Perfect Summer (8 page)

She laughed. “Nope. Buttermilk doesn't have butter in it. All is not lost. Do you have any lemon juice or vinegar?”

He glanced at his fruit bowl. A lone lemon sat in the curvy, silver bowl on his kitchen table. “Lemon, check.”

“Okay, pour one cup of milk—”

“Wait, how much is a cup? Like a glass or a coffee cup?” He opened the cabinet where he kept the cups. The tea glasses were definitely larger than the coffee mugs.

“No. You need a measuring cup. Eight ounces.”

Clint looked around the kitchen, waiting for measuring cups to jump out at him. “No measuring cups.”

Damn, he was really getting into this, and his mouth was watering for hot pancakes.

“You look like the type who drinks protein shakes?” she said.

What did that have to do with measuring cups?

“Sure. Whey in the morning and at lunch, then casein in the evening.”

“My ex used to down them like nobody's business. Do you have one of the scoops that comes with the powder? It's about a quarter of a cup.” She yawned as she mixed something.

“Hold on, I'm putting you on speaker.” Clint set the phone down, hit the speaker button, picked up the five-gallon container of chocolate whey powder, and pulled out the scoop. “Got it.”

He washed it off in the sink. “So four of these scoops of milk into a glass and then what?”

“Cut the lemon in half and squeeze the juice into the milk. Let it sit for five minutes until it gets thick and, presto, buttermilk substitute. While you do that, I'm going to email you the recipe.” A couple of mouse clicks followed, and then his email binged.

“Got it.” Since emailing and talking on the same piece of equipment was about as second nature to him as cooking, he opened his laptop and brought it to the kitchen island. “So um...” He pulled up the recipe. “I'm supposed to whisk the dry ingredients together.” He threw open the cooking utensil drawer—no whisk. “I don't have a whisk.”

“Use a fork. Stir your dry ingredients, and then, in a different bowl, stir your wet ingredients, and then add them to the dry ingredients. Stir just until things are combined. Lumps are okay.” Judging by the rhythmic clanking coming from through the phone, she was stirring.

He'd better catch up. Looking around, he couldn't find a bowl, so he grabbed a couple of pots, dumped the dry ingredients in, stirred, and then combined the wet. After he'd mixed the two together, he turned back to the phone. “Now what?”

“You need to heat your griddle.”

“I have a griddle?”

“I have no idea, but if you don't, use a shallow, flat-bottomed pan.” Pans clanked together as she shuffled things on her end.

Clint checked the drawer with the pots and pans, found a shallow pan with a lid, and pulled it out. “Do I need the lid?”

“No. Put the pan on the stove on high heat and slap about a quarter of an inch of butter in the middle.” She took a deep breath. “FYI—I’m holding my breath to see if you have butter.”

“Somebody sounds snotty.” He hadn’t meant to be flirty, but it sure sounded like it.

“I’m sorry, did you say something? I’m half asleep because someone woke me up at the crack of dawn.” She yawned loudly.

He checked his watch. “It’s seven forty-five right now. The sun came up over an hour ago.”

“I bet you high-fived that big ball of light and welcomed the day with a bright smile.”

“I am a morning person. After they teach us the secret handshake, we have to swear a blood oath to be cheerful from dawn until noon. I don’t make the rules.” He smiled to himself.

“I knew it. So…” She turned serious. “What’s the secret to morning peppiness?”

“Caffeine. It’s the drug of choice for all morning worshipers.” He crossed his left foot over his right and leaned against the cabinet. “Back to the pancakes…do I need salted or unsalted butter?” He only had unsalted, but she didn't know that.

“Show-off.”

Clint laughed. “Truth time. I only have unsalted, but I was trying to impress you. Just so you know, there are always plenty of eggs, protein powder, butter, and sugar in my house. Everything else is hit-or-miss.”

“Sounds like we can be friends. Butter and sugar are my only requirements. Hell, you could be my BFF if it weren't for the protein powder.” Her tone was filled with mock disappointment.

“If I agree to never bring it up again, can you forget it ever happened?” He liked her, damn if he didn't.

“Sorry, some bells can't be unrung.” Butter sizzled in her pan.

