Page 32 of Summer Love

“Miles, I’m covered in⁠—”

“I don’t care. Summer Hayes. Holy shit.”

He holds me at arm’s length and we look at each other for a second. He’s got the same warm eyes he had as a teenager. The piercing in his left nostril, though—that’s new.

“You work here?” I ask, a little thrown.

“Looks like it,” he says, with the same smile as before.

“Miles, I’m sorry to just show up like this, but the lunch service ends in⁠—”

“Five minutes. I know. Go shower, I’ll keep something warm for you.”

“You sure?”

“Summer. Go shower. You smell like an attic.”

I laugh—a real laugh, not the nervous one from these past few days—and head off to my bungalow.

The shower is short and scalding.

The dust runs off in gray rivulets. The musty smell that had clung to my skin and hair washes away under the soap. The hot water unknots my shoulders.

I pull on clean shorts and a fresh T-shirt, twist my wet hair into a bun, and go back to the bar.

Miles saved me a seat at the counter. Or rather, he tried.

A big tabby cat, square head, olive-green eyes, is sprawled across my stool. He looks at me with the regal calm of an animal that has never once moved for a human being. His ears are notched in places, like he settled two or three scores before retiring here.

“That’s Captain, king of the lodge,” Miles says from behind the counter. “You don’t move him, you go around him. I’ll grab you another stool.”

I settle onto the one he brings over. Captain gives me a look of complete indifference and goes back to contemplating the horizon.

In front of me, a plate covered with a metal dome worthy of a five-star restaurant.

“A dome? Seriously?”

“Sushi’s a criminal,” Miles announces.

I lift the dome. Captain sits up at once.

A tiny calico cat appears out of nowhere and jumps onto the counter. White, orange, black, pale blue eyes locked on my food.

“Sushi, no,” Miles sighs.

She’s already reaching a paw toward the plate. Miles intercepts her with his fingertips, grabs a little saucer from behind the counter, and sets it down farther away.

“Protection money.”

Sushi collects her tribute and bolts. Captain watches her go, unimpressed.

“That one’s her accomplice,” Miles says. “If you want to eat in peace, keep the dome within reach.”

I finally look at the plate. Rice, a thick golden sauce, tender pieces of chicken, finely cut vegetables.

“Japanese curry. Yumi made it,” Miles adds.

The first bite is hot, spiced just right, with that gentle sweetness Japanese curry always has.