The Summer of Us: A Romance Anthology Read online

  The Summer of Us

  A Romance Anthology

  AJ Matthews

  Heather Young-Nichols

  Lilly Christine

  Joyce Ward

  Laura Greenwood

  Stella Wilkinson

  Sarah Zolton Arthur

  Lexi Ostrow

  Stephanie Queen

  Contents

  A Note From The Organizer

  Goodbye to You

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  About the Author

  Making Him Hers

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  More from Heather Young-Nichols

  Sonoma Saturdays

  Chateaubriand and Sauvignon

  Wellspring Willow Farms

  Spindr-iffic

  Sonoma Saturday 1

  Sonoma Satur-night

  Sunday Funday

  Monday Madness

  Illuminati Tuesday

  Wherewithal Wednesday

  Wine Hits the Fan: Sparkling Saturday

  About the Author

  The Resort

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  About the Author

  Recruiting Love

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  A Summer Thing

  Also by Stella Wilkinson

  A Summer Thing

  Books by Stella Wilkinson

  For More Than Just Summer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  More from Sarah Zolton Arthur

  Last Summer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Beachcomber Heat

  Acknowledgments

  Praise for Stephanie Queen’s Books

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Stephanie Queen Books

  Copyrights to all contents within are owned by the respective authors as noted on the individual copyright pages; permission has been obtained from each author to use their work in this collection.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Exterior cover and interior formatting provided by Colbert Creative Design LLC

  A Note From The Organizer

  Thank you for purchasing this collection of summer love stories. There’s something for everyone, from sweet to steamy, celebrating old loves and new. It was a pleasure to work with this amazing group of authors and other professionals who have selflessly given their words and time to support the Feeding America Summer Food Service Program to provide kids receiving nutrition assistance during the school year with healthy meals during the summer months, too! Every penny we make from the sale of this anthology will be donated to Feeding America, because no child should ever go hungry, no matter the season.

  Happy reading, and a happy summer to you all!

  Cheers,

  AJ

  Copyright ©2014-2017 by Nancy Hardy

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. Participation in any aspect of piracy of copyrighted materials, inclusive of the obtainment of this book through non-retail or other unauthorized means, is in actionable violation of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and registered trademark owners or all branded names referenced without TM, SM, or ® symbols due to formatting restraints, and is not claiming ownership of or collaboration with said trademark brands.

  Cover by Colbert Creative LLC

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all of the brave, beautiful warriors who’ve fought the good fight against breast cancer. No matter the outcome, you are the true heroes, and I respect your strength and courage more than mere words can express.

  To Hollywood, Beanie, and my (not so) little B: you are the reasons I get up every morning, and the reasons I survive every day.

  And to my husband, Jay. I know you’re not the mushy type, and you much prefer pithy and humorous to sentimental, but tough shit. Since this is my first book, I’ll write what I want. I’ll always be grateful to you for this opportunity to follow my dreams, and for believing in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. Every love story I write is because we have written an extraordinary love story of our own.

  Chapter One

  Thea

  I love my boobs.

  The sultry-eyed, dark-haired, “I wonder if he’s a J.-Crew-model” god staring at me from across the bar seems to like them too.

  Maybe more than I do.

  “Hey, Thea, we started with your name.” My friend Bennie slurs her words. Weird since we ordered the first round of the night a moment ago.

  Could be she’s still hungover from last night.

  She slides me a shot of clear liquid while the bartender slips a salt shaker and a plate of limes in front of Bennie.

  Tequila. A drink that makes me do wicked things I otherwise wouldn’t consider.

  J. Crew is inspiring hot-and-heavy fantasies that exclude clothing, but include lots of delicious, sweaty skin. A couple more drinks and this could be J. Crew’s lucky night.

  A few beers every other week is more my speed, so this trip is testing my limits. At five feet three inches tall and weighing in at 130 pounds, m
y body is not built for heavy drinking.

  I’m done with this crap after tonight. Well, maybe not tonight, but when the “Farewell to the Boobies” tour concludes here in Key West.

  I’m here with my best friends Bennie and Felicia—Leesh—with the sole purpose of having one last fling with a hot guy before I get a preventative mastectomy.

