One Hot Summer

by Heidi McLaughlin

  “Me, too,” I finally force out, my voice smaller than I intend.

  Noah takes a step forward, leaving no space between us, his hand coming up to slip my hair behind my ear. I can’t help but note the care he takes to avoid looking at Jonah’s handiwork, and I can’t blame him. I can’t stand to look at them, either.

  Jonah huffs out a breath, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger to direct my gaze back to his. “You know, I want more than anything to kiss you right now.”

  I stare at him, invitingly, desperately. “Then do it,” I breathe.

  But, as if the universe is playing a cruel joke on me, Noah shakes his head. “Not yet, my adorable littler smartass.” He runs his thumb over my bottom lip as it were his own. “The next time I kiss you, it isn’t going to be because of a stupid dare, and it sure as fuck isn’t going to be as a rebound for your piece of shit ex.” He stares down at me intently. “It’s going to fucking count,” he swears.

  And with that, Noah nods in the direction of my front door, as if to say, “get going,” and for some inexplicable reason, despite my half-disappointed, half-confused frown, I do the incomprehensible. I obey.

  10

  I barely sleep that night. Instead, I obsessively—pathetically—replay the details of the day before, intending to analyze and understand, but, instead, finding myself lost in the perfection of it all.

  For the first time in my life, I’m a giddy schoolgirl, pining over a boy, and I feel equal parts silly and excited by the prospect.

  At the same time, though, I don’t know actually what yesterday meant. I know what I want it to mean, but I know better than to trust that a guy still feels on Friday the way he felt on Thursday. Or seemed to feel. And I will not become one of those desperate girls, obsessing over a guy I like, who may or may not really be all that interested in me.

  When Noah doesn’t text or call the entire day, I suspect I know what it means. And despite the undeniable measure of disappointment taking hold in my gut, I refuse to keep staring at my phone. I refrain from so much as seeking out his social media accounts; I don’t need to learn anything more about him. I don’t need Noah Reed, or Jonah Berry, or anyone else in my life, at all.

  And I sure as hell am done sitting around my house waiting for something to change without actually having to change it myself.

  I text Jillian the next morning, and meet her at Aqualina. I don’t start work until July Fourth weekend, and I might as well get all the free beach-time in I possibly can.

  The sun and sea are as soothing as ever, and I wonder why I ever thought that holing up in my house would be more healing than my happy-place.

  Oh, right—the bruises.

  But they’ve now faded down to almost nothing, and either way, I’m done sacrificing myself to protect Jonah and his abhorrent behavior.

  I still haven’t heard from Noah, his silence a stark contrast to all the texts and calls I’ve been ignoring from Jonah, before I finally went ahead and blocked his number. And then blocked him on Facebook when he tried to message me there. And then Instagram. He’s either gotten the hint, or simply ran out of places to stalk me.

  Jill and I grab some iced coffees from the club’s café, and it’s then that I catch sight of Noah. We lock eyes, and I'm taken aback by the way he glares at me. After a few moments, he subtly shakes his head, as if disappointed—or even disgusted—by me, before turning his naked, toned back on me and walking away.

  What the hell was that?

  I don’t say anything to Jillian. We haven’t even discussed Jonah, and I certainly haven’t mentioned Noah, and she knows I like to keep my personal life more private than most.

  It isn’t until we settle on lounge chairs by the pool that the dreaded moment arrives.

  Jonah approaches cautiously, his gaze equal parts contrite and pissed. I know he doesn’t like being ignored. But then, I don’t like being abused.

  “Can I talk to you,” he whispers harshly. “In private.”

  I shake my head. “There’s nothing to talk about, Jonah.”

  He grits his teeth. “The hell there isn’t, Lizzie. I’m sorry about the other night. I was drunk, and pissed at you, and—”

  I stand up, right in his face, so that he even has to back up a step. He’s several inches taller than me, but right now, he feels like a small, pathetic boy who simply doesn’t get it.

