Page 3 of If the Summer Lasted Forever
Fact:I am a competent human being behind the safety of my check-in counter. I can answer the phone, have real conversations, even hand people keys to their cabins. But outside the front office—especially in the presence of a good-looking guy with pale green eyes and an easy way ofexisting—I’m a newborn giraffe.
“Sure.” I turn from the counter and promptly trip over my chair.
Smooth, Lacey.
Since my cheeks can’t get any hotter, I assume my neck and chest are growing blotchy as well, though I can’t check for obvious reasons.
Another fact: my hair is reddish-brown, and my skin is the fair shade that often accompanies that particular color—which basically means I have blushing down to an art.
Turning to Mrs. Tillman, I say, “The showers are open from six to nine. We begin the weekend bonfires at eight, and nightly quiet hours are from ten o’clock to eight in the morning. If you need anything, please let us know.”
After that, I scurry toward her son, my eyes focused on the floor as I try not to look as awkward as I feel.
“I’m Landon,” he says as he holds the door open for me.
Landon.It’s a different name, but it fits his sunshine smile so well.
I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. “I’m Lacey.”
“So, you work here?” he asks.
I glance at him, surprised by the odd question. Apparently, he realizes the answer’s pretty obvious because a cringe passes over his face before that easy smile returns.
“My mom owns the place,” I tell him, wondering briefly if he’s nervous too.
But of course he’s not. Why would he be? I mean,lookat him. He’s the epitome of casual hotness. He’s the kind that doesn’t try…the kind that doesn’t have to. Every glorious inch of him is muscle, probably sculpted by countless hours hiking, climbing, and biking, and he’s topped it all off with a sun-kissed beach tan.
The Tillmans’ travel trailer sits before us in the parking lot, taking up an RV spot. A sullen-looking teen boy, about thirteen, stands outside the brand-new Suburban, holding a bejeweled leash like it’s going to bite him. A white cotton ball dog strains against the lead, pulling for all her ten-pound worth. And how do I know it’s a female cotton ball? Because she’s wearing a frothy pink tutu.
“She started hacking again,” the boy says, glaring at the dog as he shoves her leash at Landon, “and I didn’t think you’d want her to puke on your seat.”
“Thanks,” Landon says wryly, taking the leash, apparently unbothered to be seen with the canine fashion statement.
Without a word, the boy wanders off, phone in the air, toward our gazebo where we’ve set up a cell signal booster.
“That’s Hunter,” Landon tells me, rolling his eyes, and then he motions toward the dog. “And this is Candy.”
I would answer, but my attention is on the young boy plastered to the side window. He’s holding a hastily scrawled sign that reads, “Please, save me.”
“Um,” I say, gesturing to the prisoner.
“And my youngest brother, Caleb,” Landon supplies. He hands me the leash, which I blindly accept, and then opens the door, shooing the boy back so he doesn’t tumble to the asphalt.
The boy sits back in the seat and looks up at Landon. “Can you get my bike down?”
I barely hear him over the sobs in the backseat.
“No.” Landon sets the boy on the ground and points at him. “Stay.”
Then he turns back to the interior of the SUV. A girl several years older than Caleb, but younger than Hunter, stares at Landon. Crocodile tears run down her cheeks. A massive Saint Bernard sits next to her, taking up most of the bench. From the way Landon pushes him into the back, I don’t think the dog is supposed to be there.
“Why are you crying, McKenna?” Landon asks the girl once the dog is out of the way, leaning farther into the vehicle to see her better.
“Candy’s going to die,” she blubbers, her tears starting anew.
Landon sighs. “Candy’s not going to die. She’s fine.”
“Are you sure?” the girl demands.
