a basket case you’ve decided to take under your wing. I’m the reason you’re probably not going to get laid tonight.” My stomach bisects with heat. Crap. Did I just go there? “What am I saying? You probably have a line of girls snaking around your apartment just waiting for the call. My bad—sorry.”
He gives a slight chuckle. “As far as I know, there’s no line.” He nods up at the rows of fast food restaurants coming upon us. “Which one looks good?”
“I don’t know. It’s always the same stuff. I wish they had one that specialized in a good grilled cheese sandwich. Sometimes that’s all a girl really needs. God knows I’d do anything for one right about now.”
“It’s your lucky night because I know just the place.” The truck kicks into gear, and we bypass the rows of heart-clogging cholesterol and empty calories, trading them for a far less nutritious fare—which happens to be my all time favorite.
“Who serves grilled cheese sandwiches in Hollow Brook?”
His lips curl on the sides. His lids slit low and seductive as he cuts me a look. “I do.”
We drive up to a large boxy apartment lined with acacia trees and the occasional trashcan set out front. The building sits wide, almond-colored with a dark brown trim and looks more homey than it does industrial unlike so many of the newer construction high-rises that seem to be taking over this college town.
“So this is home?”
“The one and only.”
Holt insists I walk up the stairs first and unlocks the door off the stairwell. “After you.”
“You’re a real gentlemen. You’re spoiling me, by the way. Laney’s army of blind mice are going to have to work twice as hard to impress me.” I glance around at the neat surroundings, the minimalist furnishings. “Wow, fireplace, stainless appliances. You’re really living in style.” I give his ear a little tug without putting much thought into it, and an errant spark flies between us unexpected as a deer on the highway. “So when can I move in?”
“I’m ready when you are, sweetheart.” He growls it out low, and—oh my God, what have I gotten myself into?
“Yeah, well”—I clear my throat—“you’ll get tired of all my girly things taking up real estate in your bathroom. I hand wash all my personals.” His face blooms with a dark smile. Obviously, I’m not helping. “Trust me, you’d kick me out first chance you get.” I stray deeper into his apartment, across the dark wood floor that leads to the plush-piled carpet in the living room—the kind that invites you to kick your shoes off and dig your toes in for a while.
“I don’t think I’d get tired of your girly things.” He gives a grin that comes as quick as it goes. “In fact, I think a few ‘personals’ would brighten things up around here.” He holds my gaze steady like a dare, and a series of goose bumps trail up my arms.
Holt makes his way to the kitchen, and I follow. His tall frame commands attention in this tiny space as he maneuvers around until he has a frying pan heating on the stove and a stack of sliced bread ready to go.
“Let me help.” I offer, taking the cheese out of the package—smoked Gouda, my all time favorite.
“Let’s do this.”
Holt and I work side by side until we’ve amassed enough grilled cheese sandwiches to outfit a small platoon. Every now and again our shoulders bump, and I feel his strong as steel body against mine. My flesh burns from head to toe. I’ve done a lot of deflecting in my day, but I don’t ever remember wanting to lean in and touch someone—to spread my hands wide over their chest—the way I do now. But, then, this is Holt Edwards of the notorious, womanizing Edwards’. It’s no surprise he has the art of seduction down to a science. I bet grilled cheese sandwiches factor into the break down of how fast he can land a girl horizontal. Too bad for him it won’t work on this girl, or, rather, too bad for me.
Holt pulls out a couple of sodas, and we head to the fireplace where he starts a roaring blaze quicker than I can protest the romantic idea. We take a seat on the carpet across from one another.
“So”—he lands the grilled works of art smack between us, rising high like a stack of dairy-filled pancakes—“tell me why a hot girl like you would ever need tips on dating.” He gives the idea of a smile, and my heart takes off like a greyhound at the track.
“First, I’m not hot,” I correct. “I own a mirror. And I happened to see enough of the coed offerings tonight at the Black Bear to know there are far more combustible prospects out there. I can never compete with that. Second, I just don’t date.” I take a bite out of the masterpiece Holt and I whipped up and give an audible moan of approval. My head arches back as I let the ooey gooey goodness melt down my throat a moment.
His mouth opens as if he’s about to say something, but I’ve rendered him speechless, or at least I’d like to believe I have that kind of power.
“Izzy.” He leans in with that serious demeanor that my insides have quickly become addicted to. The entire lower half of my body just detonated like a flare gun. It scares me on a primal level to know that Holt has that kind of effect on me. “You’re legendary in Hollow Brook. No offense, but you’ve sponsored a boner in every guy that ever went to West. You’re the it girl. The fantasy of every boy you’ve ever met, and, for the life of me, I can’t figure out how you’re not fighting off men.”
“Oh, I’ve definitely engaged in mortal combat a time or two.” My eighteenth birthday comes to me like the lash of a whip, and I close my eyes a moment.
“You okay?” He places his hand gently over my arm and leans in just enough. I can tell Holt really does care.
“I’m fine. Let’s talk about you. So what did you major in?”
“Life.” He takes a huge bite of his sandwich then polishes off half his soda. “I didn’t go the college route.”
“Oh, but I thought— I just assumed because Bryson went…”
“I know. It’s okay. It’s something I couldn’t wrap my head around at the time. I had some things I needed to sort out. Anyway, I think I’m okay without it.”
“It’s not for everybody,” I offer a little too quick. “I mean, I didn’t go.”
“You didn’t go?” His forehead wrinkles as if this somehow takes the sheen off who he thinks I am, and it should. I’m a far cry from this teen idol he’s painted me out to be.
“I didn’t. And I certainly don’t judge anyone who ch
ooses not to. I promise, there’s life outside those ivy-covered walls. I’m living proof.” Sort of.
He gives a slow nod. His eyes ride up and down my body with that elevator stare, and, I can’t help think any moment now he’s going to realize what a mistake this is and show me the door.
“So, tell me”—he starts—“why aren’t you out there breaking hearts like you’re supposed to?”
I finish off my sandwich and wash it down with my Cherry Coke, trying to find just the right lie to feed him.
“I’m…really busy. I’ve all but taken over the studio.” The truth lingers just beyond my touch like a fur-lined beast waiting to devour me. But that’s as close as I can get. Besides, Holt fed me the best damn grilled cheese sandwich I could ever hope to put in my stomach. There’s no way I could ever lie to him.
“Busy, huh?” He tips his head back, eyeing me through heavily slotted lids. “So you’re up for some pointers?”
“From you?” I sketch his mouth out into my memory. Holt has lush, full lips that you would never think a man would have, and I savor their effigy for later. “I’ll take them all night long.” Crap. Did I just say that? My eyes widen then retract. I try to play it off as if it’s no big thing—but, God, I’m going to give him the wrong idea. He’s going to think I’m some kind of a predator who tricked him into taking me to his sexual lair and demanded grilled cheese sandwiches in exchange for lewd acts. At least that’s what Jemma would do.
He bears into me with his eyes slit with desire. That intense gaze of his burns through me like acid, and my cheeks catch fire from the inside. Holt is a master at what he does, and, any moment now, I’m going to voluntarily get in that line of girls just waiting to jump into his bed. My breathing becomes erratic. I lean in on impulse then straighten. What am I thinking? This is Holt. This is me. Me, the virgin. I don’t jump in beds. I’m not just some girl he’s picked up at a party. I’m a certifiable mess, and if he knew how truly deformed I was on the inside, he wouldn’t be eyeing me as if he’d like a bite.
Summer Breeze Kisses Page 4
