Summer Girl Read online

  Her summer job turned into so much more...

  A songwriter is nothing without his muse. Sucks that mine turns out to be Katherine D’Arcy––hot as hell, but the very definition of country-club living and everything I came to this quiet little island to escape. Still...I can’t complain about the beauty tumbling out of my guitar. It’s not long before I can barely keep up––not with the music, not with her body, and definitely not with her heart. There’s an unexpected bravery and fire hiding behind the rigidity of her day-planner, and I’ll be damned if she keeps it hidden. She makes me hope for a future I never thought possible. A future for us. Together. If only there wasn’t that one inconvenient truth, that one minor chord, clashing dissonant and inharmonious between us. For now she can’t hear it, and I’m grateful for that. I wish I could hide the truth from her forever. Or at least, a little while longer... But it’s time for her true beauty to shine through, even if it means she chooses to leave me behind.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  May

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  June

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  July

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  August

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more New Adult titles from Entangled Embrace… Blind Spot

  Anatomy of a Player

  Crossing Abby Road

  Wanting More

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by A. S. Green. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Embrace is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Karen Grove

  Cover design by Cover Couture

  Cover art from iStock and Shutterstock

  ISBN 978-1-63375-712-7

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition August 2016

  For my sister

  May

  Chapter One

  Katherine

  I used to think my list-making was just a weird personality quirk. I had your basic to-do lists, of course. But also Christmas lists, future baby name lists, and packing lists for trips I’d likely never take. On top of that, I created restaurant rankings according to bathroom cleanliness, not to mention lists for about fifty theme parties—more than I could ever actually throw.

  My obsession with order hit its low point my senior year of high school. That’s when I found myself alone on Homecoming weekend, slipping lists into plastic sleeves before alphabetizing and assembling them in a three-ring notebook. Thankfully, my best friend and other obsession—Andrew Mason—was there to rescue me from a full-on mental break.

  Two years of self-help books later, and with three years of Bennington College under my belt, I think I have it licked. So, admittedly, starting a new list (even a mental one) has me worried.

  Relapse is nothing to mess with.

  Top Three Reasons to Tell Andrew How I Really Feel about Him

  1. Mom would finally quit bugging me about it.

  2. Macie would finally quit bugging me about it.

  3. Enough is enough already.

  Top Three Reasons to Keep My Mouth Shut

  1. It could end the longest relationship I’ve ever had with a guy.

  2. He needs to realize how he feels about me on his own.

  3. Self-preservation is not to be underrated.

  With a sigh, I force myself to stop. The last exam of my junior year is complete, finished, behind me. I’m done thinking for the day. I skip up the front steps of the Alpha Phi sorority house feeling six inches taller and ten pounds lighter than when I left this morning. Econ has been the bane of my existence this whole semester, and now that it’s over I feel like I could sing. Except that I can’t. So I don’t.

  Instead, I give a little hop at the top step and slap the AΦ sign hanging between the two columns that flank the front steps. The sign swings on its thin, rusty chains, squeaking out my victory song.

  I love this house, in large part because it’s not my mother’s house, but also because the architect had a perfect sense of what is orderly and good in this world. And orderly and good are practically synonymous in my book.

  To illustrate, the house is a two-story Greek revival with a balcony straight out of a romance novel. From the front, the second story has five evenly spaced windows, under which the first-story windows and front door line up tidily. The balcony is supported by six fluted columns. The AΦ sign hangs exactly centered between the third and fourth columns. In short, it is a shining example of perfect symmetry. Which is why it was the only house I rushed.

  Inside, I’m greeted by the ever-present aroma of home: popcorn, melted butter, and salt. I inhale deeply then dash up the wooden staircase, letting my hand slide along the polished bannister. A second later, I’m flinging open the door to my bedroom sanctuary. My heart rate slows at the mere sight of it.

  The walls are painted a crisp white—a specific shade I selected after spending hours debating between Pearl, Antique, and Quartz. My best friend Macie Montgomery threatened to shave off my eyebrows in my sleep if I didn’t flip a coin and get it over with. She’s a nut, but I took her seriously. Eventually, I settled on Bone.

  Ansel Adams black-and-white photographs, evenly spaced, accentuate the walls, and silver curtains flank the window, which faces the street. My elegant charcoal gray bedspread is smooth and tucked tight. My bookshelves ar
e alphabetized with my favorite classics, many of them left over from my abandoned English major. There are no piles of dirty laundry, no fashion magazines, no high school memorabilia. In other words: perfection.

