Summer Breeze Kisses - Addison Moore Page 0,2

the past. She moans as he walks by. “He keeps strutting around in those bun-hugging jeans, and I keep noticing.”

I sneak a glimpse at Holt with his tall, sturdy frame. He’s built like a linebacker, muscular, but not overly so. He’s got the same thick hair I remember and those illuminating eyes that look as though they have the ability to see right through your soul. He glances in our direction, and I’m quick to turn back to Jemma. A wave of heat floods over me at the thought of him heading this way. I’ve never understood how he has the power to make my heart flutter like a love struck schoolgirl. Whenever we meet, the air seems to thicken unnaturally. My body heats up ten degrees, and my fingertips tremble to touch him. He’s gorgeous beyond belief—that should explain the blatant desire my body has to worship his. But Holt already has more than his fair share of devout parishioners willing to sacrifice daily at his king-size altar. He’s a little younger than me, but obviously my hormones couldn’t give a rat’s ass if he were an embryo. I hate feeling helplessly attracted to someone, mostly because I hate feeling out of control.

He walks down to the far end of the bar, and I take the opportunity to further investigate Jemma’s skintight theory.

“They’re not bun-hugging.” I tilt my head to better inspect our friendly bartender’s rear assets. “They’re loose and sort of low hanging. And, by the way, I’m pretty sure Ron wouldn’t appreciate that.” Ron is Jemma’s latest spousal acquirement. At the ripe old age of twenty-seven, she’s managed to amass three of them in rapid gunfire succession. She’s two divorces up on me, and here I’ve yet to get out of the conjugal starting gate. Not that I’m looking to venture into that lawyer-laden not-so-great beyond. In fact, I’m pretty content right here in the singles stall with no desire to jump into the matrimonial spiral that seems to have swallowed up so many of my girlfriends. Jemma and I stopped juxtaposing our lives around the time she had baby number four with daddy number three.

Holt catches my eye again. He’s lean and mean and full of enough testosterone to let everyone in a ten-mile radius know he’s ready and willing to light any ripe coeds fire. But it’s me he keeps stealing glances at—lingering those silver eyes over mine like a skin graft.

He heads in this direction, and I straighten.

Jemma’s mouth opens to say something, and I covertly shake my head at her. Jemma is known to espouse all sorts of wild crap at the least opportune moments. Please God, let her pick another time to balance out the scales of tight-ass injustice.

“Hey, ladies.” Holt leans over my shoulder and the entire left side of my body erupts into flames like dry brush in August. “Can I get you something? We’ve just put in a full lunch menu.” He points to the laminated sheets that Jemma and I are currently resting our elbows on.

“Burger and fries. Throw on one of those fancy cocktails, too.” Jemma wets her lips as her gaze drops to his crotch. “How about a Scantily Clad Cabana Boy for starters?”

“Never heard of it, but I can look it up.”

“Oh, hon, you can make it any way you like.” Jemma shakes the girls when she says it, and I avert my eyes for fear of having one of them poked out by an errant nipple.

“How about you?” Holt kneels beside me with his silver eyes harnessing the light and mastering its wayward beams. “How’ve you been, Izzy?” He breaks out a warm grin all for me, and my body melts right into the seat.

“I’ve been good. And you?”

“Same story, different day.” He tweaks his brows, and my insides jump right along with them. “How about it? You up for inventing a new cocktail this afternoon?” He gives Jemma a quick wink at the dig.

“How about we keep it simple. Just a strawberry daiquiri for me. Make it a virgin.” Much like myself. Virgin—Izzy Sawyer, they’re interchangeable at this point. But just the reaction my body is having to Holt lets me know it might be time to rectify that. Maybe it is time to switch things up in my life.

That amber bottle my mother keeps in the kitchen flashes through my mind.

“You know—make it whiskey,” I say. It was my father’s favorite drink. My mother has kept his unfinished bottle of Jack Daniel’s

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