Cool for the Summer, Dahlia Adler [classic literature list .txt] 📗

honestly, fuck that. If all we cared about was making out with someone—” I’ve barely swallowed my s’more and suddenly there are lips on mine, sweet with a trace of chocolate. Only a moment, and then the cool night air rushes in off the water again, as if it never happened. “Just … do it. You don’t have to throw a whole massive party so three hours later you can get someone back to your room to make out. Just make out. The whole pretense is so tired. I wish people would just admit what they want when they want it.”

I’m not sure I’ve blinked once her whole tirade. I definitely haven’t moved since her lips landed on mine. What the hell just happened?

Suddenly, her face crumbles, every trace of righteous indignation gone. “Oh, shit, Lara, I’m sorry. I got caught up. I shouldn’t have done that. I promise I—”

“Shh.” I hold up a hand, silencing her, as I think about years of wanting Chase. Years of going to his football games and the parties afterward. Yeah, they were fun, but ultimately, what did I want? I wanted him to notice me. I wanted him to want to be with me. I wanted to make out with him and have fun and feel good and lather rinse repeat until … what? Until I didn’t want that anymore? I didn’t have visions of us getting married and having babies. I had visions of him asking me to go upstairs at Ferris’s house so we could make out.

For that, I had worn uncomfortable shoes and too-tight jeans and pounds of makeup and scorched my hair into perfect straightness and listened to Shannon tell me how to stand and what to smell like and what shades of lipstick I should wear.

All that, when sometimes it’s as simple as s’mores and Coke and leaning over in your Adirondack chair on the beach.

I look at Jasmine—really look—at the trace of melted marshmallow on her lip and the apprehension in her eyes and a freckle on her shoulder and then I’m the one leaning over and doing the kissing, tasting sweet artificial cherry on her tongue and feeling so damn good in this moment we didn’t work for.

It’s so good that I don’t realize we’re falling out of our chairs until we land on the sand, our laughter floating into the summer night amid the crackling flames until our mouths find each other again and there’s no more laughing at all.

NOW

“Lara? Hey.” A gentle, masculine hand lands on my shoulder. “Did you want butter?”

Chapter Nine

NOW

“I think I got it this time!”

“You said that about the last one,” Beth calls from where she’s taking inventory of the mystery/thriller/suspense section. “It looked like a toddler’s handprint at best.”

“Hey, I’m new at this!” I scrutinize the leaf pattern I’ve drawn in the foam of my fourth cappuccino of the morning, and it definitely looks better than the other three. “A little support would be nice.”

“A few more hours spent watching those YouTube videos would be nice,” she mutters, but the store’s empty except for us, and I hear every word. I’ve been trying to up my barista game by watching videos on drawing foam art, hoping to impress Beth with hearts and leaves and butterflies. Unfortunately, I’m about as good at doing art with foam as I am at doing it with paint, charcoal, decoupage, pencils, or anything else—which is to say, not at all.

The only thing I have to show for my training is a pair of slightly jittery hands from quickly downing my first two mistakes. (Beth graciously took the third, despite it being many shades lighter than her soul.) Latte art looks easy on YouTube, but so do makeup tutorials, and I suck at those too.

For as good a time as I had this summer, I can’t help being resentful that I was forced to give up my bookseller position for something I suck at. I know books. I love books. I could’ve helped a bunch of dads find graphic novels for their daughters, could’ve pointed out the best romance novels for other sappy readers in search of humor and kissing, could’ve learned so much more about all the other books on the shelves—the awesomely titled “cozy mysteries,” as Beth taught me they’re called, or the zillions of young adult fantasies with crowns or swords on the covers. Working here isn’t just about money—I want to learn how to do this, to be Beth, to one day surround myself with books and coffee and people who love both while working on my own romance novels in my downtime. I don’t know exactly what I want to do with my life, but I do know I feel the closest to figuring it out when I’m here.

The best I can do now is prove that I can go above and beyond in whatever job I’m given, or at least I’ll try to.

So in the eight minutes I have left until the store opens, I take Beth’s muttered advice and get another instructional video going while I finish morning prep. I’m so wrapped up watching a pair of hands draw a swan that the first customer has to cough to get my attention. I offer my apologies and ask for her order, hoping it’ll be a latte or a cappuccino or even a hot chocolate to give me another chance to practice, but like most of the customers clinging to the end of summer, she orders an iced coffee, and the only thing I can show off is that I can make one without screwing up. She also orders a mixed-berry scone, the café’s most popular baked good (and the secret recipe of none other than Beth’s nephew, Winston, whom I’ve never met but lives in Beth’s basement and apparently has a golden touch with flour, sugar, eggs, and butter). I wrap it in the store’s trademark lavender tissue paper, hand it over along with the iced coffee, and