Summer Girl (Summer Girl #1) Read online

  Also by S. Love

  Wicked Game: A Hockey Romance (Wicked Game #1)

  Unthinkable (pre-order on Amazon now)

  Kindle Edition

  Summer Girl

  Copyright © 2020 S. Love

  Vector Art: www.freepik.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and locations are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, scenes or events, are purely coincidental.

  The author recognizes the use of trademarked brands, sportspersons, and products which have been used without permission and are in no way associated with the trademark owners. All opinions, characters and scenes are entirely fictional and are in no way to be affiliated with real sportspersons, teams or events.

  Author’s Note

  If you need trigger warnings before reading, this book might not be for you. Clayton Osborne has a long road to travel and a lot of work to do on himself. There is no conventional hero in this story, only villains.

  (I hope you’ll still read it anyway ;))

  Contents

  Also by S. Love

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 1

  The skinny, double doors hiss and slide open. Mumbling my thanks to the driver mopping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, I step off the bus and into the sweltering heat, the only passenger to disembark at this stop.

  I sling my backpack over my shoulder and grab the handle of my suitcase. The white-hot sun blinds me, but my sunglasses are deep in the bottom of my bag, and I’m too warm and flustered to go rooting for them. Today’s the first day of summer break, and this far inland there’s no breeze to offer even a hint of relief.

  Shielding my eyes with one hand, I scan the deserted bus stop. The enclosed shelter behind me looks like it could be the perfect refuge from the naked heat, but the glass walls are more likely to roast me alive, so I stand outside and watch the road.

  Tapping my foot impatiently while I wait, I zero in on a distorted blemish growing and wavering in the distance like a mirage.

  Rubber squeals on asphalt, and I frown when the offending white Mercedes Benz coupé takes a sharp turn off the highway and skids to a stop in front of me. I’m still frowning when the guy behind the wheel lets the passenger window down and tells me to get in.

  Of course this is my ride. Why would a sensible driver be here to pick me up? I’m in no position to be picky, though, and I sure as shit can’t afford my own car.

  I exhale loudly, leaning forward so I can see in through the open window. The boy in the driver’s seat, blasting obnoxiously loud rap music, doesn’t look much older than my sixteen years.

  “What about my suitcase?” I ask. This car’s so sleek and compact I’m wondering where the manufacturers have hidden the trunk.

  The boy rests one tan arm over the top of the steering wheel and leans across the flashy console, honey-brown eyes peering up at me. Reaching behind the seat, he flips something on the passenger side, and the leather seat drops forward. “Throw it in the back.” That’s as far as his offerings of help extends.

  Ladies, form an orderly line. This one’s a straight-up, old-school gentleman.

  Not.

  I maneuver my luggage onto the backseat, working the suitcase through what feels like two ungenerous inches of space. I slide my backpack off my shoulder and then climb into the passenger seat, holding my bag on my lap. The car smells of leather and expensive cologne, and I ease another glance at the boy next to me. He floors the gas, and I white-knuckle my seatbelt as we peel away from the bus stop and onto the highway like we’re the offending vehicle in a high-intensity police chase.

  He turns the music down so the excessive cussing is at a bearable level. I’d be a lot more relaxed if he drove with two hands on the steering wheel, but he clearly feels like he’s a competent enough driver to control this speeding death trap with just one. I’m not here to tell him that just isn’t the case.

  He side-eyes me. That’s exactly what he needs, less focus on the road and other cars. “It’s Lily, right?”

  “Lyla,” I say, glancing from him to the road ahead. I even go as far as to check my side mirror, because I don’t believe for one second that he’s checking his.

  “Whatever.” He sends me a lingering glance, an intrusive observation like he’s sizing me up and he isn’t sure about what he’s found. I swallow the need to scream at him to concentrate on the road. Then I decide if I’m going to survive this extreme rollercoaster ride, I’m better off keeping my eyes on the windshield. One of us should be doing that.

  “And you are?” I say, stretching out the question. I don’t hide how rude I think he’s behaving. You don’t pick someone up you’ve never met before and then conceal your identity. Especially when that person may be who you spend your final, harrowing moments on Earth with.

  “Topher,” he says.

  Thankfully, Topher pulls the Mercedes off the racetrack—my bad, coastal highway—and takes the exit that leads down the steep embankment of the ocean-battered cliffs.

  I gaze out the window, watching the modern two-story beach houses whizz by in a blur of pastel and clapboard. Since we’re on a narrower road, Topher’s driving’s calmed down some, but I still recommend he introduce himself to a thing called the speed limit.

  “You lost a bet, didn’t you?” Topher spins the wheel, slowing down for the left turn at the intersection and not bothering with his blinker. I look at him, confusion clear on my face. “Why else would you spend your summer cleaning up someone else’s shit? You got nothing better to do?”

  “Some of us need the money,” I mutter.