  A strong family history of breast cancer compelled me to get genetic testing. I’m positive for the brca1 mutation, which means I have a sixty to eighty percent chance of breast cancer. After months of deliberating, I decided to kick cancer’s ass, hence my upcoming surgery.

  But enough of that—I’m here for fun.

  Bennie and Leesh lick salt off the backs of their hands, and I follow suit before gulping the clear liquid fire then sucking on the lime. My lips pucker at its sour bite.

  The bartender clears the empties, and Bennie leans in and orders the next shot. Within minutes, the bartender returns with the next round.

  The AC kicks on, blasting icy air and blowing loose blond curls into my face.

  I’ll miss my boobs. I’m getting reconstructive surgery, but they’ll never be the same glorious girls.

  Might as well have fun with them while I still can.

  I pick up the “alphabet” shooter sitting on the slick bar in front of me. The orange drink could warm me.

  J. Crew’s staring again, so I tip my glass in his direction and then tip my head back and chug the contents in a single swallow.

  I cough, and my eyes water. Not the sexiest thing I’ve ever done.

  “Wooooo!” Bennie is unaffected by the spicy drink.

  Our shot glasses hit the table with a thud.

  The F shooter.

  Which could stand for “fuuuuuuuck.” I’m certain, though, the hellish concoction was a fireball. Whoever concocted the idea of using spicy Tabasco sauce in an alcoholic drink should be forced to drink a gallon of the stuff, straight.

  I wipe my eyes and glance across the darkened room. J. Crew’s gone.

  I sigh with relief. I hope he missed my embarrassing performance.

  “So which one of these hotties are you gonna tap tonight? You’ve failed in your mission for one last hook-up before . . .” Bennie makes a slashing sound with her mouth as she motions downward across her chest with her hands.

  “Stay classy, B.”

  She sings a made-up song about getting lucky and shakes her booty in time to a beat in her head. I roll my eyes. The girl is crazy, but she makes me laugh.

  “Excuse me, ladies.” My voice drips with sarcasm for my most un-ladylike friends. “I need to run to the loo.”

  Leesh rolls her eyes at me.

  I reach out and squeeze her shoulder. “Sorry, sweetie.”

  I’d picked up slang from her British ex, Dev, and sometimes the words roll off my tongue. She misses him since his overseas move and their subsequent split. I need to do a better job of monitoring my words.

  I get up and walk to the back of the bar, the soles of my flip-flops crunching the peanut shells underfoot in time with the live music. The young singer is scratching out an eclectic mix of music on his beat-up acoustic guitar. My favorite may be the country music since I am Georgia-born and Carolina-raised, fed a steady diet of old-school country by my granny.

  I check my phone for any messages from home. My sister, Jen, texted earlier in the day to say she’s recovering from the unpleasant side effects of the chemo. I believe she’s exaggerating because she wanted me to take a break from caring for her two kids. I skipped the spring semester of school to help Jen through her treatment, missing out on the student teaching required to secure my license. Jen feels guilty, but that’s what family does. We take care of each other.

  “Hot twenty-two-year-olds don’t play nursemaid to sick sisters all summer long. They go on vacation for a couple weeks to drink and flirt with cute boys.”

  I tried to argue with Jen, but she silenced me with her hand before going into the utility closet and returning with a roll of zebra-striped duct tape. She threatened to tape my mouth shut if I protested again. If she’d possessed the strength, she would’ve pushed me onto the plane herself. Instead, she made Bennie and Leesh promise they would get me out of the house and to the airport for this vacation.

  I run a brush through my wild curls and apply more lip gloss. Normally I spend minimal time on my appearance, but since I spotted him, I want to look nice in case. I exit the bathroom humming “Cheeseburger in Paradise.” A burger smothered in bacon and cheese would be tasty.

  I come to a halt outside the restroom door. J. Crew’s there, leaning against the wall, staring right at me. His arms are crossed, the sleeves of his navy blue polo snug around his defined biceps. His skin is not quite fair, but not too tan. A hint of sunblock and salt clings to him.

  He is beautiful.

  He smiles, revealing the whitest, straightest teeth I’ve ever seen, and my heart flips like Gabby Douglas on the vault.

  Except my heart doesn’t nail the landing. Instead, it sinks to the pit of my stomach and flops around like a fish on the deck of a boat.

  “H-hey.” J. Crew’s stutter is cute.

