The Real Thing: Flirt Romance, Page 2

  I push the door open and wave her in first. The second I roll her suitcase across the threshold, my pores go into instant sweat mode. What the hell?

  “Um . . . is there an air conditioner?” Em asks, waving the collar of her loose, green T-shirt.

  Abandoning her luggage, I slide past her, lightly touching her elbow to get to the thermostat. Mom said she had the thing on a timer, but knowing her, she probably set it up wrong.

  I press the temperature down and make sure it’s on Cool, then flip the cover shut. “It should turn on in a bit. Sorry about that.”

  She lets out a breathy laugh and shuts the front door. “I’d leave it open, but I’m pretty sure it’ll only let in bugs.” She laughs again. “Though they’d probably die the second they got inside.”

  I scratch the back of my neck, my fingers wiping the sweat accumulating back there, and try to smile. “Sorry. It works, I promise.”

  “I’m not worried about it.” Her eyes scan the living room, glancing from the TV on the wall to the family pictures in my mom’s glass cabinet. It looks like a grandma’s place, except for the giant LoveSac my brother, Tolani, put in here last year. But at least there isn’t plastic on the furniture.

  “Do you want to pick your room?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t march over to the pictures of my teenage self on the beach. I’m pretty sure my man boobs rivaled my mom’s at one point.

  “I get to pick?”

  “Yes. There’s only two, but you get first choice.” I use my shorts to wipe the sweat from my hand before grabbing her suitcase. She seizes her laptop before I get the chance to take that, too.

  She bounces down the hall, and I can’t keep the smile off my face. Same Em . . . there’s no medium setting for excitement.

  “The master is on the left, up those two steps.” I jerk my head that way, even though she’s not looking at me. I’m ready to lug her suitcase into that room, but she swerves right to the room that’s usually reserved for me and my brother.

  “I want this one.”

  “Uh . . . you sure? You haven’t even looked at the other—”

  “This one has a desk and an outlet. And it’s closer to the bathroom,” she says, slipping out of her flip-flops and resting her laptop on the desk. “So it’s perfect.”

  There’s about two seconds when my head suggests I stay in this room with her, but I shut the door on it so I don’t freak her out. The two twins are pushed against separate walls, and she plops onto the one I usually take, bouncing a few times to check out the mattress. I try not to let my gaze drift south as she moves, but it’s a wasted effort.

  “Yep, perfect,” she says, falling down on the sheets and inhaling the pillow. A smile floats across her face, and she sits up, wiping sticky hair from her forehead. “How long till that AC works?”

  I push her suitcase against the wall for her. “I’ll go outside and bang on the unit a few times. Maybe it’ll kick in.”

  “Still have those handyman skills I remember,” she jokes, and I give her a face. I might not have been so handy a few years ago, but I’ve improved. I mean, I fixed my uncle’s washing machine in Samoa . . . how different can an air conditioner be?

  “Do you mind if I check my email while you do that?” she asks, eyes flicking to her laptop. Why would I care? She’s going to be living here. She is living here. She can do whatever she wants.

  “Emmy, this is your house for the summer. Do whatever you’d do at home. I’m going to be doing that.”

  She cocks an eyebrow. “You mean I can walk around in my underwear?”

  “Hell, yes.” Damn it, that came out fast. I can feel my face get hot.

  She laughs and tosses a pillow at me. I catch it one-handed and chuck it right back. It flops against her face, and she says, “Oh, that actually feels pretty good.” She holds the pillow out and then tosses it at herself. “A breeze!”

  “I’m on it,” I promise, then tap the top of the door frame on my way out.

  Halfway down the hall, I hear her yell, “As soon as this AC is on, you’re going to pay for that face shot!”

  If it means a wrestling match like we used to have, then I’m sort of glad that pillow hit her face.