  Topher responds to that by turning up the music.

  The winding road takes us along a rocky incline. Two ornate pillars loom ahead, the black and gold iron gates standing open to a driveway and paved yard. Topher speeds up, tires crunching over pristine white gravel, then slams the car into park in front of a grand wraparound porch.

  This is by far one of the nicer homes in Cape Pearl. Directly on the pebbled beach-front and the closest neighbor half a mile along the shore. I live an hour outside of town, where the houses are regular size and don’t touch the ocean.

  I get out of the car after Topher’s killed the engine, and to my blatant surprise, step out of his way as he drags my suitcase from the backsea
t and carries it by the luggage tag strap up the wide steps on the left side of the porch. Because one point of entry isn’t enough, and a house of this magnitude requires two routes to the front door.

  He pauses in the doorway, between one open and closed glass door, and stares at me, unblinking. “You think maybe you could close your door? I was just your ride, not your bed for the night.”

  I push the passenger side door shut with the soft, cushioned ease synonymous with all high-priced, streamline cars, and follow Topher inside the huge house. He doesn’t wait for me, and in the ten minutes I’ve been acquainted with him, I expect nothing less.

  There’s not much I know about my new employer, Cindy Osborne, but her husband Ray owns his own construction company, and he doesn’t just build the houses, he also designs them. He and Cindy have three sons together. I don’t know their ages or anything—I didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell—but I’m starting to build my own opinions of what they might be like. One word comes immediately to mind, if Topher’s anything to go by: spoiled. And that word alone pretty much sums up the population of Cape Pearl. But nowhere in St. Charlotte could I make the kind of money Cindy Osborne is offering, nor would it provide digs as beautiful as this.

  Topher’s bailed, and I stand in the stately foyer alone. I’ve been here once before for my interview, only making it as far as this entrance and the rear patio and yard that backs up onto the beach.

  A sweeping staircase to the right of the foyer curves up to the first floor, a lavish living room beyond gleaming in neutral-colored brilliance as though no person’s ever stepped foot in it. The staircase banister is all curling gold and black iron, with so much detail it hurts my eyes. I tip my head back and look up at the chandelier, each dripping crystal facet reflecting the streaming sunlight in a kaleidoscope effect.

  “Topher, is that you?” A woman’s voice carries from the back of the house. Heels click over polished marble, and I smile when I see Cindy Osborne hasten her steps to break down the short distance quicker. “You’re here.” She sounds relieved as she pulls my hand into two of hers. J’Adore Dior tickles my sinuses, and not in a pleasurable way. Talia made the scent an everyday staple when she received a hundred mil bottle from Mom last Christmas and religiously sticks to one spritz a day, scared it’ll run out and she won’t ever own another such luxury in her average life.

  But Cindy? Definitely using more than one spritz. There was no light, lingering scent chasing her movements. She might have rolled around in the heavy perfume, but I was the unfortunate one eating it.

  “I’m here,” I say, taking my hand from hers.

  Cindy wraps one arm around my shoulders, walking us underneath the first-floor balcony and into a kitchen that is both modern, cozy, and entirely beachy. Tucked into a nook on the far side of the kitchen is a white dining table, a large vase of fresh-cut, ivory roses and baby’s breath standing tall in the center. Through the nook’s arched window, between tall blades of sea grass, a sand-blown trail tapers down to the beach from the porch deck. This house is one big contradiction of laidback luxury.

  On autopilot, I walk over to the French doors. Gray rock hugs the outdoor crystalline-blue pool, protruding as a natural extension from the wide-slab pavers. The grounds round off, a rather useless-looking low, stick fence partitioning the property from the beach, sand and seagrass spilling in as nature gradually claims back its land.

  I look around… at everything, taking it all in.

  “I had no idea your house was so…” So what? I don’t think the words have been invented. It’s not just the impressive size or grandeur of it all. It’s the small, painstaking detail that knits the house into such a beautiful, classical home.

  Cindy waves a dismissive hand, like this little old place is nothing but a barn. “How was the journey? Not too terrible, I hope.”

  I stall before answering. Does she know it was a short bus ride and I didn’t arrive here by camel across the dry desert? “Yeah… no, it was fine.”

  Cindy’s heels clip the marble flooring all the way to a complicated-looking stove. “Would you like some tea?”

  “No, thank you.” I leave out the small detail of me hating hot drinks. I’m not worried I’ll be offered too many during my time here. I’m not the one who’s supposed to be waited on—cleaned up after. That’s my responsibility. Well, okay, maybe not the waited-on part. I think they already have someone on the payroll for that.

  I wince when Cindy’s shrill voice calls out, “Boys! Get down here!”

  In a matter of seconds, footsteps pound the stairs. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Cindy was raising an indoor zoo.

