Perfect Summer (7 page)

***

Davis Jefferson, DVM, had been a lot of things—ranch hand, mail sorter, courier, even a bovine semen collector in college, but he’d never been a cabana boy…until now. Not that he actually schlepped frozen drinks poolside, but sometimes Lilly made him feel like a cheap piece of ass, good enough for a roll in the hay but not good enough to be seen with in public. He slipped the phone in the back pocket of his jeans and hung his white lab coat on the back of his chair.

Every time he suggested they do something on her turf, she changed the subject or dangled a lingerie-filled weekend in front of him. For Christ’s sake, he was in love with her and told her so every chance he got—he wanted to marry her, but she didn’t know that—and she wouldn’t so much as meet him at Dairy Queen for a Dilly Bar and a Coke. What a freakin’ mess. The worst part was, he let her get away with it. She was his addiction, and he’d sacrifice his dignity for another hit of Lilly.

He shook his head as he stepped through the back door into the holding/recovery paddock. Charlie Brown, a twelve-hand cocoa-colored colt, was recovering nicely from a leg fracture. It had taken several screws, lots of prayer, and the fiberglass cast he was now hobbling around in, but Davis was fairly certain that Charlie Brown was on his way home. Or would be in another week or so.

That should make Timmy Anders happy. Since cancer had taken his father last year, the ten-year-old boy had become so sullen. When he’d teared up and begged Davis to save his horse, Davis had had no choice but to promise the horse would be back to normal in no time. It had been tricky and expensive, and there was no way in the world that Timmy’s family had the money to pay for the treatment. It didn’t matter. Davis would take a coffee cake or a side of beef because money wasn’t everything. It sure as hell couldn’t buy back the boy’s father or heal his horse.

He stepped into the horse's line of sight. Charlie Brown had already sniffed the air, so he knew Davis was there, but it was best to give the animal time to get used to the idea of being examined. While Charlie was docile around Timmy, the animal hated humanity as a whole, and Davis was pretty sure that he ranked top on the horse’s list of evildoers.

"Yeah, boy. Easy does it. I'm here to check that right hind leg." Davis kept his voice calm, controlled, smooth. "I don't like this any more than you do."

He pulled some sugar cubes out of his pocket. Bribery, always a good idea. "Here you go."

Palming the sugar cubes, he held them out. Reluctantly, the horse took them but didn't stick around for petting. Get the goodies and go...not unlike Lilly.

"Now, let's check that leg." Davis stepped in front of the animal and touched his neck tentatively. When there was no movement to shake him off, he ran his hand across the shoulder to the flank and down the rump to the leg. The tail swished in his face. "Yessir, I'm right here."

Davis touched him lightly, right above the cast encasing the hairline hock fracture.

Davis stepped closer, the toe of his boot caught on a rock, and he slammed headfirst into the injured leg. By reflex, Charlie kicked out, clipping Davis squarely in the chest. Davis heard, rather than felt, several ribs break as his head went down, striking the rock directly on his left temple.

Charlie eyed him suspiciously.

Davis’s vision faded to black.

Davis’s head pounded like a drummer at the battle of the bands. He was laying on something mushy and warm. He took a deep breath, and fire erupted in his chest. His eyes wobbled open. Sunlight stabbed his retinas, but he kept his eyes open. He was on the ground… What had happened?

“I told you to stay back.” The voice was cold and controlled—Lilly.

Oh, yeah, he’d been stupid and gotten horse kicked. He tried to sit up, but pain pounded his head, and nausea punched him in the gut. With considerable care, he rolled over. Lilly stood between Charlie Brown and him, one pissed-off shield keeping the horse from coming near Davis.

“Stay back.” She waved her huge handbag at the horse. “Want another whack on the nose? Come any closer and I’m using the pepper spray.”

Charlie blinked twice, twitched his ears, swatted his tail, and turned around, hobbling to the far side of the paddock.

“That’s what I thought.” Lilly shoved the purse up her arm, settled it on her shoulder, and turned on her spiky heels.

“You can’t pepper-spray a horse. It’ll only make him mad.” Davis took small, shallow breaths. He needed to get Lilly out of here—himself too. Charlie Brown wasn’t going to play nice forever.

“Don’t move.” She stomped, heels sinking into the grass. “You’re not supposed to move. The paramedics are coming.”

