Page 5 of Cool for the Summer

BECK

I pullinto Jack and Pete’s U-shaped driveway and kill the GTI’s engine. I pat the bottle of ibuprofen in my pocket to reassure myself it’s still there, even though it’ll be a few hours before I can take more, and force myself out of the car. The house seems relatively quiet—looking at the charming two-story Cape-style house today, I would never have known a hundred-person wedding reception was held here the night before.

In fact, if my hangover wasn’t still making me feel like the sun is actively trying to kill me while I wait for someone to answer the doorbell, I’d have no evidence at all of the big event.

Except for the memory of Donovan Eastman this morning, teasing me over coffee and a greasy breakfast sandwich.

And Jack’s platinum wedding ring, which glints offendingly in the sun when he finally opens the door.

“I’m never drinking again,” I declare, passing into the cool, blessedly sun-free interior of the house.

Jack chuckles, the jerk. “Feeling it this morning? You were pretty wasted.”

I take off my sunglasses and hook them onto the front of my shirt. “Don’t laugh. This is your fault. Tell me again why you and Pete had to get married?”

“Because we’re madly in love with each other and we want the world to know it,” Jack says with a wickedly smug smile. “Come on, there’s coffee in the kitchen.”

I trail my cousin to the gorgeous space with its clean white counters and handsome dark blue accents and take a seat on one of the blue leather barstools lined up on one side of the big kitchen island. “I already had coffee, but can I get some water?” Donovan’s parting words echo in my brain. Sure, the stupid actor hadn’t asked for my number, but at least he cared enough to remind me to hydrate.

I swallow a disappointed sigh. It’s not like I can get involved with anyone at the moment, anyway. Donovan is probably heading back to the city right now, while I spend the next two months house-sitting while Jack and Pete go on an extended honeymoon. Yesterday, I’d been excited about not having to worry about the future for a little while longer. Today, with my hangover and my strange but intriguing morning with Donovan, I kind of wish I had the freedom to head off to New York if I wanted.

Oh well. That’s me in a nutshell. The grass is always greener, and no amount of fence hopping has brought me any closer to knowing what I really want to do with my life.

Jack hands me a tall glass of cold tap water. “There’s a ton of leftovers in the fridge.”

“Later.” I down half the glass gratefully. Donovan was right. The water helps. “So, give me the download. Where is Cleo, anyway?” House-sitting really means dog-sitting for Jack and Pete’s cute brown rescue pup.

“Miss Cleo is in the backyard with Pete. They’ll be here in a minute. Actually, I need to talk to you about something. There was sort of a mix-up and it turns out Pete and I both accidentally?—”

The front bell chimes. Jack shoots me an apologetic glance. “Hang on. It’ll be easier to explain to both of you at the same time, anyway.”

“Both of us?” But Jack’s already gone.

I set my phone down, then lay my head on my arms. The cold surface of the white stone countertop refreshes my skin and eases the pounding in my head. It hadn’t been so bad when I was talking and, okay, flirting a little with Donovan. But without the distraction, I’m forcibly reminded how spectacularly I overdid it the night before.

Voices are coming down the hall, but I can’t be bothered to lift my bowling-ball-heavy head.

“—he’s in the kitchen. Want some coffee?” Jack offers the visitor.

The newcomer says, “Didn’t expect to see you so soon.” Donovan’s voice.

Donovan.

I raise my head too fast and the resulting stab of pain shoots from the base of my skull to my eyebrows. I wince and shut my eyes against a wave of dizziness.

A hand on my elbow steadies me somewhat.

“You okay?” Jack asks. But when I crack open my eyes experimentally, it’s Donovan who’s six inches away, Donovan’s hand on my arm. From this distance, I can clearly see his blue eyes, a darker shade than my own, framed by thick black lashes, and a day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks.

“I’m okay,” I say after a beat. I shift slightly and Donovan drops his hold. “Sorry. Just got dizzy for a second. What are you doing here?”

Before Donovan can answer, the French doors that lead from the kitchen to the back patio open and a thirty-pound bundle of chocolate brown fur bounds inside, followed by a lanky six-foot-something man with longish brown hair that curls around his ears.

“Van, hey,” Pete says, closing the French doors behind him. Cleo sniffs at my knees, then inspects Donovan’s sneakers. “And Beck, great. Sorry about the mix-up, but I think this will actually work out well for you two.”

“What mix-up?” Donovan asks at the same time I say, “What will work out?”

“I haven’t told them yet,” Jack says, giving Pete an exasperated smile.

---