Page 7 of Our Secret Summer

Raffo stood in front of a canvas that was decidedly not blank. She was staring at it intently, paintbrush in hand. Dylan didn’t want to disturb her, but she also didn’t want to spy on her. Either way, she couldn’t look away if she tried.

She cleared her throat to announce herself.

Raffo turned around and gave her a funny look, before not-so-subtly raking her gaze from Dylan’s bare feet to her bikini-covered breasts.

“Sorry.” Raffo blinked, as though shaking something off her. “I didn’t hear you. I wasn’t expecting, um, yeah, this.” Her eyes raked over Dylan’s body.

“A swimsuit in a lake house?” Dylan wasn’t born yesterday—and Raffo had already declared her ‘good-looking’ the day before. “Or are you disappointed I’m not topless?” She followed up with a wide smile, conveying she was just joking. Although, after the story she’d just listened to, Dylan was feeling perhaps a touch too brazen. She immediately felt sorry for Raffo, who was nursing a severely broken heart.

“I hope you don’t feel you need to wear a top just because I’m here.” Raffo had, obviously, quickly regrouped. “Far be it for me to cramp your style.”

“You’re painting.” Dylan pointed out the obvious to deflect attention from the blush creeping up her cheeks.

“Not really.” Raffo turned to the canvas she’d been working on. “This is not painting, just noodling. Just greasing the wheels.”

“Whatever you say.” Dylan headed farther onto the deck. “I’m going for a swim.” She couldn’t help swaying her hips a little as she walked to the pier that stuck out from the deck. She dove straight into the water, hoping it would do its job of tamping down the Ida-Burton-created heat beneath her skin.

Raffo had just been feeling her way through the familiar motions of painting. She didn’t have a specific idea for a new work yet—it was too soon for that. She’d painted what could pass for a body of water, because the lake was omnipresent around her. But now, in said lake, Dylan was swimming in what could only be called a very skimpy bikini. Raffo inwardly chastised herself for not keeping her roving gaze in check earlier.Jesus.Luckily, Dylan had made light of it—as she did. Maybe that was the thing about Dylan. Despite the investment mistake she’d made, and the shame it saddled her with, she walked through life, at least life in her gorgeous lake house at Big Bear, with an infectious lightness—an airiness that Raffo craved for herself. Of course, now her glance was irresistibly drawn to the water again—and to the person swimming in it. Dylan swam away from the shore with long, strong strokes, heading deeper into the lake.

Then, out of nowhere, the image popped up in Raffo’s brain. The image she wanted to paint. The only image she could possibly paint right now. Unfortunately, it was also an image she couldn’t possibly paint. Not with her canvas out in the open like this, for Dylan to walk past twenty times every day.Argh.Raffo had been waiting, fruitlessly, for a moment like this for months now. For that magical flash of inspiration, that hell-yeah moment when she just knew—no doubt about it—that this was what she would paint next. It was an integral, indispensable part of her process.

She looked out into the water. Dylan was just a bobbing wet head of blond hair far away—she really was going for that swim. Maybe if Raffo asked for her permission, but still… She closed her eyes, took a breath, and the colors exploded onto the backs of her eyelids.Oh, fuck. This was wholly unexpected but so incredibly sweet and joyful. Just like that, it had come back to her. With every breath she took, her precious mojo rushed through her. Just like that, she knew, with every single fiber of her being, that she wanted to paint Dylan.

Topless.

Fuck.

She took another breath. Maybe she could paint her in that skimpy bikini—it would lend itself well to some adventurous color-blending. As though asking permission from her muse, which was a concept Raffo didn’t rationally believe in, except when she was in the throes of something exactly like this. She took another breath and closed her eyes in order to see what she had to see. Nope. No bikini, no matter how skimpy, in sight.

Raffo exhaled deeply as she braced herself for an awkward conversation over dinner later.

CHAPTER 8

Dylan was marinating the vegetables she’d cook on the grill later. The silence in the house suddenly struck her. She always listened to music when preparing a meal, but somehow she’d forgotten. She blamed Ida Burton.

She connected her phone to the sound system that had speakers in the kitchen as well as on the deck. Raffo had put away her painting materials and her canvas was stowed away for the day, everything safely ensconced behind the wooden porch screen that Dylan only used when she shored up the house for winter.

Ida Burton’s voice came over the speakers.

“Please, lick my clit,” Ida said.

Oh no. The steamy story app was still open on Dylan’s phone and the story she’d been listening to had just continued playing. Damn it. Dylan lunged for her phone, frantically jabbing at the screen. It was too late, though. Raffo popped her head into the kitchen, a devilish grin on her lips.

“Everything okay here?” she asked, eyebrows all the way up to her hairline.

Dylan swallowed her embarrassment down and leaned into the moment. “I told Ida Burton to stop calling me, but she just won’t leave me alone.”

“That’s what Ida Burton says when she calls you against your will?” Raffo’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “If you don’t want to take her call, please forward it to me.”

Dylan burst out laughing. “Small IT mishap. It’s common at my age.”

“It happens to the best of us.” Raffo walked into the kitchen. “How about I open some of that rosé I bought this morning? It must be nice and cool by now.”

“That would be amazing,” Dylan said, grateful for the swift—and gracious—change of subject. “Meanwhile, I’ll do my best to put on some actual music.” The flush in her cheeks retreated as she swiped away her guilty-pleasure app, and put on some Lady Kings instead, although, when you really listened to the lyrics of some of their songs, it wasn’t all that much better.

Dylan held her hand on top of her wine glass, indicating she’d had enough. She watched Raffo as she topped up her own glass, emptying the bottle. As had been the case throughout dinner, Dylan couldn’t shake the feeling that something was bothering Raffo.

“Are you—” Dylan started to say.

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