Instead of rushing to his side or fussing over him, she walked calmly up to him, tucked the back of her short skirt behind her knees, and squatted, knees together, next to him. “Your head seems to be bleeding.”

She pulled a tissue out of her purse and dabbed. “What happened?”

She looked from him to Charlie and back to Davis. Smart girl, keeping an eye on the horse.

With his forearms, he pushed himself up, ignoring the pain.

“Stay down.” Lightly, Lilly touched his shoulder. “You need to stay down. I think your ribs are broken, and any movement could puncture a lung.”

She chewed on her lower lip, the first hint that she was worried…worried for him. Davis grinned. She cared even if she didn’t want to show it.

“We need to get out of the paddock. That horse is nervous by nature, which makes him unpredictable.”

“Please, I’m a veteran of the Neiman Marcus New Year’s Day Sale. That horse is nothing compared to rabid housewives scrabbling over fifty-percent-off linens.” Lilly rolled her shoulders like a fighter gearing up to step in the ring. “Brownie over there is nothing but attitude.”

She touched her purse. “And he knows who’s in charge.”

Every inch of Davis’s body hurt, but he couldn’t have stopped the laughter if he’d tried. Lilly was scrappy…
his
Lilly was scrappy.

***

Sunday was a day of rest for everyone except Clint. He'd rolled out of bed at six, pulled on his swimsuit, and started the day like every other with a two-mile swim in the lap lane of his pool. When he'd finished the last twenty-five meters, his muscles had screamed, but he'd ignored the pain as he dragged himself into the kitchen for a bowl of All Bran, a protein shake, and a double shot espresso.

He leaned against the white marble kitchen countertop. Just once, he'd like to have pancakes and sausage—not the frozen stuff but homemade pancakes and link sausage. Driving to a restaurant was an option, but he still had ten miles to run, weights to lift, and a scrimmage at noon. Pancakes for dinner weren't the same.

After he'd downed the All Bran, he carried his espresso to the front door to check for the newspaper. Being the only person under the age of fifty who still preferred his news in the paper version had caused him lots of ribbing from his best friend and teammate, Devon, but newspaper delivery also had given Devon countless hours of practical joke potential.

There had been the stink bomb that had been rigged to go off as soon as Clint opened the front door and the motion-censored water guns and the box full of live frogs that sat right on top of the newspaper. Not that Clint hadn't given as good as he'd gotten. Signing Devon up for the online prison dating site, Love Without Bars—Where Love Shackles our Hearts not our Hands—had been particularly inspired.

So with the greatest care, Clint slowly unlocked and opened his front door. The newspaper was nowhere in sight, but a box sat directly in the middle of his Astroturf
Touch Down
doormat.

Clint shook his head and gingerly checked the box for trip wires. Devon was way too predictable. The man needed to think outside of the box once in a while. No wires were visible, so he ran his hands around the bottom. Nothing. He took three deep breaths, ripped the top flaps apart, and dove into the grass. Nothing exploded, erupted in flames, or jumped out.

Scanning the front lawn for any signs of Devon, Clint brushed himself off and looked inside the box.

Sharpened number two pencils stuck pointy side out of a Styrofoam sphere. Speared on one of the pencils was a note.

Mr. Grayson,

Thank you for the lovely bouquet of pencils. Consider my original opinion of you erased. See you Monday.

Should you need to contact me, my cell is 512-NOE-GGGS (663-4447). It's merely a coincidence that I don't like eggs.

Summer Ames

P.S.—Running with sharp objects is fun and healthy. Maybe you should try it.

P.P.S.—Thanks for helping Mario.

Clint threw back his head and laughed. People rarely shocked him—for the most part, they were greedy, selfish, and predictable—but Summer Ames was the exception. She was spunky, witty, and she didn't take crap off him. He liked her. Even more, he respected and admired her.

Clint scooped up the box, stepped inside his front hall, and closed the door. He headed for the kitchen, carefully set the box next to his laptop on the kitchen table, and grabbed his cell phone. Without analyzing the angles or thinking up conversation topics or agonizing over possible small talk with someone he didn't know, he dialed the phone number from her note.

While the phone rang, he flipped open his laptop, pulled up the picture she'd sent him of her class, and zeroed in on her. Her curly, blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her bright blue eyes crinkled in the corners, but it was her mouth that drew his attention. The full top lip begged for sucking, and the lower was just a tiny bit smaller but just as naughty.