He’d never cooked with a woman, especially long distance. It was probably a thousand times better when she was here in person. He could picture it. Summer sleep-mussed and tousled from the incredible morning sex they’d just had, measuring out buttermilk as he stirred the dry ingredients. They’d laugh and talk about nothing. He looked around his kitchen. It would be a great way to start the day.

Tossing a chunk of butter into the pan, he grinned. “You're my first phone sizzle.”

“That's funny. I've been trying to come up with a hot cakes line, but phone sizzle is much better.”

It felt good to impress her.

“Now that your pan is nice and hot, turn down the temp to medium. Use your protein powder—let's refer to it as PP from now on—scoop to pour the batter into the pan. Heads up, the batter spreads, so try not to use too much.”

Clint scooped out batter and poured it onto the melted butter. Batter sizzled into a pool and slowly puffed up. It worked. “Look at that. I just made my first pancake.”

Pride made him glow all over.

“We're not out of the woods yet. Do you have a spatula?” Over the phone, metal scraped against metal.

Pulling out a spatula from the utensil drawer, he said, “Ye of little faith. Spatula at the ready.”

He couldn’t wait. Grabbing the remaining butter so it would be close enough to hack off a pat for the pancake, he stood at the ready, waiting for his first homemade-by-him pancake. “Don’t I need to flip it?”

“See all those bubbles? When they start to pop, slide your spatula under the pancake and flip it over.”

Clint started to slide his spatula under the pancake.

“Not yet,” Summer said. He could practically hear her shaking her head. “Wait until they pop.”

How did she know? He stared down the pancake, waiting for total poppage.

“Okay, I think, it’s ready.” With his spatula, he eased up one corner. It was golden-brown. “How do I do this?”

“Gently slide the spatula under the bottom and flip. It’s all in the wrist.” She sounded confident he could do it.

His heart thumped in his chest like it was the end of the fourth quarter and the Lone Stars were down by two points. “Gently slide the spatula…” he repeated as his slid, “under the bottom and flip.” The pancake flipped and landed with a splat and a sizzle.

He jumped back and danced around the island. “I did it.”

“Good for you. I’m so proud.” Her voice was calming, and there was pride in it.

It was stupid to be this happy. “Thanks for showing me how to make pancakes.”

“Thanks for helping Mario,” she countered.

“Thanks for not calling a press conference when I fell asleep in class.”

“Thanks for waking up. Dead bodies are harder to get rid of than you might think.” She laughed.

“Thanks for um…” Did he go with being a nice person, or volunteering at a teen shelter, or having a sense of humor, or having a naughty mouth?

“Just so you know, I can’t be out-niced. You should give up now. I’ve been perfecting my nice for thirty years. You can’t win.”

“I always win. At least at the things that matter.” Clint had a feeling that she could matter…. She could matter a lot. “But I’m new to the nice. Care to show me the ropes?”

“I don’t believe that. You have a good heart.”

“No, I’m…” He was about to admit he was using her to further his career, but the thought of her seeing him in a negative light gave him a twinge of unease.

“Clint, you’re a good person, whether you believe it or not. Deal with it.” Summer sounded so sure.

Right now, more than he wanted the World Wide deal, he wanted her to be right.

***

“Honestly, you’re the most obstinate man I’ve ever known.” Lilly fluffed the pillows at Davis’s back. When she’d driven up and found him unconscious on the ground, she’d aged ten years. She blew the bangs out of her eyes. That made her twenty-three years older than him.

Thank God his vet hospital shared the road to his house or she might not have found him in time. “I don’t see why you couldn’t stay at the hospital.”

“It’s a clinic, not a hospital, and I’d rather be home with you.” He laced his fingers behind his head and relaxed back on the pillows. “Nurse, I’m ready for my sponge bath.”

She stuck out her tongue, caught herself, and pulled her tongue back in. That was improper and childish. She’d never done anything childish in her life—even when she was a child, she’d had to be the adult. She stepped back.

“Too late. I saw it.” Davis grinned. With the white gauze wrapped around his head and the white tape around his chest, he looked like a cheerful mummy.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His grin was infectious, and she couldn’t help it. Davis made her smile. A giggle shimmied up her throat and out her mouth. She clamped a hand over her lips. Giggling…she didn’t giggle.