  So what if I’ve missed more than one party to stay home and clean. So what if I skip out on a lot of things, particularly if they’re poorly planned. Chaos begets chaos, I always say, and I’ve never found a reason to change my stripes, even though Macie calls my decorating style Prison Chic.

  Macie and I both rushed Alpha Phi as freshmen, but we really met in Chinese 101, which I took because I needed a language and Andrew thought it would enhance my employability. Basically, the only thing Macie and I came out of that class knowing was that she is the yin to my yang.

  A few cases in point: I am a business major. Macie spends her days in the theater department. Macie has hippie parents who started a health-food chain that’s gone international. Her hair is black, naturally curly, and twisted into artful perfection. She can pretty much buy whatever designer clothes she wants but instead wears overalls made out of hemp or flax seed or something.

  I, on the other hand, can only afford consignment shops these days, but I do my best to get my hands on every Ralph Lauren label I can find. Macie thinks my oxfords and cardigans make me look like a politician’s wife. She might be right. Even my hair has gone a little Jackie O this semester.

  Mom calls it “keeping up appearances,” which has only been necessary since my dad took off with a produce broker from Tampa right before my senior year of high school. Mom has refused to divorce him in the hope he’ll come home again, which means two things: (1) Mom is delusional, and (2) no divorce means no court-ordered financial support.

  I’d be fine doing without cashmere sweaters for the rest of my life if it meant my dad sticking around. Basically, Mom and I have been living on a Ramen-noodle budget, but we do our best to sweep our broken noodles under the rug.

  All of this makes it hard for me to justify living at the sorority house. It’s way more expensive than the dorms. But Mom says if you want to attract a rich man, you have to look like you’re accustomed to wealth. So my room and board is an investment on which she expects to get a big return.

  I don’t share my mom’s obsession with me marrying “well,” so sometimes it’s like living in a modern-day Austen novel. Fortunately, Andrew’s the only man I’m interested in marrying, and he’s more than enough for my mom, so it’s all good.

  I’m still standing in my bedroom doorway doing deep-breathing exercises when Macie slips in around me saying, “Girl, welcome home. Was it as nasty as you thought it’d be?”

  I groan but give her a quick, one-armed hug around the neck. “The best I can say is that Econ is over.”

  “Which probably means you did fine. I always get my best grades on the tests I think I blew.”

  I stack my book and review notes neatly on the shelf and pull my long, dark brown hair into a supertight ponytail. Macie flops down on my bedspread, undoing the hospital corners. She knows how much this bugs me, so for good measure she rolls over on her back and sweeps her arms up and down like she’s making a snow angel on the blankets. She calls this “desensitizing me to chaos.” Or “Macie Therapy” for short.

  I’ve learned not to say anything. I’ll fix it once she leaves.

  “It’s freaking amazing to be done,” she says.

  I can’t imagine that her final in History of American Film was as grueling as mine, but I let her have her moment because she’s my best friend and I love her.

  “In thirteen days I’ll be doing my summer theater program in Tibet, and you’ll be dragging your ass out of bed for Professor Schumacher’s internship from hell. Then one more year of this place and we’re out of here,” she says with a sigh. Macie had an awesome freshman year (complete with an awesome older boyfriend), but after he graduated she totally cooled to college life. I’m going to miss her when she’s gone.

  “It’s not an internship from hell,” I tell her (again). In fact, I worked all year to get into it. Andrew’s doing it, too, though he was a shoe-in based on his grades and the fact Professsor Schumacher is his dad’s old frat brother. I, on the other hand, had to get three faculty letters of recommendation, write an essay on the pros and cons of the European Union, plus take an extra three credits this semester so I had all the prerequisites checked off. It might not be the internship from hell, but I sure battled through hell to get it.

  “Andrew says all the top law schools are demanding undergraduate work like this.” Macie isn’t listening; she’s chipping the nail polish off her big toe. “My GPA is likely going to dip after that econ final…not to mention poli-sci,” I add, biting my lip. “But the internship will make up for it on my law school application…assuming my LSATs are good.”

  She makes jazz hands, wiggling her fingers at me as if to say she finds this whole topic completely not fascinating.

  My phone buzzes and I check the text: i’ll pick you up at 6:00 for dinner. i got something to ask you. love ya.

  “Who is it?” she asks. “Is it Andy?”

