Page 68 of Cool for the Summer

“It’s not your fault,” I reassure Pete. “It was me. He told me from the beginning what he didn’t want, and I thought I’d be okay with it.”

“You’re a romantic,” Jack says, handing me a tissue from a nearby box. “Like me. It hurts sometimes, but it’s who you are.”

“And sometimes it just takes time for these things to work themselves out. Some people are slower to understand or act on their feelings,” Pete says. “Sometimes they even put up artificial roadblocks even though they want to be on the road they’re on. They’re just scared.”

“Okay. Thanks?” I’m not sure what to do with that. I tried convincing Donovan that he was on the right road—the road I’m on—and he rejected me.

“I think what Pete’s saying is you deserve someone who can meet you where you are in a relationship,” Jack says, giving Pete an unreadable look.

I blow my nose again and decide that as nice as the attention is, the advice, such as it is, isn’t that helpful. “Well, enough about me. I’ll be fine.” I do believe that, even if it won’t be for a while. “How was the flight? Are you exhausted?”

“We slept a little on the plane, but I’m definitely looking forward to sleeping in my own bed tonight,” Jack says.

“Sleep. Yes. Soon,” Pete grunts out.

I laugh. “It’s barely noon.”

“Yeah, we have to try to get on the right time, sweetheart. Can you stay up until at least six?”

“I’ll try.” Pete yawns. “Is there anything to eat around here?”

“I’ll make some lunch,” I offer. It’s one way to thank the two of them for letting me step into their home and make it my own for two months.

“Why don’t you take the bags upstairs and I’ll help Beck with lunch?” Jack says, following me into the kitchen.

I get out the ingredients for chicken salad as Jack helps himself to iced tea.

“So I can’t wait to show you the shop. The stools are being delivered tomorrow,” I say with forced cheer.

“Beck. Stop.”

“What?”

“I just want to make sure you’re really okay. I feel awful about this. If I’d known what kind of guy Van is, I would never have left you alone with him.”

“Jack, seriously, I’m slightly heartbroken, yes. But I’m also an adult, if you hadn’t noticed. And Donovan isn’t a bad person. He just wants different things out of life. And I guess I thought maybe there was a chance?—”

A sound like galloping horses interrupts me, and a second later Pete skids into the kitchen. The noise must have been him tromping down the stairs, such a contrast to Donovan’s smooth glide. “I think I forgot my toothbrush at the hotel.”

Then Cleo barks—she’s been doing a lot of that today. She yipped and yapped with joy when Jack and Pete first arrived and spent five straight minutes clobbering her with kisses—all while I blubbered out the abbreviated story of my ill-fated fling with Donovan.

“What’s up, Cleo?” Three pairs of human eyes and one pair of dog eyes look toward the kitchen entrance as someone comes down the back hall that leads to the garage. Donovan appears a moment later, dressed in the same clothes he left in two days ago.

It hurts to look at him without going over and touching.

“Oh. Hey.” He looks at me first, then flicks his gaze over to Jack and Pete. “You guys are back. Great.” But his enthusiasm sounds fake.

Cleo bounds up to him, sniffing his knee excitedly.

“Hey, girl,” he says, dropping down to kiss her head. “Missed you.”

My heart does not melt at that, not even a little bit. I swear.

He rises slowly and we’re all still staring, as if we’ve forgotten how to behave. “Um—Beck, can I talk to you?”

I instantly take half a step forward—it seems my body is willing to act before my mind can tell it why going to Donovan is a bad idea.

Jack, however, gets in my way by stepping right up to Donovan’s face. “Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to you, you, you—” he seems to struggle to find the word he’s looking for. “You rascal!”

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