  * * *

  It’s been three hours since I’ve turned our sauna into an icebox. I keep waiting for Em to crawl out of her room to congratulate me on my newly formed handyman skills, or follow through on that threat she made, but it’s been pretty quiet. She closed the door and I don’t know if she’s taking a nap or what, but that little ego boost she gave me earlier has sort of faded blasted into oblivion. Maybe she wasn’t as thrilled to spend time with me as I was with her. Or maybe she thinks I’m boring. Maybe it’s still weird, and we’re adjusting to seeing each other after so long.

  Or maybe I’m just being a damn pussy.

  I hoist myself off the couch, tossing the remote behind me. The sweat from earlier left my clothes damp, and now that it’s about twenty degrees cooler, it causes a chill to run up my spine. I check over my shoulder before lifting my arm up to sniff my pit. Shit, no wonder . . . she could probably smell my hard work the second I came back inside.

  Grabbing the bottom of my cold, sweat-riddled shirt, I pull it off on my way to the bathroom. I make as much noise as I can on the way so she knows I’m doing something about the stink, and that it’ll be safe to venture out as soon as I get myself washed.

  Her door opens with a bang, and I bolt into the bathroom so she doesn’t see me. I know it’s stupid, but give me ten pounds more muscle and twenty pounds less fat, and maybe I’ll be okay with her catching me without a shirt on.

  “Hey Eric!” she calls from her room.

  “Uh, yeah?”

  “Could you come here for a second?”

  My hands fumble over my counter for cologne, deodorant . . . something, just let me find something. “Give me a minute . . .” I dive for the counter under the sink and praise the heavens when I spot the air freshener. I know I told her I’d be living like I normally do, but as I spray the air freshener out in front of me and walk through it, then do it three more times, I’m pretty sure I lied. After a few sprays on my shirt, I tug it back on, rolling it down my torso.

  I get to her room and try to act casual, like I wasn’t freaking out like a damn girl in the bathroom over how I smell.

  “What’s up?”

  She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, laptop in front of her and her nose crinkled in a disgusted, yet sexy way. She crooks a finger at me.

  “I keep getting emails from this guy I don’t know, and I need your opinion on them.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, sliding next to her on the bed. She pushes the laptop so it’s half on my lap, half on hers. I’m fist bumping myself for getting that AC running because the heat from the computer, added to the sudden warmth flooding my body at Em’s knee against mine, makes me want to kiss the breeze coming from the vent.

  “This is the second one I’ve gotten from him. The first one came off like one of those ‘You’re so beautiful, let’s get married and have babies’ emails, but now that I think about it, maybe he just has the wrong email address?”

  I tilt the screen to get a better look, and read the email.

  Mia,

  You check your email every day, so I know you saw the last one I sent. I’m a believer in second chances (No shit, right? Otherwise I wouldn’t be emailing you AT ALL) so . . .

  Begging for your forgiveness . . . take two.

  I miss you. Lame way to grovel, I know, but it’s the truth. I keep looking at the pictures I have of us on my phone. I can’t stop . . . it’s an addiction. My brother says I’ve lost my shit. Rus says I need to get laid. Vicki wants me to delete them. They all think it’s a lost cause, but I don’t think it is.

  You said we were a mistake. I just want to know why? Because if we were, I feel like you were the best mistake I ever made. And I want to make it again.

  —Scott

  I read it again, feeling my face cont
ort into an expression similar to the one Em had when I came in.

  “Uh . . .” I mumble, not knowing what the hell to say. Em laughs and pulls the laptop back in her lap.

  “It’s weird, right?”

  “Looks like a wrong email to me.” I point to the return address at the top. “Unless you tore some guy’s heart out.”

  “Not a Scott.” She attempts to wink, but Em’s never been able to do that. One eye shuts, then the other acts like it’s trying to catch up. I love that she’s still the same, just . . . well, older.

  “Well, then yeah, wrong email.”

  “Should I reply?”

  I raise an eyebrow, glancing at her profile. She pulls at her bottom lip, tilting her head back and forth as she stares at the screen.

  “What would you say?” I ask.

  Her fingers tap the home row, and she gives a little shrug. “Not sure. But I feel bad if he thinks the right Mia is ignoring him. But seriously, you’d think he’d know her email if they were going out.”

