Summer Breeze Kisses - Addison Moore Page 0,60

I was with Holt at the birthday party I wasn’t invited to.

A gentle knock vibrates from the door, and we freeze.

I cinch my bathrobe shut and look to my mother. “You expecting someone?”

“Nope. You?”

I avert my eyes. “It’s almost ten-thirty. Everyone knows that only serial killers and booty calls come a knocking this late.” I bat her away. “Get the gun.”

“We don’t have a gun.” She narrows in on me with that are-you-kidding-me look on her face. Mom isn’t one to fear anything or anyone—a genetic trait that obviously skips a generation—or at least me.

“Then, obviously, we should get one,” I hiss. “Call 911.”

Her mouth squares out. “So they can do what? Act as a butler service at tax payers’ expense?” She waves me off as she heads toward the commotion. “You ever call the cops for something so ridiculous, you’re going to end up on the news. It won’t be flattering. It’s probably just Laney. She’s forever losing her key.”

“I can count on one hand how many times she’s been here this year and still have four fingers and a thumb left over.” I jump to my feet in the event I need to smash someone’s head in with a lead crystal vase—even though we’re currently deficient in such luxuries.

“Smart ass.” She flings open the door and her glossy green face brightens. Great, it’s probably Donny coming back with his greasy tail between his legs. For his sake he’d better have my forty-five bucks on hand. “Oh look, it’s another smart ass!” She widens the door and waves the said smart ass in. It’s probably Jemma. “Aren’t you the margarita mixer who was sucking face with my daughter a few weeks back?”

Oh. My. God.

Holt walks into the room, and our eyes connect in that deer-in-the-headlights kind of way. Mine because he sees me in this hideous slumber party getup, and his most likely because he’s pondering how fast he should run away from the two green aliens standing before him.

A smile spreads over his face, wide as the sea.

Somebody kill me.

Here I am, looking like a day spa cast off while the most handsome man in the history of the world stands before me smiling like a loon. God, he’s probably laughing—affirming to himself it was a brilliant idea not to include me in on his mother’s big birthday bash. He’s probably here to tell me we’re not a good fit, that he prefers dating girls who can’t see thirty on the horizon for another ten years. Oh, hell, what do I care—it’s not like I don’t already have egg on my face.

“So what do you think, Izzy?” Mom plants her fists over her hips. “How would you classify this? Is he a serial killer or is this a—how did you phrase it? Booty call?” A grin spreads over her face. “I don’t think they call it that anymore.” She turns to Holt. “What are the kids calling it these days? A bump and grind? A late night sex summons? Or just a good-old fashioned mounting?”

“Crap,” I whimper, dashing past the two of them and throwing myself in the shower. If ever there were a day I could shrivel up and slip down the drain, this one would be nice.

Booty call. I rake a brush through my hair and change into my red silk robe. Is it wrong of me to secretly wish it were Greasy D and not Holt?

I head back out to the living room where my mother is busy staring him down.

Holt has his hair slicked back, a crisp white dress shirt on with his inky dark jeans, and, holy hell, I’ve never been so glad it’s not Greasy.

“Izzy!” My mother sings while patting the spot on the couch beside her. All four cats sit at attention and glare openly at Holt. Honest to God, I’ve never seen them so riveted by anyone. Bashful looks like he’s about to knife him. “I’m so glad you could join us.” Mom bubbles with laughter, and it sets off all sorts of alarms inside me. My mother never bubbles. “Your special visitor and I have been getting to know one another.” Her voice reaches a melodic crescendo.

Crap. She’s never this giddy. Giddy is against her religion. Sarcasm is the altar at which she worships. And if she’s not aiming her cynicism in poor Holt’s direction—that must mean I’m the one being tied to a stake. Hell. She’s about to make an offering to the god of shame and humiliation—and