Read Online Perfect Summer by Katie Graykowski - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Katie Graykowski
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box sat directly in the middle of his Astroturf Touch Down doormat.
Clint shook his head and gingerly checked the box for trip wires. Devon was way too predictable. The man needed to think outside of the box once in a while. No wires were visible, so he ran his hands around the bottom. Nothing. He took three deep breaths, ripped the top flaps apart, and dove into the grass. Nothing exploded, erupted in flames, or jumped out.
Scanning the front lawn for any signs of Devon, Clint brushed himself off and looked inside the box.
Sharpened number two pencils stuck pointy side out of a Styrofoam sphere. Speared on one of the pencils was a note.
Mr. Grayson,
Thank you for the lovely bouquet of pencils. Consider my original opinion of you erased. See you Monday.
Should you need to contact me, my cell is 512-NOE-GGGS (663-4447). It's merely a coincidence that I don't like eggs.
Summer Ames
P.S.—Running with sharp objects is fun and healthy. Maybe you should try it.
P.P.S.—Thanks for helping Mario.
Clint threw back his head and laughed. People rarely shocked him—for the most part, they were greedy, selfish, and predictable—but Summer Ames was the exception. She was spunky, witty, and she didn't take crap off him. He liked her. Even more, he respected and admired her.
Clint scooped up the box, stepped inside his front hall, and closed the door. He headed for the kitchen, carefully set the box next to his laptop on the kitchen table, and grabbed his cell phone. Without analyzing the angles or thinking up conversation topics or agonizing over possible small talk with someone he didn't know, he dialed the phone number from her note.
While the phone rang, he flipped open his laptop, pulled up the picture she'd sent him of her class, and zeroed in on her. Her curly, blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her bright blue eyes crinkled in the corners, but it was her mouth that drew his attention. The full top lip begged for sucking, and the lower was just a tiny bit smaller but just as naughty.
“Hello.” The female voice was groggy, sleep-tangled.
Crap. He checked his watch. It was only seven thirty. “Um...go back to sleep. Sorry to wake you.” Was she alone?
“No problemo.” She yawned. “What do you need, Chuck?”
“It's Clint.” Who was Chuck?
“I'll play along. Clint who?” Her voice was drowsy and raspy and sexy as hell.
“Clint Grayson—”
“You're a laugh a minute. Okay, Clint, you have a really hot ass, but if you ever fall asleep in my class again, I'll drop-kick it into the next county.” Her dark-chocolate laugh was downright sultry.
She yawned again.
He grinned. Ames was not a morning person. “What happened to your whistle?”
One full minute of silence was followed by a loud thunk like she'd dropped the phone.
There was some scrambling, and then she said, “Err...umm...not sure what to say after the ass comment.” She blew out a long breath. “Yep, I got nothing.”
For the second time that day, he laughed. “Summer, may I call you Summer?”
“Why not? We've shared pencils, Tony Romo, and an ass comment. In some cultures, we'd be engaged by now.”
“I got your pencil sculpture. Really inventive. The note was pretty funny too. I don't like eggs either.” What was she wearing? He didn't know her well enough to ask. “I called to say thanks. You made me laugh twice today, and that's more than I’ve laughed in a long time.”
Not sure where that came from, but it was nice talking to someone who wanted nothing and needed nothing from him—plus, she'd proven herself to be loyal by not selling him out.
Pillows shuffled. “Why don’t you laugh?”
What the hell had he done? Personal information wasn’t something he shared with anyone, not even close family and friends. He should hang up right now, but her voice was soothing, and the phone added anonymity.
She yawned again. “I grew up in a house with no laughter—”
“What did you do?” He couldn't
Clint shook his head and gingerly checked the box for trip wires. Devon was way too predictable. The man needed to think outside of the box once in a while. No wires were visible, so he ran his hands around the bottom. Nothing. He took three deep breaths, ripped the top flaps apart, and dove into the grass. Nothing exploded, erupted in flames, or jumped out.
Scanning the front lawn for any signs of Devon, Clint brushed himself off and looked inside the box.
Sharpened number two pencils stuck pointy side out of a Styrofoam sphere. Speared on one of the pencils was a note.
Mr. Grayson,
Thank you for the lovely bouquet of pencils. Consider my original opinion of you erased. See you Monday.
Should you need to contact me, my cell is 512-NOE-GGGS (663-4447). It's merely a coincidence that I don't like eggs.
Summer Ames
P.S.—Running with sharp objects is fun and healthy. Maybe you should try it.
P.P.S.—Thanks for helping Mario.
Clint threw back his head and laughed. People rarely shocked him—for the most part, they were greedy, selfish, and predictable—but Summer Ames was the exception. She was spunky, witty, and she didn't take crap off him. He liked her. Even more, he respected and admired her.
Clint scooped up the box, stepped inside his front hall, and closed the door. He headed for the kitchen, carefully set the box next to his laptop on the kitchen table, and grabbed his cell phone. Without analyzing the angles or thinking up conversation topics or agonizing over possible small talk with someone he didn't know, he dialed the phone number from her note.
While the phone rang, he flipped open his laptop, pulled up the picture she'd sent him of her class, and zeroed in on her. Her curly, blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her bright blue eyes crinkled in the corners, but it was her mouth that drew his attention. The full top lip begged for sucking, and the lower was just a tiny bit smaller but just as naughty.
“Hello.” The female voice was groggy, sleep-tangled.
Crap. He checked his watch. It was only seven thirty. “Um...go back to sleep. Sorry to wake you.” Was she alone?
“No problemo.” She yawned. “What do you need, Chuck?”
“It's Clint.” Who was Chuck?
“I'll play along. Clint who?” Her voice was drowsy and raspy and sexy as hell.
“Clint Grayson—”
“You're a laugh a minute. Okay, Clint, you have a really hot ass, but if you ever fall asleep in my class again, I'll drop-kick it into the next county.” Her dark-chocolate laugh was downright sultry.
She yawned again.
He grinned. Ames was not a morning person. “What happened to your whistle?”
One full minute of silence was followed by a loud thunk like she'd dropped the phone.
There was some scrambling, and then she said, “Err...umm...not sure what to say after the ass comment.” She blew out a long breath. “Yep, I got nothing.”
For the second time that day, he laughed. “Summer, may I call you Summer?”
“Why not? We've shared pencils, Tony Romo, and an ass comment. In some cultures, we'd be engaged by now.”
“I got your pencil sculpture. Really inventive. The note was pretty funny too. I don't like eggs either.” What was she wearing? He didn't know her well enough to ask. “I called to say thanks. You made me laugh twice today, and that's more than I’ve laughed in a long time.”
Not sure where that came from, but it was nice talking to someone who wanted nothing and needed nothing from him—plus, she'd proven herself to be loyal by not selling him out.
Pillows shuffled. “Why don’t you laugh?”
What the hell had he done? Personal information wasn’t something he shared with anyone, not even close family and friends. He should hang up right now, but her voice was soothing, and the phone added anonymity.
She yawned again. “I grew up in a house with no laughter—”
“What did you do?” He couldn't
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