Page 49 of The Summer I First Saw You
“Daisy,” I hiss between my teeth, “can you stop leaning against my chest?”
“Sorry,” she says hurriedly, leaning away, and I feel like an asshole. She took care of me all night, and now she’s apologizing because ofmyraging libido.
“We should get back,” I reply. “If you could just give me a few minutes to shower, I’ll be ready to go.”
“Oh, sure.” She blushes. “Sorry. I’ll go to my room. Just text when you’re ready.”
She climbs out of bed, grabs her sweatshirt off the floor, and walks out. I go to the bathroom and turn on the shower, gripping myself as I picture her on the deck of my house, bent overin the blue yoga pants. I imagine the wet feel of her as I spread her legs wide, that moment just before I push in. The water in the shower isn’t even hot before I’m coming to the thought of it.
We manageto get back to Santa Cruz in time for her shift, though she only leaves after I swear that I’m fine.
I’m really feeling much better, but I called in sick anyway because I’m not in the mood for Baker’s bullshit—he’ll be annoyed that I’m coming in at midday, so he might as well just be annoyed that I didn’t come in at all.
I rinse the surfboards, clean out the car, and then go to Daisy’s belovedrich people storeand get stuff for dinner. It’s a weakthank youfor the fact that she dropped everything to come along with me this weekend when she didn’t have to and then spent the night in my room, putting wet washcloths on my head and politely ignoring me while I apparently took off all my clothes.
It’s a weakthank youfor the fact that I’ve allowed her to take care of me for weeks when she didn’t have to. She’d argue that she’s staying here for free, but she went above and beyond— she got me back to being the person I was not just before I discovered Audrey was cheating but the person I was before Audrey was ever in the picture at all.
I’m still putting together why I gave up everything I enjoyed for a marriage that didn’t make me happy, but the important part is that I’m ready to fix what went wrong, and I’m not sure I would have been if it weren’t for Daisy making me see it.
I’m reading the paper with a beer in hand when she gets home that afternoon. “If you’re taking off work to sit home and drink, I may have gone too far in my quest to make you relax a little,” she says, walking onto the deck.
I turn toward her, my gaze immediately falling to her rack, though I’m hardly at fault for that. The goddamn shirt they make her wear at work pretty muchdemandsyou look at her rack.
“I fucking hate that job,” I tell her. “They need to give you more clothes.”
She takes the seat beside me. “That would be counterproductive. The lack of clothes is the only reason I’m earning so much there.”
I hate that too. I hate that some creep is drawing pornographic pictures of her, that a thousand other creeps are imagining God knows what. “Just quit. I can help you out next semester.”
“You’re already letting me live here rent-free. I’m not taking your money.”
Take it as a favor to me. I really don’t want you at that damn job, in that fucking shirt.
She climbs to her feet, side-eyeing my beer. “In spite of the exquisite care you’re taking of your immune system, you probably ought to get a solid meal tonight. Let me shower and then I’ll run to the—”
I wrap my hand around her wrist to stop her. “I already went to the store. I’m making us steak, and it’s marinating right now. Stop trying to take care of me all the time. It’s my turn to take care of you instead.”
Her gaze meets mine. I didn’t mean for it to sound sexual, but it sort of did, and she’s not about to let it go. “How exactly are you going totake careof me?” she purrs, licking her lips.
I laugh. “I knew you’d go there. By feeding you, Daisy.”
“What are you going tofeedme, Harrison?”
I groan, discreetly placing the paper over my lap. “You truly can make anything sound filthy, can’t you? It’s a skill.”
“Too bad it’s not a skill I can be paid for.”
“You could be paid an awful lot for that skill,” I reply as she walks away. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Too late!” she calls back. “I’m applying right now.”
She goes to shower, and when she returns—barefoot, wet hair knotted atop her head, sun-kissed from the weekend outdoors—it hits me all over again how right this feels with her, how easy it is to have her around. It’s a dangerous line of thought—one I’m allowing myself to have far too often when it absolutely can’t happen.
We make dinner together. I want to inhale the smell of her shampoo every time she passes. How the hell did that idiot in DC ever let her go?
“The guy you told me about in the car yesterday,” I venture as we sit down at the table. “Is he why you swore off men?”
She looks away. I fucking hate that she’s hiding something from me when she’s too goddamn open about almost everything else. I hate that she’s hiding this in particular.Is she not over him?
