“Thought so. What can I say? I’m kind of a gearhead.”
Dammit. Why do my insides go all twisty over a man who’s into cars? I just nod as if it’s whatever. “Cool.”
“I can see you’re impressed,” he says, the sarcasm evident in his tone. “All right, Sally.”
“Don’t call me Sally!” I exclaim, punching the leather beside my leg. “That’s a horrible name.”
He gasps in mock horror. “No, it isn’t. It’s a beautiful name. In fact, it’s my grandmother’s.”
“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” I rush out. But when his eyes flash with mischief, I’m pretty sure he’s lying.
“Now that you’ve insulted me, it’s only fair for you to give me your name,” he insists.
I fold my arms and glare at him. This is becoming routine. “That’s not your grandmother’s name, is it?”
His answering smile tells me all I need to know. “Okay, Sally it is. If you’re interested…”
“I’m not.”
He continues as if I hadn’t said a word. “I’m staying here for the summer across the lake. At the old Schaffer place.”
I know the house he’s talking about—one of the biggest on the lake, with the best views. After Mr. Schaffer passed away, his kids couldn’t agree on who’d take it over, so it ended up on the auctioneer’s block in disrepair. I wonder if he’s staying there alone, or with a family.
Or a woman…
I shake the thought out of my head.
It doesn’t matter.
I’m not interested.
“So, yeah. I’ll see you around,” he says. “Stay safe in this weather, okay?”
“Um. Okay. Thanks. You, too.”
We’re locked in a stare down, me waiting for him to leave, him waiting for…who knows what. I squirm under his unnerving scrutiny, and just as I’m about to break the silence, he tosses me an easygoing grin.
“And hey, listen, I really didn’t mean to creep you out, but now, I can see why you’d be uneasy.
“It’s fine,” I respond, surprised that I actually kind of mean it.
“Good. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around this summer, so let’s start over. Next time I see you, I’ll approach. You don’t want that, just tell me and I’ll back off.” He leans in close, and my gaze drifts down to full lips that look oh so good for kissing.
Damn. It’s been too long since I’ve been this immediately attracted to a man. Why does it have to be this one?
Before I can say a word, the man gives me a small squeeze on my bare thigh. The touch elicits chills that shoot straight down to the tips of my toes. But then he pops the door open and hops out, gone before I can even feign outrage that he dared to touch me.
That was the longest conversation I’ve had in what feels like weeks. Now that he’s gone, the car suddenly feels empty. Just like my life’s been ever since Robert dumped me. Ever since my parents died.
Why the hell did I come back here?
Oh yeah. Grams insisted.
Something from that exchange stirs within me. I place my hands on my steering wheel and tighten my fingers around the leather. Half of me is grateful for the distraction. The deterrence, even if it only delayed going back into a home filled with so many memories for mere moments.
The other half is annoyed. Not necessarily at him—more at myself for the way I felt attracted to the guy, no matter how infuriating or initially terrifying I thought he was.
I could definitely use a distraction to make it through this summer.
Then again, I’ve met men like him. Cocky, arrogant, expects every woman to fall at his feet, then throws a fit if she doesn’t. So maybe he’s not the distraction I need.
Fine by me.
The door opens once more, and the man ducks his head back into the car, his lips split open in a grin that doesn’t make my insides swim.
When did I start lying to myself?
“By the way, sweet ride. Babe.”
I glare even though the endearment brings heat to my cheeks. His laughter’s muted when he closes the door. I hurriedly lean over and push the lock down, effectively shutting him out. It doesn’t faze him. He gives me a thumbs-up then turns away. I watch as he jogs to the end of my drive and slips into a sleek red-and-white Ford. He beeps his horn twice, and I try not to smile.
I fail.
Pretty sure he sees it. He flashes a peace sign then blows a kiss.
Ugh. Men.
That man.
Another flash of lightning behind the house causes me to jump. The accompanying crescendo of thunder booms, wiping all thoughts of the mystery stranger from my mind. I’m torn between wanting to wait the storm out in the car and wanting to risk making a run for the house, where I’ll be safer. As an onslaught of rain pounds the windshield, I know it’s now or never.
After my heart stops racing as if I’ve just run a wicked-fast hundred-meter dash, I allow myself to lean forward and peer through the window up at the house I spent most of my summers as a kid. Grief-stricken tears fill my eyes, and I quickly wipe them away as the traitorous drops spill onto my cheeks.
“No more stalling, Amelia,” I mutter to myself.
With the rain still barreling down from the raging sky, I grab my overnight bag from the back seat, deciding to leave the rest of my luggage in the car until the rain lets up. I make a mad dash for the front door, grateful to find it unlocked. At the same time, considering that a stranger just followed me home—no matter how gorgeous he was—I hesitate to step inside. Then I remember that Grams told me to expect the house to be unlocked, as the weekly caretaker would be cleaning and filling the kitchen with supplies for me.
Once inside, I shrug out of my rain jacket and slip my thongs off my feet. Though the heat wave rolling across Middle America is in full force, the combination of my wet clothes and the blast of air conditioning evokes full-body chills. Standing in the foyer, I rub my hands up and down my arms. My eyes are instantly drawn to the family photos hanging on the wall. Just like I did, my father also spent his childhood summers here. It’s even where he met and married Mom.
“Yoo-hoo. Amelia, is that you?”
Mrs. Mayfield’s dulcet voice takes me out of my reverie and into a warm comfort zone I hadn’t anticipated. With the first genuine smile I’ve had since Grams all but pushed me out the door, I walk towards the kitchen, where I’m more than thrilled to see her pouring a cup of coffee that smells heavenly.
“I know it’s darn near one hundred degrees out there, but your grandmother told me to have a cup ready when you get here.”
This is when I realize I’m shivering. From the chill of the rain or the unexpected visitor in my car, I’m not sure. “Bless you, Mrs. Mayfield. Coffee is precisely what the doctor ordered.”
She turns around, her eyes crinkling at the sight of me. “Oh, Amelia,” she says sweetly. “It’s been too many summers since you’ve come to visit. Look how you’ve grown. You’re a woman now.”
I blush at her inspection, which causes her to chuckle. “I’m the same age as Sunny,” I remind her.
Sunny Mayfield’s been my best friend since before either of us could walk. The Mayfield family lives in a house across the lake, with Mrs. Mayfield having been the caretaker of my grandparents’ house since my dad was a boy. He became best friends with her son, so when Sunny and I were born just one month apart, we were destined to follow in their footsteps. She’s one of the reasons I always looked forward to spending my summers at the lake. From Memorial Day to Labor Day, we were inseparable, with tearful goodbyes in September. Pen pals throughout the year, we never seemed to skip a beat, even after nine months apart.