Page 30 of One Sweet Summer

“And that bit about my design being brilliant and genius? I can’t recall us ever discussing that part,” I tease softly, because this is the only way to alleviate the tension between us. Let her give it to me as it is. No need to fake it now.

“That’s all true,” she says with a small smile, and the whole world spins gold.

Are they true? For her? Even if for nobody else. A heady feeling, like being caught up by the wind and taking flight to where I always dreamed of being, soars through me.

“But—” She breaks off with a chuckle. “I can’t kiss your ass and kick it at the same time, can I?”

I burst out laughing and she laughs too. “No, you can’t.”

The tension in her body eases as we stare at each other for a long moment, that long moment where things start going very, very wrong.

I’m crushing.

I might have been crushing for a few days already.

On my kick-ass intern, as Hunter predicted, and there’s only one way this could end if I don’t nip it in the bud.

Roadkill. My heart. Splattered and flattened on the gravel as Georgiana Wess first reverses then drives over it again as she hits the road for Miami one last time in that little red maggot.

15

GEORGIANA

Raiden is too close. His eyes are too intense. In them, I read what he sees, and he knows something has triggered me. His eyes tell me everything. He wants to pull me close and I’m in such desperate need for his touch that I turn away and walk to my desk, his gaze burning on my back. I sit down and make as if I’m focusing on work, getting control over my emotions.

Firstly, hugging Raiden would be a very bad idea.

Secondly, I have enough problems as it is and don’t need them multiplying like dust bunnies. By the time you spot one, there are a hundred more if you dare look under the bed.

After last week’s surprise arrival of the TV crew, I thought I’d be dealing with the whole situation perfectly fine today. But this morning was a trigger blasting me from the side. The five years Mom had her regular Friday evening slot on a home improvement channel kept cropping up in my mind’s eye.

The show was my dad’s idea. My mom was the presenter and until the idea got sold to a cable network, things were bearable.

But then came the dog.

Rover.

What do people love more than a fabulous home makeover? One that comes with a puppy. A golden retriever puppy named Rover was the producer’s add-on and turned out to be a canine investment that paid off. Over the first few shows, people watched my mom renovate and decorate a small starter home with Rover growing up by her side. The viewers fell in love, and so did my mom.

Here at last was one adorable thing that adored her even more. It slept most of the time and stopped whining after a week or so, not like a baby that cried and cried and cried. And even better, when it got bigger, it could be trained to sniff out dry rot! Plus, it posed perfectly and looked great on any renovated porch or remodeled kitchen floor. Rover represented the finest and highest achievable American domestic dream. Perfect dog. Perfect house. Perfect life.

Soon it all became about Rover and the money. The fact that they had a child fell by the wayside.

After five years, my parents decided not to sign on to the show for another year, but rather to rub shoulders with tech millionaires and hoteliers who wanted the fabulous Veronique Wess from Wess & Rover to design and decorate their fabulous vacation estates. As a celebrity household name, she charged what she wanted and often got asked to bring Rover along—all expenses paid.

What nobody knows or cares to ask, is that we are now on Rover the Third, from the same breeder, trained at great expense under a non-disclosure agreement by an expert. Rover doesn’t age. Rover performs. Come hell or high water, Rover never misses a beat. Rover, for a creature that only needs to be a good boy, exceeds expectations every time.

I swallow down my tears but they are dust bunnies. Even I, who have every right to hate Rover, can’t help but love him to bits. I miss Rover. All three versions of him.

This train of thought, combined with the filming this morning and the fact that neither parent is talking to me, makes my throat contract. I eventually had the guts to send the email to my dad, but he hasn’t bothered to reply yet. I tried to call, but I got a kill-call with a message that he was busy and would phone when he had time. I know he’s busy. He’s always busy. His failure to reply or phone me back might be an oversight, but still. There’s been nothing from Mom either, but her last words to me were don’t bother to talk to me again. Don’t call me, I’ll call you. Her radio silence is no surprise.

I’m a business deal gone wrong. The cabinet ordered in the wrong size. The carpet that arrived in the wrong color.

Thank God I could concentrate on Raiden and his issues and not my own, otherwise the shoot would have been another mess as I had an emotional meltdown on camera. Raiden kept me going. He worked so hard for this morning’s shoot and took my coaching seriously; I couldn’t fail him.

I shake my head. Raiden Logan. Initially an asshole extraordinaire, still a mystery to be solved, but now an unexpected safe harbor in rough waters.

Raiden has been professional, and I’ve taken his somewhat curt and Yoda speech in my stride. One week in and as he predicted, his speech has eased to only the occasional stutter. But the one thing I haven’t been able to get my head around, is the fact that he seems to have drawn up and catalogued this whole build in his head.

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