Killer Summer by Ridley Pearson Read Free Book Online Page A

another of her provoking laughs. “Your pockets,” she added, wishing she could force herself to blush. “The slow dance.”
    They searched the dance floor between songs, interrupted by a waitress. The key chain had been turned in to the bartender.
    She accepted a ride back to the Christiania, where they’d started.
    “I’m coming off a complicated relationship,” she explained from the passenger’s seat. “I’ve flirted tonight and I’m sure I came on a little too strong, and I apologize for that. I’m here for the wine auction tomorrow. I may or may not stay a day or two more. And if I do stay, I’d like to see you again. And this time with no excuses or apologies. But tonight . . . I need to collect myself and not do something self-destructive. Is this making any sense or are you about to scream?”
    “A little of both,” he said.
    “I hope it matters to you that I like you. I hope it matters that if I stay after the auction it will be to see you.”
    “We’re scheduled out Sunday morning,” he said. “Back to L.A.”
    “Oh.”
    “So, if you’d like to reconsider, I can be very forgiving.”
    She answered with a kiss, knowing she’d just cost him his job. She slid out of the car without another word.

13

    Y ou can pick up the room-service stuff,” Summer Sumner told the woman who’d answered the direct-dial.
    Her father had abandoned her after his egg whites with salmon, off to a meeting, though he’d booked a tennis court for the two of them at eleven A.M. She’d had a Belgian waffle with mixed berries, orange juice, and green tea. She felt bloated.
    The suite was gi-normous, two bedrooms that shared a living room, a balcony with views of the outdoor skating rink and Dollar Mountain—“the kiddy hill.” She didn’t care one bit about getting rid of the dirty dishes and the rolling cart; it was the room-service boy that interested her. She was crushed when, as it turned out, an older guy with a Russian accent retrieved the breakfast cart.
    She waited five minutes and ordered wheat toast, no butter, and another cup of green tea. Fifteen minutes later, a knock on the door drew her to the peephole.
    She held the door for him. “Put it anywhere.”
    He might have been the same bellboy she’d seen the day before: about her height and skinny. It looked like his mother cut his hair. He was either her age or a couple years older, which would work just fine. He had an honest face, shy blue eyes, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke.
    “Sign here, please.”
    “You delivered our breakfast too.”
    “Yeah.” He was fighting to remain professional. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
    “When do you get off work?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You heard me.”
    “I’m pulling a double. Seven A.M. to three, and three to eleven tonight. Why?”
    “Why do you think?” she asked.
    He placed the tray on the coffee table.
    “Are there any hot springs in the area?” she asked. It was a loaded question: she’d read in the town paper, the Mountain Express, about the hot springs being a magnet for teenagers.
    “I . . . ah . . . yeah. There are.”
    “Could you take me?” she proposed.
    “Me?”
    She made a point of looking around the room. “Yeah.”
    “I suppose.”
    “You suppose or you could ?” she asked.
    “I suppose I could. But not until eight. A friend can cover for me. And . . . like . . . I don’t have my suit or anything, and I live about—”
    “Who said anything about suits?”
    “Ah . . .” He’d turned beet-red.
    She had him exactly where she wanted him.
    “I’ve got to get out of this hotel,” she said. “This place is totally driving me crazy. I’m like a prisoner.”
    “I could definitely take you,” he said. “Are you meeting someone there or—”
    “Dude? No. It’s just us, you and me, right? Unless you want to invite some friends along. But I don’t bite or anything. It sorta sucks, hanging around here. And my dad’s got some private tasting and