“Hello.” The female voice was groggy, sleep-tangled.

Crap. He checked his watch. It was only seven thirty. “Um...go back to sleep. Sorry to wake you.” Was she alone?

“No problemo.” She yawned. “What do you need, Chuck?”

“It's Clint.” Who was Chuck?

“I'll play along. Clint who?” Her voice was drowsy and raspy and sexy as hell.

“Clint Grayson—”

“You're a laugh a minute. Okay, Clint, you have a really hot ass, but if you ever fall asleep in my class again, I'll drop-kick it into the next county.” Her dark-chocolate laugh was downright sultry.

She yawned again.

He grinned. Ames was not a morning person. “What happened to your whistle?”

One full minute of silence was followed by a loud thunk like she'd dropped the phone.

There was some scrambling, and then she said, “Err...umm...not sure what to say after the ass comment.” She blew out a long breath. “Yep, I got nothing.”

For the second time that day, he laughed. “Summer, may I call you Summer?”

“Why not? We've shared pencils, Tony Romo, and an ass comment. In some cultures, we'd be engaged by now.”

“I got your pencil sculpture. Really inventive. The note was pretty funny too. I don't like eggs either.” What was she wearing? He didn't know her well enough to ask. “I called to say thanks. You made me laugh twice today, and that's more than I’ve laughed in a long time.”

Not sure where that came from, but it was nice talking to someone who wanted nothing and needed nothing from him—plus, she'd proven herself to be loyal by not selling him out.

Pillows shuffled. “Why don’t you laugh?”

What the hell had he done? Personal information wasn’t something he shared with anyone, not even close family and friends. He should hang up right now, but her voice was soothing, and the phone added anonymity.

She yawned again. “I grew up in a house with no laughter—”

“What did you do?” He couldn't help himself.

“I moved out, went to college, and I don’t go back. Now, I laugh at least ten times a day. Why don’t you laugh?”

“Too busy.” And it would make him appear weak. Only he didn’t think of her as weak.

“That’s just sad. Laughter is the best medicine. Don’t you ever sing like a rock star with your iPod?”

“No.” His iPod was toast. It had accidentally landed in his pool after he couldn’t figure out how to change the playlist and had chunked it as hard as he could.

“Not even in the car when no one’s looking?”

“Sorry.” He couldn’t sing, especially in front of other people.

“You should try it. I’m pretty sure I was a diva in a former life.” Sheets shuffled.

What color were they? Navy blue like the dream he’d had when he’d met her?

“How about now?” Was it odd to be having this conversation with someone he didn't know that well?

Summer laughed again. “Tone deaf. It’s pathetic. That’s not the point. I sing because it makes me smile.” A cabinet door closed, ice fell into a glass, and then a soda can hissed as it was opened. “Why can't you take ten seconds out of your day to laugh—the big belly kind that involves eye watering and knee slapping?”

Why couldn’t he? Singing made her smile. What made him? “My days are pretty full. I wake up at six.”

“That’s insane.” She took a drink. “Holy crap, you’re a morning person.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And?” On her end, more cabinets opened and dishes clanged.

“Well, it's the off-season, so I get up, swim two miles, eat breakfast, jog seven to ten miles, lift weights, scrimmage, and eat lunch. My afternoons vary between personal appearances, business meetings, and watching game films.” When he said it out loud, it was dull beyond belief.

“Stop. You’re boring me. Christ, I fell asleep just listening to you, which is somewhat hazardous considering I’m mixing pancake batter.”

Clint sat up. “You know how to make pancakes? The homemade kind, not the frozen ones?” How rude would it be to invite himself to breakfast? He could conveniently drop by her house in, say, twenty minutes, only he didn't know where she lived.

“Yes, why don't you make them with me? Do you have flour, salt, sugar, eggs, baking powder, and buttermilk?” She poured something into a bowl.

“Um, let me check.” He opened his pantry. Flour—yes, salt—check, sugar...he pulled out the five-pound bag he used for iced tea, and baking powder...baking powder. He turned to the built-in spice rack next to the door. A small, red can said
baking powder
. Yes. Eggs and buttermilk were in the refrigerator. Wait, buttermilk? He opened the fridge door. No buttermilk. “I have everything except buttermilk. Could I melt some butter and mix it with regular milk?”