  “It’s Andrew.” She knows Andrew is fundamentally opposed to nicknames. I straighten the framed picture of him and me that sits on my nightstand. He gave it to me for Christmas. The top edge of the frame is etched with the words: Friends Forever.

  “What does he want?”

  Andrew always ends his texts with love ya. It’s like he knows we’ll be together someday, even if he’s not ready to admit it yet.

  “He’s taking me to dinner. He has something to ask me.” I read the text again and suck in my breath. “You don’t think…?”

  Macie raises her eyebrows at me. “Girl, your optimism is inspiring.”

  I resist the urge to punch her. A girl can dream, and I’ve read plenty of love stories that are more unlikely than ours.

  Top Four Reasons to Tell Andrew How I Really Feel about Him

  1. Mom would finally quit bugging me about it.

  2. Macie would finally quit bugging me about it.

  3. Enough is enough already.

  4. I love a happy ending.

  “I don’t know why you’d even want to date him,” she says. “Judging by all the skanks he dates, you’re not his type.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” I say. “He may play the field, but I’m exactly his type when it comes to a long-term relationship. His parents would never approve of those girls. I’m in it for the long haul. And, by the way, his parents love me.”

  It’s true. His mother even told me not to worry, that Andrew would come around in time. And besides me, who knows him better than his own mother?

  “You make me so sad. Why would you want to wait around for him, or for anyone, for that matter?”

  “I’m not waiting around. I’ve had boyfriends.”

  “Two,” she says, rolling her eyes. “The first one lasted a week. The second only a month. You never even let him flick your bean.”

  “Excuse me?” I say, jutting out one hip.

  “You heard me.”

  I shrug. I have nothing against sex, or flicking of any kind, so long as it’s with the right person. Mom thought she had the right guy, but look how that turned out. Forgive me for being cautious. When I give it up, it’ll be right. “Andrew’s worth waiting for.”

  “He’s smokin’ hot. I’ll give you that. And word around campus is that he’s good with his hands, if you know what I mean.”

  I cringe, and there’s no hiding it from Macie.

  “But shit, girl, he treats you like you’re incapable of making your own decisions.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  I hate this argument. Andrew and I have only ever had each other’s best interests at heart. He was there for me senior year after my dad left and my life turned to shit. He was able to get me through that, even though it had been a fragile time for him, too.

  His brother had died years earlier, and his parents refused to talk about it. They still pretend l
ike it never happened.

  They deal with their grief by micro-managing everything about Andrew’s life, but they do this without really taking care of him. I, on the other hand, take care of him. I care. I’m always there to listen, like that time back in high school when he tried to talk about his brother but broke down crying instead.

  “Uh-huh,” Macie says, not buying it. She refuses to believe Andrew has a soft side, but that’s because he only shows it to me. “What are you majoring in again?” she asks.

  “Shut up.”

  “Exactly.”

  I scowl at her. So what if Andrew convinced me to switch my major from English to Business sophomore year? It was a smart idea, and something I’m almost positive I would have done on my own, even if he hadn’t suggested it. My future will be a lot more financially secure now, and God knows I need that.

  After we graduate college and then law school, Andrew has plans for us to do some charity work for impoverished families, then we’ll open up our own law firm. After we’re well-established, we’ll hire some associates. It’s practical. It’s orderly. I love it.

  “You’ve let Andrew take the lead for too long.”

  “Untrue.”

  “Half this campus doesn’t even know your name. They only know you as Andrew Mason’s girlfriend, which would be bad enough if you actually were his girlfriend, but seeing as you’re not…”

  She’s right. Andrew thinks people’s assumptions are funny, so he never corrects them when they say it. He just plants a kiss on my forehead, which doesn’t do much to set the record straight. What it tells me is that Andrew says with his actions what he can’t say with his words. Yet.

  “Well, I am his girl friend.”

  Macie rolls her eyes. “Drop the torch, Katherine, or you’re going to die a virgin.”

  The first time she and I had this argument, I expected her to apologize. She never did. Instead she said, “You don’t even know what you’re good at. You. All alone. By yourself. For all you know you’ve got some incredible hidden talent that only needs a little personal space for it to come out.

  “Maybe you’re a poet. Or you could throw pottery. Put some muscle on those scrawny little arms. I mean, for the love of God, Katherine, who in their right mind wants to go to law school?” She said these last two words like they were synonymous with root canals or waterboarding.