Page 37 of Summer Love

Welcome to the club. I go back to reading.

It’s well written. The pacing’s good, the dialogue rings true, and the tension builds through small moments: a look held too long, a silence during a PT session, the swimmer’s hand grazing the therapist’s when she passes him a towel. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make me turn the page.

By chapter four, they’re alone in the treatment room. The lights are low. She’s working his shoulder. He says something funny, she laughs, their faces drift closer. They don’t kiss.

I turn the page a little too fast.

Chapters five and six. The tension climbs higher. Then in chapter seven…

They’re in the locker room. The door is shut. And they stop pretending.

My cheeks heat. Dani Heart leaves nothing to the imagination now.

You can tell a woman wrote this. No man would have that kind of precision.

The way she describes Daisy’s hands on Xander’s wet skin, the slowness, the attention to what she feels… It’s written by someone who knows.

I settle deeper into the pillow and turn another page.

Then another. Then five.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I jump.

Dad

Holding up okay, sweetheart? Thinking of you. The days run together here, but call me anytime. Love you.

Me

Thanks. Making progress. Love you.

The screen reads 6:32 p.m.

Ryan. The drink. Shit.

I slip Ryan’s business card between the pages at chapter twelve. The book got me.

I get up too fast, hurry to the bathroom, and do in thirteen minutes what should take forty. Mascara, a line of eyeliner, a little blush. I comb out my still-damp hair—it’ll finish air-drying.

I only brought one semi-dressy outfit: a long pale-blue dress, slightly low-cut, perfectly tailored. In New York, it was the one I wore on days I wanted to look like I had my life under control.

I slip on my Louboutins—scored at a Brooklyn thrift store, with a tiny scuff no one’s ever noticed. The heels are too high for Coral Bay’s sandy streets—and for a foot that has never forgiven a missed triple lutz. But after a day of dust, sweat, and a bucket to top it off, I need this. And I know Ryan will be dressed to the nines. For once, he’ll be right to call me “the New Yorker.”

In the mirror, I almost look pretty—at least prettier than I did at seventeen, when Jace…

Stop, Summer.

My right foot is already protesting. I ignore it.

CHAPTER 14

Summer

Main Street is nearly empty at this hour. The shops have closed, the sidewalks are still warm, and the light turns pink above the rooftops without making the street any more welcoming. My heels click against the asphalt, and every step hurts.

You didn’t need to wear those.

Too late now. The black pumps, the light blue dress, the mascara, the blush—everything I need so no one can look down on me. Except my right foot isn’t happy about it.