Page 73 of Summer People
Because it is.
I’m not the girl who dates the guy with a kid.
I’m not the girl who has time to date, let alone time to be an important person in a child’s life.
Scratch that. Elizabeth Sweet is not that kind of girl.
More and more, I’m finding that Libby actually is.
Sutton lights up the moment she sees me. “Morning, Libby!”
“Where’d your da—” I snap my mouth shut before I blurt out the worddad. Maybe I’m not so good at this after all. “Fisher. Where’s Fisher?”
Seemingly unbothered by my near slip, she turns back to the television. “He’s outside somewhere.”
Maybe he’s a runner. Though he doesn’t seem like a runner. But if he was, what would he wear? The man wears Timberlands and jeans every day. He’s got nice thighs, though. He’d look amazing in a pair of gym shorts.
Good god. I wipe the drool from the corner of my mouth and head toward the door. I shouldn’t be getting all hot and bothered while hanging out with Sutton.
Barefoot, I step onto the porch, and when I spot Bing, who is playing guard dog by rolling around in the grass, I can’t help but smile. As the door creaks shut, his whole body spasms, and then he’s on his feet and charging toward me. I drop to my knees and let him lick my face. Once he’s covered every inch with slobber, I bury my head in his soft fur and hug him.
“Good morning, buddy. Yes, you are such a good boy. Yes you are,” I coo ridiculous words in his ear.
His tail bangs against the porch loudly, his butt shimmying in excitement, but he doesn’t pull away. Not until the sound of gravel crunching snags our attention. Clearly as obsessed with Fisher as I am, he spins, nearly knocking me over, and bounds toward his daddy.
I push to a stand, brushing at the dog hair that clings to my sweatshirt and legs. With a hat shading his eyes, Timberlands—surprise, surprise—a white T-shirt, and jeans, Fisher looks just as he always does.
He looks like mine.
The possessive word imprints itself on my heart, and as he comes closer, my body sags in relief. Just being in his presence comforts me. When I catch sight of the white bakery bag and iced coffee in his hand as he ambles up the driveway, I grin. “Do you ever make breakfast?”
He stops at the steps to the porch. He’s so tall that from there, he only has to tilt his head slightly to make eye contact. “No.”
He holds out the iced coffee.
“What’s this?”
“One of those gross sweet coffees. Sutton thought you’d like it.”
My mouth falls open. I haven’t had a fancy iced coffee since I arrived on this island. I didn’t think I could. “Where’d you get it?”
“The bakery.”
I bite back a scowl. It really was sweet of him to pick this up for me, even if the evil baker is the one who made it. With any luck, she doesn’t know it’s for me and it’s poison-free.
“Ah, and you got flirty donuts.” I snatch the bag from his hand and spin on my heel.
Behind me, Fisher follows, grumbling something along the lines ofRuckus Donuts. There’s nothing flirty about them. I temper a smile.
Inside, I hold up the donut bag and get Sutton’s attention, then head for the kitchen. As I tear paper towels from the roll and set them on the table, Fisher pulls the chocolate milk from the fridge and pours two glasses. One for himself and one for Sutton.
Once we’re all seated, with Fisher on one side of me and Sutton on the other, I take my first sip of iced coffee.
There’s no point in even trying to stop the moan that escapes me. Not when this drink is everything I’ve been missing. “I’ll pay you to pick one of these up for me every morning.” Like a fiend desperate for another hit, I suck on the straw until my cheeks hollow.
“Told you she’d like it.” Sutton grins at Fisher, and he winks back at her.
Their interaction warms my chest. The two of them schemed in order to give me something they thought I’d like. They wanted me to feel comfortable. Both of them. The warmth turns into thebest kind of ache as I study them. Their thoughtfulness makes me feel like I belong here with them. Just like this. With Sutton on my left and Fisher on my right. I can envision myself doing this every day. That thought doesn’t scare me in the least. It does the opposite, actually. It makes me crave the possibility.
