Page 6 of XOXO, Summer
“That’s good.”
He stands, his shadow engulfing me whole. When I swim my gaze all the way to the top of him, he offers me a hand. I’ve made a fool of myself several times over in the span of no more than five minutes, the sweet gesture wringing through my ill-equipped-edness of dealing with a man like him. I’m pretty sure that’s not a word, but it fits theindescribable reaction I’m having, one I didn’t think existed before meeting him.
Vicariously balancing between wanting to fasten onto him like a spider monkey and reminding myself I shouldn’t entangle myself with a renter, I know that even considering anything with this man is pointless. He’s temporary at best. A fun time at worst.
Summer . . .I blink several times in hopes of clearing my eyes as well as retrieving my brain from the gutter.Who am I?Flirting and winning over hearts comes so naturally to my sisters, but it’s never been something I find natural. My mom always said we each have our own talents. I’m thinking anything to do with men is not one of mine after this catastrophe of a greeting.
There might not be any witnesses to my ludicrous behavior, but in my head, I can almost hear Dolly cheering from down the road. I’m sure my sisters would be reacting the same if they saw their trustworthy older sis as caught off guard as I am by Daniel Sutton.
“Anyway . . .” Angling the basket awkwardly under my arm, I accept his offer. Regret fills my knees, betraying me the moment his calloused hand presses against the softness of mine. The simple touch sends electricity zipping through me, and I weaken under the sturdy grasp that keeps me upright.
Our eyes connect as the bond remains strong. But as I steady on my feet, he lets go, and the magic is gone. Looking down, I rub my palm down the side of my cotton dress to ease the shock. “Well, that was?—”
“Interesting,” he says, glancing at his palm before tucking it into the pocket of his swim trunks. His expression shifts into indifference as if he’d been exposed too longwithout his mask in place. Or maybe it’s a hint for me to get moving again.
Reaching down to dust my knees free from dirt and ground debris, I say, “We should get you and your son settled in, Mr. Sutton.”
“That’s not necessary. We’re settled.” His gaze tracks down the path to the small beach of rocks and sand mingling at the water’s edge. “Roman has already made himself at home by the looks of it.” His son skips a rock, then searches for another to toss. When his father’s eyes land back on me, he says, “And you can call me Daniel.”
“You’ve known me all of five minutes. Are we already friends, Mr. Sutton?”
He laughs. “We should be after filling out your guest profile. Seems you know everything about me from how I take my coffee in the morning to what I drink for a nightcap.”
“Fair trade Death Wish coffee beans. Black, no creamer.” I shrug as if I just nailed a quiz without studying.
“No creamer needed with good coffee.” The click of his tongue is an unsubtle back pat to his ego. Fortunately, I’m not too bothered by it.
Licking my lips, I hold his steady gaze. “And you like to cap off your night with an old-fashioned without the twist of orange.”
“I don’t need accessories to make my bourbon more palatable. I’m not complicated like that.”
I tilt my head and then shake it. Peering back up at him, all six-foot, wild guess, four of him, I find my body easing into the conversation. “You know, I had to drive over an hour to Stonehill to retrieve two bottles of the requested Blanton’s Single Barrel Bourbon.”
“It was worth it.”
“I wouldn’t know.” I shrug, feeling a wryness come over me as my footing with him steadies. “I’m not complicated like that.”
His eyebrows lift, not much, but noticeable. His attention loses its measured approach, and he smirks. “I beg to differ.”
“You can beg all you want,” I smart back with a scoff. “But I’m just fine with good old well drinks.”
“Come over sometime, and I’ll show you it was worth the drive.”
It’s tempting to pinch myself to make sure this is real, and I’m not dreaming.
My breathing quickens as I scramble for a reply.Did he just ask me out?I replay our banter quickly.I think so. That invitation was as straightforward as they come.
I attempt to calm my pitter-pattering heart. “To Stonehill or down the road to the cottage?”
“Both. One taste and you’ll never go back to the ordinary.”
Using a nightcap as an excuse to get a woman to visit is as old-fashioned as his drink itself. And I’m not upset over it. Apparently, neither are my heating cheeks as they put on a display for him. I fan myself to try to keep from heating all over for this man.
But there’s such a charm to this version of flirting versus a booty call. I don’t need to read about him on paper to know this guy prefers a steak to a burger and a one-night stand to forever. It’s written all over him, carved into those hard muscles, and that jaw that ticks with impatience every time he thinks I’m not paying attention.
No one this hot walks around without some history. It’s shaping his whole aura. And I know better than to tanglewith a player. Especially when I can tell this player gets what he wants, which won’t be me this summer.
I take a step back, needing the space and clarity, escaping the pull of my bee to his honey, and breathe a bit freer. It’s only in my best interest to stick to business by backing away from this banter about being friends. We’re not friends, so I need to stick to a formal-name basis and protect myself.