  Topher strides in first, looking as bored as he did in the car. He pulls out one of the chairs at the dining table and sits down. Slouched on his seat, he takes his phone from the back pocket in his sweatpants, giving the screen his undivided attention.

  Another brother saunters into the kitchen. Bypassing his mother, he doesn’t spare me a glance as he makes a beeline for a long, white cabinet that opens up to an integrated fridge/freezer. My eyes are glued to his back as he retrieves a chilled bottle of water, closing the cabinet door after him and then uncapping his water in a single twist. Brown eyes a shade darker than Topher’s stare back at me. Hard, unyielding, and unnerving.

  I look to Cindy for reassurance, but she’s busy pouring boiling water into a teapot that looks fit for a queen. I wonder who’s going to drink that with her. Neither of these boys project the image of lifting a flimsy china cup to their lips and sipping sweet tea.

  The tea’s quickly forgotten when movement at the high-arch entryway pulls my gaze in that direction, and the last brother makes himself known.

  Chapter 2

  At some point, during the last brother’s entrance, Cindy has finished making the tea and is now carrying it over to the table where Topher sits.

  “Bring me the cups, Clayton.” When none of the boys moves a muscle, Cindy spears a hard look over her shoulder as she sets the pot on a ceramic coaster shaped into a rose. “Clayton.” Her voice is clipped. “Cups.”

  I sense a hidden message beneath that one simple request, and the boy who made the late arrival is called Clayton. Clayton with the lean physique and strong suggestion of rigid muscle under his royal blue hooded track top. He’s got it zipped right up to his chin.

  Clayton glares at his mother, eventually taking a porcelain cup rack from the marble countertop and bringing the entire thing to her. He drops it onto the table like it’s a roll of toilet paper and not, essentially, balancing thousands of dollars’ worth of precious china. “There you go,” he says brusquely.

  Cindy tsks, swatting his hand away from her tea party set. “Lyla, this is my son, Clayton Osborne—”

  “Ozzie,” he cuts her off.

  “And here I thought it said Clayton on your birth certificate. He suffers from middle child syndrome, you know.” Cindy points to the other brother, the one who’s leaning against the covered fridge, arms crossed over his thick chest. “That’s my eldest, Falcon. And you’ve met Topher. You were on your best behavior?” Cindy’s met with silence. “Topher!” She prods him in his shoulder with a French-manicured nail, but I can tell there’s force behind it.

  “Jesus!” Topher tears his gaze from his phone screen, agitation written all over his features. “What now?”

  “Did you behave yourself on the car ride over here?”

  “It was ten fucking minutes. But, sure. I made Layla feel real comfortable before I dropped trou and let her blow me.”

  “Lyla,” I stupidly say. Someone snickers, but I don’t look to see who. Heat licks at my skin. I’m as embarrassed for Cindy as I am for myself. I’d never speak to my mom like that, especially not in front of other people. She would skin me alive and hang me out by my hair to dry.

  Cindy’s turned rigid. “Get out of my sight, Topher.”

  Topher stands abruptly, chair legs scraping the floor in his haste and almost toppling over. “With pleasu
re.”

  He reaches the archway, and I call out to him, “Um, where did you put my things?”

  I’m a bigger idiot than I thought if I expected him to answer.

  “Oz, let’s get out of here.” Falcon pushes off the long cabinet, and Ozzie or Clayton or whatever the hell his name is tails him out of the kitchen.

  Cindy takes a seat and pours herself a cup of tea. “That went well, wouldn’t you say?”

  I smile at the sarcasm. Deep down, I’m worrying over what the heck I’ve gotten myself into.

  Following the kitchen fiasco, Cindy takes me upstairs, to the bedroom that will be mine for the next eight weeks. Or longer, if I want, she adds rather bizarrely, and with a smile. I should ask her why I would need to stay longer, you know, because of school and my life, but I’m too tired to have that conversation. I’ll let her down another day.

  This is a summer job, not a career move. My reasons for being here are circumstantial, not optional. To put it into a simpler term: I’m desperate for the money. Just because my sister’s on a full ride to college, doesn’t mean the same fate’s in my future. And my mom’s already breaking her back working two jobs. Anything I can do to help you can bet I’m going to do it. You want something, you make it happen. And I want my own car. With my own money.

  Cindy opens the bedroom door, and I walk into the room first. It’s pretty. Pale blue walls, a queen bed with a whitewash wooden frame, white and wicker furnishings. The design’s all fresh, clean lines. I lose all concern over the brats from hell, totally picturing myself sleeping in here.

  “I love the ocean.” Cindy stands in front of the French doors that open onto my own private balcony. “This used to be one of the guest rooms, but it’s yours for as long as you work here.” She slides two fingers along the edge of the chiffon curtain, gazing outside. “My vision was always to bring the sea breeze inside. Create that vacation feeling. Relaxation, sailing.” She inhales through her nose. “Freedom.”