  “I. Don’t. Care.” I practically growl at him. “You will never touch me again. We are done.”

  He still won’t accept it, I know, but he’s not worth my time, or further argument, and I walk away, Jillian fast on my heels. Like I have some kind of radar for him, I catch Noah watching me thoughtfully, a perplexed frown coloring his strained, beautiful features. At this point, he can go fuck himself as well. Hell, he and Jonah can fuck each other for all I care.

  Jill grabs my elbow to stop my heated, hurried gait, and I turn to give her the answers she obviously wants.

  “Wait, so you’re really broken up this time? For good?” she asks, stunned. “He’s been telling everyone you guys just had a fight, and got back together, like usual.” Of course he has.

  I sigh. I lead her around to the quiet courtyard, and I tell her everything. Everything that happened with Jonah, with Noah, and she blinks at me for a minute, before getting up.

  “Where are you going?” I ask her.

  “Just gonna go murder Jonah real quick,” she deadpans. I don’t stop her. I know she’s just going to give him a piece of her mind, probably in a public display that will humiliate Jonah, and, frankly, I don’t even care. He deserves at the very least some humiliation.

  It’s the moment I stand to head to my cabana that he’s there. Noah. But I don’t have anything more to say to him, either.

  “Liza,” his strained voice stops me.

  “What?” I face him hesitantly.

  “The other day. I thought...” he trails off.

  “You thought, what? You’d lead me on and then ghost me? Well done.”

  He shakes his head vehemently, taking a long step toward me until we’re face to face, and I have to look up at him to keep eye contact. “I thought you and Jonah...”

  Ah. Jonah’s been telling everyone we’re back together. That explains Noah’s look earlier. But that’s no excuse.

  “I thought I made it clear that wasn’t going to happen,” I remind him.

  “You did,” he admits.

  “So, you heard a rumor, and instead of just talking to me, you chose to believe it.” I’m done taking bullshit from guys.

  But unlike Jonah, Noah doesn’t make excuses, and it surprises me. “I did. I did exactly that. And I’m sorry. I should have just asked you about it.”

  “Yeah. You should have.” I walk away, leaving him standing there drowning in his own guilt. I don’t owe him, or anyone, anything, even if a part of me still very much wants to.

  11

  Jonah has finally gotten the hint, and while he’s still blocked from mobile communication, he’s stopped trying to talk to me at the beach as well.

  Noah, on the other hand, has not given up.

  For the past three days, I awoke to “good morning” texts from him. He’s checked on me at the beach daily. He even bought me an iced coffee yesterday, trying to make up for ghosting me last week. And it’s just too hard to stay mad at him. Not when his transgression was relatively benign, and when I do understand his reasons—even if they still are no actual excuse.

  But it’s as if he’s doing everything reasonably in his power to prove to me he is actually sorry, and just not regretful, but that he’s learned some kind of lesson. Like he’s trying to make it up to me. And every day my heart has thawed that much more.

  It doesn’t hurt that he’s absolutely gorgeous, and seeing him half-naked at the beach every day...a girl only has so much will power, after all.

  This morning is different, though.

  I got no text, and I have to wonder if I’ve been giving him too hard a time. I
f he’s finally given up.

  But when I open my front door to head out for the day, he’s standing there, on my front doorstep, just like the first time he came to check on me after what happened with Jonah.

  It takes me aback.

  “What, uh, are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Come sit,” he says soberly, gesturing to my front porch, and confused, I follow him and do exactly that.

  Noah stares at me intently. “I haven’t been completely honest with you,” he says meaningfully.

  I swallow audibly. What now?

  “I mean, partly about why I pulled back after we hung out. Why I didn’t kiss you that day, as much as he wanted to...”

  I’m shocked by his statement, and I stare, biting my lip as I try to make sense of it before he continues.

  He blows out a long exhale. “Look Liza, I want you. You must know I do. But it’s more than that, and it wasn’t until we spent the day together that I realized just how much. I wanted a summer fling, but you’re much more than that.”

