Summer Love (9 page)

“AND
thanks for the bench tip, too,” you add, about to follow after Tasha, who has started to head in that general direction.

“Wait!” he says. You turn back, and he leans out of the truck and hands you a double-chocolate-chip cookie. “I thought you might like this, too. My mom makes these. She makes all of the cookies we sell, but I think this one is her best.”

“Wow,” you say. “I can't wait to give it a try. You know . . . I'll be around for most of the afternoon, so if you get off work and want to say hi . . .”

His megawatt smile lights up his face again. “I'll find you,” he says. “I'll definitely come and find you. I'm Jackson, by the way.”

You feel your own face break into a grin. “Okay then,” you say. “I'll see you later, Jackson.”

You find Tasha on the bench that Jackson suggested and sit down next to her. She's already eating, and as she does, her eyes are fixed on a muscular fisherman in a pair of cut-off jean shorts.

“Tasty?” you ask.

“The roll or the guy unloading fish?” she answers.

You laugh. “Both?”

“Both quite tasty. And nice work getting us free chips.”

You take a bite of your lobster roll. It's salty and lobstery, and the bread is toasted to perfection. Delicious. After you swallow you say, “I didn't do much—I think he was just in a good mood.”

Tasha takes another bite and swallows. “Jealous,” she says. “But how hot is that fisherman?”

“Very,” you answer, even though he's not really doing it for you. It may sound silly, but you've never been into the way guys look in cut-off jean shorts.

Tasha's fisherman finishes unloading his catch and heads off the boat while you finish your lobster roll and some of the potato chips. Her face falls.

“Want to head home soon?” she asks, as you take a bite of Jackson's mom's cookie. It's fantastic. Because of the weather, the chips are a little gooey, which makes them extra wonderful.

“Mmm,” you say, “Tash, you have to taste this.”

She takes a bite. “Oh my God. I could eat, like, a hundred of these. I'm glad we only have one. This is sinful.”

Just as you're licking final bits of chocolate from your fingers, Jackson comes over.

“Hey!” he says. “I'm so glad I found you two here! One of the guys just came over from my dad's restaurant with refills on chips and cookies. I told him to man the lobster-roll truck while I came to find you. Any chance you want to help me unload?”

You look over at Tasha. “We can head home after you're done,” she says. “No rush. I can relax back at our towels.”

You look up at Jackson's blueberry eyes and huge grin.

YOU
think for a second about inviting Lobster Roll Guy to hang out later, but decide that he had a lot of opportunities to ask you, and if he didn't, it was probably for a reason. Maybe he has a girlfriend—the Crab Queen or something. The Prawn Princess. Though if he does have a girlfriend, someone should probably let her know that he flirts with the people on the line for his lobster rolls.

You trail after Tasha and sit down next to her. She takes a bite of her lobster roll, and as she does, her eyes focus on a muscular fisherman in a pair of cut-off jean shorts.

“Tasty?” you ask.

“The roll or the guy unloading fish?” she answers.

You laugh. “Both?”

“Both quite tasty. And nice work getting us free chips.”

You take a bite of your lobster roll. It's salty and lobstery, and the bread is toasted to perfection. Delicious. After you swallow you say, “I didn't do much—I think he was just in a good mood. Or maybe he liked flirting with me.”

Tasha takes another bite and swallows. “Jealous,” she says. “But how hot is that fisherman?”

“Very,” you answer, even though he's not really doing it for you. It may sound silly, but you've never been into the way guys look in cut-off jean shorts.

Tasha's fisherman looks up at you both. Tasha waves. He waves back. Then another fisherman comes up next to the first one. This guy isn't wearing jean shorts. He's wearing cargo shorts and a white T-shirt, and his hair is in a ponytail. As far as you're concerned, he's much cuter than the fisherman Tasha's been staring at. This guy waves at you.

YOU
look over at Luke. He and his brother have a pool vacuum out and are lowering it into the deep end of the pool. His arm muscles pop as he does it. Tyler Grant doesn't have arm muscles like that. You turn to Tasha.

“Let's do it,” you say.

A smile spreads across her face. “This is gonna be awesome,” she says.

You watch as Tasha gets up and walks over to Scott and Luke. Scott's working the vacuum and Luke has a pH kit in his hand, about to check the chemical balance of the water.

“Hey, guys,” she says.

Both brothers stop what they're doing and look at her. “Hey,” Scott says. “Do you need something?”

Tasha shakes her head. “No, not at all. But my
cousin and I, we have the house to ourselves tonight, and we thought it would be fun to have a small barbecue. Supersmall. Like, the two of us and the two of you. Any chance you're free?”

Luke and Scott exchange a look. You can't quite tell what it means. But then Scott turns back to Tasha and says, “Yeah, we're free. Our last pool job should end around six. We can shower and then be over here around seven?”

Tasha nods. “Sounds good. And we'll take care of all the food. So just bring yourselves.”

“Got it,” Luke says, as he goes back to testing the pool water.