  Cute annoys me.

  Not in this case.

  This tiny imperfection makes him even hotter.

  An older woman brushes by me, knocking into my shoulder as she utters a brusque “Excuse me.” I realize I’ve been standing motionless and mute in the doorway of the women’s room.

  Seriously, Thea? Get a grip.

  I square my shoulders and stand straight. J. Crew’s eyes drop. And pop.

  My now-perfect posture makes my big, firm boobs stick out, and in this tank top, they’re hard to miss.

  “Hi,” I spit out after I unstick my tongue from the dry roof of my mouth.

  He lifts his gaze back to mine, the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes dancing, like he’s a tad embarrassed at being caught staring, but not at all sorry for looking.

  “Uh, sorry to interrupt this little love-fest, but can I get through?” The bartender with the lilting accent is trying to get through the hall from the men’s room.

  I take a couple steps back, and J. Crew hitches his thumb at the men’s room door. “Um, I gotta go . . .”

  I mentally face-palm myself.

  He hadn’t come for me. He’d been waiting to get into the bathroom, probably a single-stall like the ladies’ room.

  Duh.

  But good. Because a guy following you to a public bathroom in a bar is a teensy bit strange.

  Still, I’m disappointed. I thought J. Crew and I had a connection that compelled him to do something unconventional even though others might find it strange.

  Turns out he just had to pee.

  Shay

  Stunning.

  Not drop-dead, super-model gorgeous, but I can’t stop staring at her.

  One eyebrow quirks up at me, questioning.

  Her nose is straight, and her crooked grin is set on a pair of soft-looking, full lips the color of cherries.

  I wonder if they taste like cherries too.

  I’d settle for cherry Chapstick.

  She smells like berries, and it makes me hungry for more.

  Curly blond hair tumbles over one shoulder. My fingers itch to wind into the waves to find out if they’re as silky as they look.

  Of course, her most striking feature isn’t her skin or hair or lips: it’s her breasts.

  I’d say I’m a “boob man,” even though the future medical student in me thinks the term “boobs” is crass.

  But I do love breasts, and hers are spectacular.

  “H-hey.” Great. She’ll be so impressed by the stutter.

  A woman pushes past the girl to get into the ladies’ room.

  The blond thrusts her shoulders back, and my gaze falls from her face to her chest again.

  They’re encased in a bright pink tank top crying for help in supporting the glorious burden.

  I’d volunteer, but don’t want to get slapped.<
br />
  I can’t tear my eyes away.

  “Hi.” Her voice is high, the single word encouraging.

  My Uncle Paddy, master of unfortunate timing, interrupts, trying to squeeze between us.

  We’re alone again, but geesh, my bladder is screaming.

  I hate to do this, but I say, “Um, I gotta go . . .” and push the men’s room door open, leaving her standing in the hall.

  I finish up and lather my hands under the scalding water, hoping she’ll be there when I’m done, but that’s odd, right? For her to stand by the bathroom and wait for me?

  When I leave the bathroom, of course she’s gone, back with her friends at the bar, and Paddy’s taking another order from them.

  I want to meet her, but I’m no good at talking about myself and even worse with striking up conversations with people I don’t know.

  Not effective when trying to get the attention of a beautiful stranger.

  I climb back on the worn bar stool, its legs shifting under my weight. Uncle Paddy slides another beer across the worn bar top, the foam sloshing over the side.

  “Hey Paddy, what’s up with the blond?” I tilt my head at the girl and her two friends, the tall redhead, and the olive-skinned brunette.

  “Ye mean the one with the . . .” Paddy cups his hands out—far out—in front of his chest.

  I nod, kind of weirded out by my forty-year-old uncle staring at college-aged girls.

  “Fun bunch of girls, those three. Yeah, she’s a dear. Quieter than the other two.” A cackle of laughter erupts from the brunette to prove Paddy’s point. “Her name’s Thea. Ye wanna meet her?”

  I shake my head. “No, no, no.”

  I’m so not ready.

  My stubborn uncle turns a deaf ear to my pleas.

  “Hey, this guy here, he’s my nephew,” Paddy bellows and points at me. Now the whole bar knows I want to meet this hot girl.

  My heart hammers in my ears. I bury my face, hot with embarrassment, in my arms.