Page 18 of Rebel Bride
“That’s good, I suppose.”
“Thought that’s what you wanted. Are you worried your dad will take it badly?”
Yes, but I hoped he’d understand that I had to think of my career now. I’d given him a year of the Kershaw Dad-and-Son show.
“Hatch, you still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen, I don’t want to broach it with Rebels management unless we’re sure.”
I should have been jumping at the opportunity to get away. To reset. But something in me resisted. “Can I think about it?”
“Sure. Just don’t think too long.”
We hung up with plans to check in after a day or so. I had made career decisions before based on my gut. I wasn’t sure how well it served me.
Look at the events of today.
“Hi.”
Summer stood at the entrance to the living room, swimming in a pair of my sweatpants, rolled up at the ankles, and a faded University of Michigan tee. That was my alma mater. I’d given her my clothes because I felt odd about borrowing stuff belonging to my family.
Her hair was wet and sleek down her back. She must have found a hairbrush in the bathroom. All her make-up was gone, and before me stood Summer, stripped to basics.
The basics were beautiful.
“Hey,” I said, after five awkward seconds of gawping at her. I hadn’t reckoned on the impact of seeing her wearing my stuff, how it created this weird tug in my chest—and other areas.
She stepped in further. “Thanks for the clothes.”
“Sorry there’s no underwear. Well, there is, but I didn’t think you’d want to wear my boxers or anything belonging to my great-gran.”
Her mouth twitched. “This is fine.”
Which meant that maybe she had no underwear on? Definitely braless, I’d made sure of that.
“You hungry?”
“Not really.”
She hadn’t eaten all day and now it was close to four in the afternoon. “I’m going to make a sandwich.”
She followed me into the kitchen. “You had food here already?”
“I put in an order to the local grocer yesterday.”
Her eyes widened. Such a lovely shade, that violet-blue with flecks of gold. “You were already planning to come here?”
“I usually spend time here every summer.” I gathered sandwich supplies and started putting one together: Muenster cheese, turkey, lettuce, tomato, mayo. I held up the mustard and gestured in offering. When she didn’t respond, I reasoned, “You already gave your crackers away to the ducks.”
“Okay. No mustard.”
I topped the sandwich with a thick slice of country wheat and placed it before her.
“Water okay?”
At her nod, I filled a glass from the Brita filter. Then I set about making my own sandwich. “Don’t wait for me.”
