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“That’s not a hard question,” she insists. “You should already know the answer. And you should definitely know the answer before you even consider a relationship with Summer.”
“Why?”
Winter walks toward me, stopping a mere foot away. She’s shorter than me, but somehow manages to look down her nose at me. “Care to know where Summer was just a few weeks ago?”
“Uh…?”
“She was in New York, freezing her eggs.Comprende?”
I squint. What is she talking about?
The rant continues. “You know why? Because Summer is the kind of woman who wants to get married and have a family so bad, she was willing to put herself through weeks of medical exams and hormone shots to secure that future. And not justanyfamily. She wants a big one. A soccer team of cute, chubby babies squealing around the house. So, tell me again, how many kids do you want?”
Honestly, I don’t know if I see myself as a father. And definitely not in the immediate future.
Winter must read the answer on my silent features, because next, she says, “That’s what I thought.” She comes an inch closer and hisses, “Do me a favor next time you’re”—she makes air quotes—“‘having fun with my sister’. Take a good look at how she stares at you, and then tell me again how no one is going to get hurt.”
* * *
Winter’s words stay with me long after I leave her room. Does she have a point? Are Summer and I not right for each other? Our chemistry is amazing, and I always have fun when I’m with her, but it’s true we haven’t discussed any of the more serious topics. Because that’s not what people who plan to have a week-long fling do. But I won’t lie: being with her hasn’t felt like a casual fling past that first night together.
Let’s take a look at the hard facts.
I don’t want to say goodbye to Summer come Sunday. But I also never saw myself as the getting married or having kids type.
My entire life has been a no-strings gig. Hop on a plane to Africa today, and leave for South America next month. I’ve never been tied down to a particular place or to a person. I’ve never seen the point. And I’ve never wanted to settle down or even been tempted to—until now?
But with Summer… well, let’s say the idea of coming home to her every night wouldn’t be that horrible. But do screaming goblins have to be part of the deal?
And does that make Summer and I as incompatible as Winter claims? We can’t be, not when we fit so well together.
Summer is the first woman who’s stirred in me something other than lust, something deeper.
But frozen-eggs deep?
17
SUMMER
Two hours and Archie still hasn’t returned. What did my sister say to him? I’m still too mad at Winter to call her and ask. But why is it taking so long? Are our plans for today still on?
I check my phone for the hundredth time; the screen remains black. Like a watched pot, it won’t ring, ping, vibrate… nothing.
To kill time, I’ve showered and tried out at least a million outfits before settling on light-washed jeans and a simple T-shirt, with my comfortable-to-walk-in-but-pretty, tie-up wedges.
How long should I wait? Should I call—
A knock on the door puts an end to the self-doubting. I run to open and then chide myself in abe-coolway, slow down to a walk, and wait a respectable number of heartbeats before I throw the door ajar.
Archie is standing on the other side, gloriously hot in dark jeans and a white T-shirt so tight he could be bare-chested. The hair at his nape is still damp, meaning he must’ve just gotten out of the shower. If I had to assign him a fantasy today, he’d be the sweaty window washer man from that old Diet Coke commercial.
“Hey,” I say. “You’re alive.” I step aside to let him in, and then close the door behind him. “How did the telling-off go?”
He’s staring out of the window and has avoided meeting my gaze since he walked in.
“Apparently, I’m not allowed to date you.”
Date me? I try not to dwell on the label or read too much into it. He’s probably trying to find a classier way of saying,“I’m not allowed to have sex with you and then dump you at the end of the week.”