Even though he's playing it cool, you can see him smiling. Scott's smiling, too.

Tasha drags you back into the house and closes the sliding glass door behind you, separating you both from the brothers.

“This is going to be awesome!” she says. “I've never thrown a barbecue dinner party before!”

You laugh. “Tash, I don't know if this is quite a dinner party. It's us and two guys. I mean, I don't think there's a ton to prepare.”

“Of course there is!” Tasha says. “Let's make a list.”

Tasha pulls out her cell phone and opens a blank note screen.

“Okay, first we need a list of food,” she says. “We said barbecue, so we need hamburgers and hot dogs.”

“Both?” you ask.

“Both,” she says firmly. “What else do my parents make when they do a barbecue?”

You think back to your summer trips to Tasha's beach house. “Corn,” you say. “And mushrooms. And tiny potatoes wrapped in foil.”

“Ooh! Yeah! The tiny potatoes. Let's make those. I don't think we need the corn or the mushrooms.”

In thinking back to those summer barbecues, you realize that Tasha was never the one grilling. She was never even close to her father while he was grilling. “I hate to ask this,” you say, “but do you know how to make all that stuff?”

Tasha shrugs. “How hard could it be? Let's get the ingredients. We'll figure it out from there.”

*

AN
hour later, you and Tasha make it back from the grocery store with a bag filled with hot dogs, hamburgers, buns, potatoes, tinfoil, olive oil,
sauer-kraut, pickles, tomatoes, onions, orange soda, Diet Coke, and medium-size watermelon for dessert.

“So, what do we do now?” you ask Tasha. You've never made a barbecue by yourself before, either.

“I think,” Tasha says, “that we put all of this away, shower, and get dressed. You know, so we look cute while we flip burgers.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” you tell her.

She just laughs. “Whatever, it'll be fun,” she says, heading up to her bathroom.

You follow her orders and shower, too. You look at the three dresses you brought and decide that the light green-and-white patterned shift dress looks very barbecue-appropriate. You add a pair of gold hoop earrings and twist your hair up into a bun on top of your head. You slide into gold leather sandals and add a bangle on your wrist.

Tasha pokes her head into your room. “Ooh, nice choice!” she says. She has on silk patterned shorts and a white strapless top with platform sandals. The cork-soled kind. Her hair is teased in the front and swept into a high ponytail, and she has red beaded earrings dangling from her ears.

“You, too,” you tell her. You pull out your makeup case and twist open your black mascara.

“I came to borrow your blush,” Tasha tells you. “I forgot mine.”

“Have at it,” you say while brushing the wand over your eyelashes.

Tasha riffles through your makeup case and pulls out your blush. “Aren't you excited?” she asks as she brushes it across her cheekbones and the line of her nose.

“I guess,” you say. “But I'm a little worried about the actual barbecuing part.”

“Piece of cake!” she says, grabbing for your bright red lipstick. You don't mind because you weren't going to wear it anyway. You reach for your hot pink shimmer gloss.

“We'll see,” you say, opening your mouth to slick the gloss on.

After you and Tasha are all dressed, you head to the kitchen.

“Baby potatoes,” Tasha says, pulling the bag out of the fridge. “I've seen my dad make these. You just get a little square of tinfoil, drizzle on some olive oil, add salt and pepper, and wrap it up. Easy.”

You pick up a baby potato. “I think we have to wash them first,” you say, looking at the dirt on the potato skin.

“Oooh, good call.” Tasha hands you the bag of potatoes. “That can be your job.”

You start washing baby potatoes, and before you know it there are splotches of dirty water on your dress.

“Tash,” you say, “I think maybe we should've made the food and then gotten dressed.”

She looks over at your dress, giving it a very serious assessment. “No one can tell. You're fine.”

You make the executive decision to wash only ten baby potatoes. You figure you and Tasha won't eat more than two each, and then each guy might eat three. So ten is enough.

“But we have a whole bag!” Tasha says.

“They'll keep,” you tell her. But the truth is, you have no idea. How long can potatoes stay in a pantry before they go bad?

She says fine, and then starts putting potatoes in foil and drizzling them in olive oil.

“Oh eff!” she says, looking down at her top. “I drizzled olive oil on my shirt.”

“What did I tell you?” you say.

She gives you the evilest look in her repertoire. “Well, let's see how the rest of the cooking goes. We can always change before they get here.”

The hamburgers and hot dogs don't require much attention, and the rest of the stuff is pretty much just condiments.

“I think it's time to grill,” you say.

Tasha nods. “Okay, so my dad, um, he puts little brick things into the grill, and then he lights it with a really long match, and in a few minutes it's ready to cook on.”

You and Tasha go to the pool house and find the charcoal bricks. They're in a huge bag, and it takes both of you to carry it. Now there are black charcoal smudges on your dress to go along with the dirty potato water. You dump some little bricks into the bottom of the grill, get the really long grill matches, and try to get it to catch. It's not working. Tasha tries three matches. You try two more.

