Summer's Last Breath

Part 2

My parents divorced when I was ten. As far as I knew, it was amicable. Neither had cheated on the other. It was a simple matter of them not loving each other anymore. My mom was the one who moved out. I came home from school one day and she didn't live with us anymore. She didn't ask if I wanted to go with her. She just up and bought a flat above her interior design business in Rosemary Beach, a small coastal community a short drive away.

It was a relief really. Given a choice, I would have chosen to live with my dad anyway. I'm pretty sure my mom knew that and moved out without a fuss to spare us both-me from having to hurt her by choosing to live with my dad, and her from having to live with that choice. I loved my mom. In a lot of ways, she was my best friend. But as far as having things in common and what suited my lifestyle, I was more compatible with my dad.

Consequently, I'd learned to cook at an early age. I was good at reading cookbooks and following directions, and honestly, I enjoyed it. My dad didn't expect it from me. We shared kitchen duties equally, but on occasions like today, when his guys were over, I spent the majority of the time inside while he manned the grill. Six grown, and in most cases still growing, men who exerted way above average amount of energy could put away a large amount of food. Especially meat. And they wanted lots of it. Chicken and burgers mostly. Steak when my dad was feeling generous. He put together some shrimp skewers for today, and I wondered whether that was because Jamie was over. Another thing I learned from Jamie's file: his kind preferred seafood, which made sense.

The potato casserole was my mom's recipe, handed down from her mom and her mom before that. It was a big hit amongst the guys and a staple on the Saturdays they came to hang out. They would play pool and sometimes end up in a poker game. Other times they'd drag the Ping-Pong table out to have a mini tournament.

I turned off the oven's timer, pulled open the door and was met with a blast of hot air. Someone, probably Lassie because he was the reigning champ, must have gotten the Ping-Pong table out, since I could hear the ball pinging back and forth just outside the French doors in the kitchen that overlooked the pool and patio area. What I didn't hear was someone open the door behind me and come inside, so when I turned around and came face to face with Jamie, it took me by surprise. I froze, holding the casserole in front of me.

Jamie. In my kitchen. Towering by the back door. Making our ample-sized kitchen feel small. His pale green eyes washed over me like the gentle lap of ocean waves. They warmed my skin and made me tingle all over. I should probably breathe, but that was impossible at the moment. Maybe he would catch me if I fainted and I would finally know what it felt like for him to touch me.

The heat from the casserole dish dropkicked me out of my hypnotized state. The oven mitts were old and worn and the heat from the dish burned right through them. I yelped, and half dropped, half threw the offending dish on the kitchen island.

"You all right?"

My gaze shot to Jamie's face at the sound of his voice. I searched my memory, wondering if I'd actually ever heard him speak. He was so close I could see the darker green flecks in his eyes and the shine of his almost black hair. His brows descended over pale emerald eyes set in a face some might consider severe, with a hard, square jawline and sharp cheekbones so prominent under his close-cut hair.

"Yes," I said, hiding my hands behind my back while fighting a grimace.

"Let me see." His voice was like the ocean's roar-deep and throaty, yet somehow soothing.

"It's nothing," I said, not wanting to appear weak. Not in front of him, knowing what he was and the things he could do. He was the epitome of strength and struck me as someone who wouldn't be impressed with weakness.