  Oh?

  “But we’re both going away to school in a few weeks, and, the pathetic truth is, I’m scared,” he offers me a small, self-deprecating half-smile. “I’m starting to realize, that if I kiss you, I won’t be able to stop kissing you. And I’m not sure I know how to be with you knowing there’s an expiration date.”

  His gaze is open and vulnerable, and I’m struck by his honesty, by his declaration. My heart swells in my chest, and I wish his words weren’t true. But I know they are, and I know he’s right.

  “I wish we could make summer last indefinitely, you know?” he says sadly.

  I nod somberly. I do know. I really do.

  “But I’m leaving for Boston in a matter of fucking weeks, and—”

  “Did you say Boston?” I interrupt him, my thoughts running a mile a minute.

  Noah frowns. “Yeah. BU.” Boston University. “Where are you going?”

  A small smile plays on my lips. “Northeastern.”

  Noah’s eyes widen, and if I worry he might back down from his emotional declaration, his brilliant grin is utterly blinding. “Northeastern...in Boston...”

  I nod, confirming.

  Noah and I stare at each other for a full minute. So many possibilities playing in both of our minds, and before I can say another word, his mouth is on mine.

  He kisses me. His lips take everything he’s just sworn they wanted, making good on all of his words, making brand new promises all their own.

  Noah Reed kisses me for the rest of the summer, and quite a bit more. And when August turns to September, he doesn’t stop kissing me.

  And by fall, I know without a question in my heart or mind, that I want him to kiss me forever.

  If you enjoyed this prequel to the Summer Souls series, you’re in luck! The series will be soon coming your way, and there will be much more Liza and Noah when the Lies in the Sand duet debuts, about Noah’s sister, Scarlett, and her own story of finding love by the sea.

  About the Author

  You can learn more about my work at daniellepearl.com, or follow me on social media.

  In the meantime, check out the first novel in the bestselling Something More series, Normal, for FREE on all ebook platforms!

  Single in Sitka

  Katy Regnery

  1

  Amanda

  Luke.

  Mmmm.

  Luke.

  I stare at the four letters while some inner voice, no doubt hailing from the general area of my ovaries, repeats the name over and over again in my head.

  Luke. Luke. Luke.

  Strong. Masculine. Slightly old-fashioned.

  It’s one of the cheaper ads, so there’s no picture, but I’m fairly certain he’s built like a lumberjack and hung like a horse.

  He drawls in a voice that sounds suspiciously like John Wayne’s…

  When Luke commits, little lady, he commits forever. Now, get in my bed, spread your legs and prepare to take my load.

  I bite my bottom lip, blinking at the screen.

  That escalated fast.

  But heck, it’s been months since I’ve been laid, and I guess I’m feeling a little, well, deprived. Nope. “Deprived” is too elegant a word for what I’m feeling. I’m feeling…horny. Yep. Horny, I think, shifting slightly in my seat as my eyes continue their laser-lock on Luke’s ad.

  Hey! Wait a minute. They never print names. I frown at the screen, scrolling up the page to check the other ads. Looks like a typo. None of the other ads include a name. Just Luke.

  Sigh. Luke.

  I slide back up to the ad, half-wishing there was a picture, but half-glad I can let my mind run wild instead, imagining hot, sexy, burgeoning-with-fertile-seed Luke, undressing at the foot of our four-poster bed covered with the skins of bears he’s bested with his bare hands, his muscles rippling as he reaches for my foot and drags my naked body down to—

  “Amanda?” Two hands clap just in front of my nose. “Earth to Amanda McKendrick!”

  I snap my neck up and find my column writing partner, Leigh Stanton, leaning over my cube wall.

  “Huh? What?”

  Leigh raises an eyebrow. “Who’s Luke?”

  “Huh?”

  “You literally just sighed the name “Luuuuuke,” like you were having a mental orgasm.” She tilts her head to get a peek at my screen. “Hey…what’s Single in—”

  “Nothing!” My fingers are still clutching the mouse and with one click the screen disappears.