“We're obviously doing something wrong,” you tell her.

“Ya think?” she answers, rolling her eyes.

“I think this calls for some smartphone search-ing,” you say, ignoring her eye roll.

You search for “how do I make a grill start with charcoal bricks?” And the first few answers tell you that you need lighter fluid. Or a thing called a charcoal chimney. You pass this information on to
Tasha. She curses, heads back to the pool house, and storms back with a bottle of lighter fluid. Her hair is now falling out of its ponytail and curling up around her face. She would
not
be happy if she knew, but you don't tell her. She's stressed enough as it is without having to worry about her hair.

“How much does it say I should use?” she asks.

You consult your phone. “It doesn't say,” you tell her. “It just says that it should be evenly spread on all the coals, and that you should let it soak in for thirty seconds before trying to light it again.”

Tasha wipes her forehead with her hand, smudging it with black charcoal. “Well, here goes nothing,” she says, and drips lighter fluid onto the coals. You count Mississippis out loud, and when you get to thirty, she lights a match and touches it to the charcoal. It goes up in flames, and then you see the coals starting to burn white.

“We have liftoff!” you say.

“You are such a dork,” Tasha answers. “Does your phone say how long to wait until we start cooking?”

You check. “Fifteen minutes, or when all the coals start looking ashy and white.”

“Okay,” she says. “I'm going to change. You, too?”

You look down at your dress. “Me, too,” you sigh.
“Oh, and make sure you get the smudge on your forehead.”

“Eff!” she says. “Thanks.”

Fifteen minutes later you come back and open the grill. The coals seem to have died down. It's not very hot.

“We messed up again,” you say.

Even with her new outfit, new ponytail, and new makeup, Tasha still looks harried. She grits her teeth.

“What time is it?” she asks you.

You look at your phone. “They'll be here in ten minutes.”

“Eff!” she says again, louder this time.

The doorbell rings. It has to be the boys. You smooth down the blue A-line dress you're now wearing. Not quite as nice as your last one, but not so bad, either.

“I can't believe they're here! Who arrives some-where early?” she asks, staring forlornly at the grill.

“People who can't wait for their plans,” you say. “Maybe they can help. I'll get the door. You set the table.”

Tasha nods. Whenever the two of you are together, she's usually in charge, but the nonworking grill seemed to be too much for her to handle, so
you took the lead. You walk through to the door and open it. Scott and Luke are there in T-shirts, shorts, button-downs, and leather flip-flops. They both look deliciously handsome, with their cheeks pinked from their day in the sun.

“Come in!” you say. “We're having a little bit of grill trouble, but we're so happy you're here!”

“Grill trouble?” Luke asks. You nod and ask if he might be able to help. “I'll take a look,” he says.

You send Scott over to help Tasha set the table and lead Luke out to the grill. You explain all of the things you did and what happened. He examines the grill's cover and the charcoal inside.

“Ah,” he says. “You didn't vent the top. And I'm guessing you didn't use quite enough lighter fluid. You've really gotta douse those things.”

He flicks something on the cover, pours a ton of lighter fluid on the charcoal, and then hands you the long matches. “Would you like to do the honors?” he asks.

You smile, flick the match, and touch it onto the charcoal. The whole thing goes up in a whoosh of flame and then starts burning all over.

“You did it!” you say, turning to Luke.

“We both did it,” he says, smiling at you.

You smile back. “Well, I don't think I can take much credit, but thank you.”

You grab the spatula and the plate of burgers. You're not completely sure what to do next, or where to put the burgers on the grill. Luke must sense your hesitation because he comes up behind you and says, “Let's do this together, too.”

He wraps his hand around the one you have on the spatula and slides the flat part under a burger. The two of you move the burger to the grill and then he tips it into the middle of the cooking section. You do all the burgers like this, together, and then move on to the hot dogs.

“I'm glad you're here to help,” you say. You can feel the heat of Luke's body against your back, and his hand is still wrapped around yours on the spatula.

“I'm glad you invited me to help,” he says, and his breath tickles the back of your neck. It gives you the chills.

“What do you think Tasha and Scott are doing?” you ask, not because you really care all that much, but because it gives you something to say. Something to distract you from the goose bumps that Luke's closeness is causing.

He looks around. “They seem to have dis-appeared,” he tells you. “Maybe they went inside?”

You laugh. Tasha really has a one-track mind. “Yeah,” you say. “They probably did.”

“Which means we're all alone out here.” Every time his mouth forms a W, his breath puffs against your neck. The second time, it makes you shiver.

“Are you cold?” he asks, still behind you.

“Maybe,” you answer. Though really, you're not cold at all. You're standing in front of a hot grill.

He slides his arms around you and brings his body in closer so its pressed against yours. “Better?” he asks.

You shiver again. “Much better,” you tell him, as you lean farther back into his arms.

Then you feel his lips on the side of your neck. He's kissing your neck. And it feels warm and sexy and incredible.

“Even better,” you say, but your voice is quiet now.