  “I don’t know.” I point to her email address at the top. “How many Mia Johnsons are there in the world? And not all people have relationships with their computers.”

  She turns to face me, almost smacking me in the nose. I must’ve gravitated toward her without thinking.

  Instead of making it majorly awkward, she presses her forehead to mine and says, “But some online relationships are the best kind.”

  I gulp, and then my mouth goes dry. I can’t argue with her. It was because of the Internet that we’ve been able to keep up with each other—the reason we’re here together now like we just talked yesterday. We did talk yesterday.

  I’m about to make a stupid move by tucking hair behind her ear just to touch her, but then I remember I’m still in my sweaty clothes, and I get a dizzy spell and pull back.

  “Uh, I’m gonna jump in the shower,” I stutter as I slide from the bed.

  Em nods and clicks her mouse pad a few times. “Okay. I’m going to order some food. You still like Hawaiian pizza?”

  I think I do, but I don’t eat pizza anymore.

  “Get what you want. I’ve already eaten.” It’s bullshit, but if I have one slice of pizza, before I know it, I’ll have eaten five more.

  Her brow furrows and her eyes drop to the bottom corner of her screen. “Oh crap, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what time it was. And you’re probably still in a different time zone in here.” She pats her stomach, flicking her eyes from the screen to me.

  “It’s no big deal.” I smile and go to hit her door frame on the way out, but she stops me.

  “Oh, Eric?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The whole ‘make yourself at home’ thing goes both ways.” She nods toward my chest. “I don’t care if you walk around without a shirt on.”

  “Huh?”

  She points at my neck, and I look down and see the tag sticking out under my chin. Inside out . . . and backward.

  “Whoops.”

  She laughs and her eyes rest on the screen again. I let her return to her email, but I keep my shirt covering me until I’ve locked myself in the bathroom. Twenty more pounds and I’ll walk around buck-ass naked if I want to.

  Chapter 3

  Emilia Johnson

  2 minutes ago

  Anyone have any extra lives for Candy Crush? I’m out!

  Eve Ferguson and 8 others like this

  ***

  The sand from the beach flies into my flip-flops as I book it to the SnoGo on the boardwalk. I’m always late, damn it! First day, too. What an impression I’m making.

  I blame the book I bought this morning. Amazon is my weakness, and the email of recommendations included a book with a character named Max. I one-clicked solely because of that. I’ve never gone wrong with a Max. In fact, the last Max I read was so damn sexy I spent a little more time with my vibrator than I normally do. My real life boyfriend used to benefit from my fantasy Max worlds, but it’s been a very dry year since Jaxon.

  This book seems to be going the same, since I’d read up to 46 percent before I realized that I’d been reading for two hours and my shift was starting in ten minutes.

  The SnoGo’s bright-blue walls come into view, and I pick up the pace. Eve will kill me if I show up late after she talked Rachel into giving me the job. Rachel’s been running the snow cone shack since her freshman year, so she’s a total pro. Eve worked with her for the last two summers, but this year I doubt Eve could maneuver around that tight space without knocking juice every which way, or leaning out to puke in the sand every few hours from the heat.

  I reach the side of the small building and lean against it to catch my breath. I pull my phone out with my free hand. It’s only 9:58. Made it!

  And I notice a text from my dad. I hurry and open it before clocking in.

  Today I’m going to catch a fish. Then I’m going to do the proper thing and tell my family about it even though we’re a country apart. I mean, if my daughter catches a fish, I’d want to be shown the same respect.

  “Oh, Dad . . .” I laugh under my breath and type back.

  I’m not seeing anyone. And how many times are you going to bring this up? :P

  Sliding my phone back in my pocket, I take a deep breath and blow it out. I’m ready to kick ass at my first day of summer snow-coning. Huh, I better look that term up in case there’s some sexual connotation to it. I’m tempted to pull my cell out again and Urban Dictionary that baby.

  Instead I rap against the back door and make sure my big smile is in place.

