Perfect Summer by Katie Graykowski Read Free Book Online Page B

were a complete contrast to his partner’s heavyset build and wrinkled jeans. “Chuck, honey, mix us up a batch of your famous margaritas. Our Summer needs liquor.”
    “It’s, like, ten in the morning. I haven’t had breakfast—”
    “We’re gonna need some nachos too,” Stan called over his shoulder to Chuck, who was headed back to the house. Stan turned back to Summer. “Molly kicked me out of the house while she steam cleans the carpets. Chuck’s only allowed in the kitchen because it’s tile and she—”
    “Doesn’t do tile on the weekends,” Summer finished for him.
    Eight years ago, Stan had committed his life to Chuck knowing that his partner was the sole guardian of his sister, Molly, who had Down’s Syndrome. Stan had not only accepted Chuck’s eccentricities but he’d accepted Molly’s obsessive need to steam clean the floors. In fact, he bought her a new steam cleaner every Christmas. That was true love. Summer wanted to believe it really existed, but she'd never experienced it personally.
    Stan slung an arm around Summer’s shoulders. “How come I’m the last to know about you and my favorite football player?”
    “Don’t sulk. According to my mother, it causes frown lines—”
    “Speaking of the Queen of Darkness—”
    “She’s really gone, I promise—”
    “No, that’s not it. Um…I don’t know how to say this, but I think she’s finally crossed the line from crazy-mean bitch to psycho-crazy-mean bitch.” Stan dropped his arm and opened Summer’s front door, stepped back, and waited for her to enter. Manners—Summer never got tired of them.
    “I’ve got news for you. If there’s a line, she was born just south of it.” Summer led him to the kitchen. She didn’t need to tell Stan to have a seat. He was practically family. “Tea?”
    She pulled the glass pitcher out of the fridge.
    “No, I’ll wait for the ’ritas.” Stan slid onto one of the brown leather barstools under the granite bar she’d installed last month. “Last weekend, we took Molly to Bryan for that Special Olympics bowling tournament against the Aggie Bombers—”
    “I forgot. How many medals did she win?” Summer grabbed a glass from the cabinet next to the sink and pressed it against the ice dispenser lever in the freezer door.
    “It’s the Special Olympics, so everyone wins a medal.” Stan grinned with pride. “Okay, five. On our way back from Bryan, we stopped in Lambert because a gourmet chocolate maker moved from Houston to make chocolates—”
    “Chocolates in Lambert? It’s a small town in the middle of nowhere.” Summer poured dark tea into her glass.
    “Yes, Lambert.” Stan leaned in closer. “Your mother was parked across the street from the chocolate factory, watching it. It was all very cloak-and-dagger.”
    Summer leaned against her kitchen island. “Is this like the time you saw Sandra Bullock at Taco Shack?”
    “It could have been her. The hair was right.” He waved his hand dismissively. “This was your mother. It was her license plate— LAMES —that still makes me laugh.” His shoulders shook. “I’m telling you, she was casing the joint.”
    “‘Casing the joint?’ Who are you, Elliot Ness?” Summer shook her head. “Why would my mother be in Lambert? The nearest Neimans is in Houston.”
    “That’s where the psycho part comes in. She’s the food Nazi, right?” Stan crossed his arms as his eyes turned huge. “You don’t think she’s planning some sort of attack? Like a chocolate terrorist thing?”
    “You need to stop watching all those conspiracy theory shows. I assure you, my mother is lots of things, but a choco terrorist—I don’t think so.”
    The front door banged open. “Whew, I made it out just in time. Molly was about to start the living room, and she’d kill me if I messed up her perfect rows.” Chuck stepped into the kitchen, margarita pitcher in one hand and all-clad baking sheet piled with chips, shredded chicken, and cheese