“Are we going to pretend that didn’t happen too?” Davis took her hand and kissed the back of it. “Uptight, much?”

She snatched her hand away. “I’m not uptight, I’m reserved. There’s a difference.”

“If you say so.” He continued to grin. The corners of his eyes had the beginnings of crows feet, just a single faint line. He was too young for her.

“Me and my uptight self are going to take a shower.” Lilly picked up her overnight bag. “Later, if you’re nice, I may feed you dinner.”

She walked out of the bedroom, down the main hall, and into the house’s one and only bathroom. The hundred-year-old farmhouse was long on charm and short on convenience—built in a time when barns were more important than bathrooms. She dropped her bag in front of the pedestal sink, turned on the claw foot tub’s hot water tap, and shimmied out of her clothes. A long, hot shower would feel so good, and thanks to the instant-on hot water heater Davis had installed last month, she could take as long as she liked.

She stepped under the single nozzle spray and let the warmth rain down on her tired body. Davis had called her uptight. She’d show him uptight. A low-cut, cherry-red bra-and-panty set accessorized with a garter belt, stockings, and mile-high, red Jimmy Choo platforms should be enough to make him eat those words. Physically, Davis might not be up to sex, but his eyeballs worked just fine. Uptight women didn’t dress provocatively, even tasteful provocative.

Luscious hot water poured over her, and she lost track of time. When her fingers were puckered and her body blissfully warm and clean, she turned off the tap and pushed back the curtain. Thick, heavy steam blanketed the room, and she could barely see a foot in front of her. By feel, she grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her, and stepped over the edge of the tub. Stumbling around, she bumped into the toilet and groped around for the sink. Lilly switched on the vent and waited for some of the steam to dissipate. After a minute or two, she could see the foggy mirror. With the edge of her towel, she wiped the layer of moisture off the mirrored surface.

Running a hand up her neck to check for tautness, she smoothed the skin under her eyes. Her complexion was still bright and unblemished, thanks to Botox, Restylane, and a host of photo facials and laser hair removal. Her eyelift had taken ten years off her face, but she still felt every one of her forty-eight years.

Age was just a number, right?

She rolled her eyes. That’s what old people said. Lilly wiped down the full-length mirror on the back of the door. Her pale skin was still supple. She turned to the side and touched her normally flat stomach, which was pooching out a bit today but not too noticeable. She worked out at least an hour a day and watched every calorie, but age was catching up to her. She touched the bump of her stomach again. Getting old and fat—that’s what she had to look forward to, and she needed to accept it. Her periods had been hit or miss for the last year and, two months ago, had finally stopped altogether. She was in menopause. At forty-eight, she was officially an old lady.

Lilly shook her head. Never. She refused to be old. Or uptight. She unzipped her overnight bag, carefully searched for the lingerie. Her body was still toned, and she was in excellent shape. Davis thought so, and that was all that mattered.

She slid on the panties, which ended right underneath her pooch. When she got back home, the flab was going back to flat. After sliding her arms through the straps of the bra, she reached behind her and latched it. She bent over and adjusted her breasts for maximum cleavage and straightened. Black dots danced at the edge of her vision, and she grabbed the sink for support. Too hot of a shower for too long had made her light-headed. Food was a good idea, but not too much because her strict diet started now.

She slid on the garter belt, smoothed on the red silk stockings, and attached them to the belt. She pulled out the Jimmy Choos and slid her feet inside. Davis Jefferson was about to get an eyeful of uptight.

She opened the door and stepped into the hall. Muted voices came from the bedroom. Probably the TV. The bedroom door was closed. That was funny. She didn’t remember closing it. She strutted down the hall and threw open the door.

“How’s this for uptight?” Lilly burst into the room.

Five unknown faces and Davis stared at her.

“Lilly, honey. I don’t believe you’ve met my mother, Adele Jefferson.”

Davis pointed to tall, plain woman standing next to him. “Or my grandmother, Judith.”

A chubby older woman wearing a tracksuit and painted-on eyebrows sat in the old rocking chair by the window.

Every muscle in Lilly’s body turned to cement. Silence ate up the room as she told her legs to move, but they wouldn’t listen.