  She gives me a look before glancing back at the now-blank screen. “Nothing, huh? Sorta seemed like a big bowl of something.”

  “Nope. Nothing. Just…research.”

  “Research! Great,” says Leigh. “I hope it’s research for this morning’s pitch.” She pauses, scanning my face. “You do have the pitch ready? The June pitch which you promised to come up with while I’m growing a human being inside my body?”

  The pitch.

  Shit, fuck and every other dirty word my mother ever forbade me to say.

  I forgot about today’s pitch.

  My shoulders slump and I shake my head.

  Since my boyfriend of five years, Bryce, walked out of my apartment two months ago, leaving behind a stack of bills and note saying, “I’m just not into us anymore. Super sorry.” my creative juices just haven’t been flowing. I’ve been spending more time reading personal ads and fantasizing about hot Alaskan men than doing any actual work.

  “Manda…you promised.”

  Leigh plucks a red M&M from my dish of leftover Memorial Day candy, then walks around the four-foot wall into my cube, her massive stomach preceding the rest of her body by a few seconds.

  I groan softly. “I know. I’m sorry. I just—”

  “My maternity leave starts tomorrow,” she reminds me, chewing on the sweet treat. “You’re supposed to have our June idea outlined and ready to go. Today. This morning.” She glances at her watch. “Now, Manda. It’s go-time.”

  Leigh’s husband is the Seahawks kicker, Jude Stanton, and she’s really into sports jargon.

  “I’ll come up with something on the fly,” I say, standing up from my desk. I glance at her stomach, ignoring the knot of longing in my heart. “Lots of kicking today?”

  “Girl? I’m barely holding on,” she answers, her voice weary as she looks down and rubs her belly. “No doubt about this one’s daddy.”

  “Was there ever?” I joke.

  “Nope. I love that man,” she says, reaching for another handful of candy. “My Jude.”

  Since I hate and loathe M&Ms, I’m pretty sure I keep the bowl stocked mostly for her cravings. I’d do just about anything for Leigh. I adore her.

  Her husband, Jude, whom I also adore, is scary-big. Half-Maori with a few missing teeth and tribal facial tattoos, at first sight, he may look like he eats small children for breakfast every morning…but when he looks at Leigh, his expression is filled with so much tenderness, it hurts me. That’s crazy, ri
ght? But it does. It makes my chest ache and my eyes water because I want what they have.

  I can’t imagine either of them cheating on each other the way Bryce cheated on me.

  I clear my throat of the lump attempting to lodge there. “How many more days?”

  “Technically? Ten.” She chuckles, then raises her voice a little, leaning down to talk to her baby. “But I wouldn’t mind sooner if that works for you, sugar.”

  I laugh with her as I follow her to the conference room, noting that her once graceful gait is now a pronounced waddle. And fuck, but I’m jealous. I’m jealous of my best friend’s waddle.

  At thirty-two years old, my biological clock has been on alarm mode for two years, loudly reminding me that time’s running down, a fact that sends me into sweat-induced panics in the middle of the night. Especially now that I’m single.

  After five years together, I truly believed that Bryce was the proverbial “one,” right up until the day he broke it off and moved in with Ruby, a bartender at our favorite bar. Erstwhile favorite. Sometimes I don’t know what was worse: losing my possible forever-someone or losing the place where I would have gone to drown my sorrows.

  Anyway, the net-net is that here I am, single all over again, without a prospect in sight, while my best friend is blissfully married with her first baby on the way. It’s so depressing, I wonder how the heck I’m going to make it through the summer.

  Leigh looks at me over her shoulder, easily reading my mind after a friendship that started in college and spans several years of working together at the Seattle Sentinel. “He’s out there, Manda.”

  “So you say.”

  “Bryce was an asshole. I never liked him.”

  “You say that too.”

  “For real? Let Ruby have him. She’s a first-class skank for poaching him right from under your nose…and he’s blind if he can’t see what he lost.”