  “Oh good, you’re here!” Rachel’s voice floats through the tiny shack before she swings the door open. She’s wearing her black hair in a messy side braid that somehow makes her look like a rock star. Rachel’s always been some sort of casual supermodel. She wears ratty T-shirts, cutoffs, and worn Chucks, and still looks like she stepped off a runway.

  She wraps her fingers around my forearm and pulls me into the SnoGo, which is smaller than a four-man tent. At least I can stand up in here.

  “Okay, quick rundown, since we’re running short on time,” Rachel says, leaning against the tiny sink. She starts pointing around the shack. “Money box down there, but we have a credit card machine I hook up to my phone. I keep that plugged in to the side and tucked in that drawer.” Her finger moves to all the juices lining the left wall. “Our syrups . . . make sure to keep grape, green apple, Tiger’s Blood, Pina Colada, and coconut up front. They’re our top sellers, and we go through them fast.” She reaches around me to a clipboard hanging from a drawer. “When we’re low on a flavor, write it here and I’ll make sure to get more.”

  Her boobs get real close to my face as she stretches up to grab a syrup bottle over my head. “I’ve put black marks on every bottle so you know how much syrup to use each order. We only have one size here, so it makes it easy.”

  I nod. “Got it.”

  Rachel shows me the fridge full of shaved ice, the ice shaver, the ice maker . . . I’m surprised she doesn’t pull out an ice sculpture. After making a few actual snow cones to show me how, she hands the scoop to me and I get ready to make my first shaved ice of the summer.

  “You think you’re ready for this?” she asks, and I put on a confident smile that says I was born to make the best damn snow cone ever.

  There’s a tap at the window behind me and my eyes bug out of my face when I see the long line of beach-ready college students.

  “Rach!” the guy in front says from behind the glass. “It’s a hundred degrees. You know you want to open a little early for me, right?” He winks, and then his buddy wraps an arm around his shoulder and flexes his pectorals.

  Rachel laughs and leans over to unlock the order window. Before undoing the latch she looks over her shoulder at me. “You sure you’re ready?”

  I stand up straight, hold my scoop out and say, “Bring it.”

  She laughs again and unhooks the window. A cheer echoes in from the beach. “All right, Grant . . . banana sti
ll your choice flavor?”

  “You know me so well, baby.”

  “Dollar fifty,” Rachel says, and takes the money from him. She looks back at me. “Banana. Go for it.”

  All right, let’s see how much of the tutorial I retained.

  * * *

  I quit.

  Flopping on the twin bed I’ve dubbed mine, I pull my phone out and see all the messages and notifications I missed. My body is so tired, and I smell like fruit and sweat. I call it “swuit.”

  Oh, I’m totally tweeting that.

  I use one hand to shimmy out of my shorts while I scroll through my emails with the other. Shower first, then online time. I pause with my shorts around my ankles when I spot another email from Scott.

  I never did respond to the last one. Couldn’t figure out what to say, so I didn’t say anything. Also, I was a little distracted when Eric came in smelling like a Tropicana air freshener. That familiar energy surged around me with his proximity, and I couldn’t concentrate much afterward, so instead of responding to Scott, I went to Eric’s Facebook page and tried to find old photos of him, just so I could feel like he was still in the room with me.

  Sitting up, I reach down to my shorts and pull them the rest of the way off while I read the new email.

  Mia,

  It took me two hours to get the courage to talk to you for the first time. It probably would’ve taken me even longer, but the movie was almost over, and I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. But I knew if I didn’t take my chance, I probably wouldn’t get another one.

  You were on a date with some douche who ignored you half the night. You sat in front of me, and every time you leaned toward him to say something, he’d quiet you down. I almost popped him one in the back of the head. You’re way more interesting than any movie. Hell, I don’t even remember what movie it was . . . I was watching you the whole time.

  So I didn’t care that you were on a date. I didn’t care you had no clue who I was and probably thought I was some jackass making a fool of myself. I had to know you.

  You took a chance on me then. I have no idea why, but I go to bed every night grateful you did. And pissed at myself for screwing it up.