Midsummer Fling Read online

  Midsummer Fling

  Abby Knox

  Copyright © 2020 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Edited by Red Pen Princess

  Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

  This story is dedicated to my happy place. See you next summer.

  Midsummer Fling

  Penny dreams of a peaceful solo vacation, but she arrives at the lakeside cabin of her childhood to find out the owners have doubled booked, leaving her rudderless at the height of tourist season. When she discovers who snatched her single-bed cabin, it seems that fate has stepped in and booked her a one-way trip to a happily-ever-after.

  Josh wants nothing more than to spend two weeks fishing, ship watching and gazing at campfires. To his chagrin, the resort owners double booked his reservation with that of an oddly familiar woman he refuses to leave out in the rough waters without a raft. When destiny -- and the age-old problem of two people/one bed -- takes the wheel, Josh quickly realizes it's time to reach for his dreams with his fated-forever shipmate.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Abby Knox

  An excerpt from Off-Season Stud

  Chapter 1

  Penny

  Distractions and daydreams about spreading my beach towel on the white sands of a tropical beach somewhere are going to get me fired, but this work meeting is boring. It’s summertime; I have to get out of here.

  Alas, my marketing paycheck contains hardly enough disposable cash for a palm-tree vacation, at least not on my own.

  I could have joined my housemates, who at the moment are soaking up the Costa Rican sun by sharing one bland hotel room among the three of them, as I sit here listening to a presentation about market saturation. The costs of that trip, plus airfare, would have been manageable for my wallet. However, yet more time spent with housemates does not appeal to me at the moment; I’m aching for solitude alongside the sounds of crashing waves. Sun, sand, water, peace, and quiet. A grown-up vacation. I need to get away from the people I live with. I love them, but we all need a breather sometimes.

  Besides, what if I met a nice fellow on the beach and wanted to bring him back to the room? Having vacation roommates would be inconvenient for hookups, to say the least.

  My low-key search online for affordable rentals within a reasonable driving distance surprises me with a photo that floods me with a familiar ache. I am not prepared for what I see. The rustic cabin of my childhood summers jumps out at me. Scrolling under the conference table while my colleagues drone on about marketplace disrupters, I am looking at photos of the lakefront hideaway my parents rented every summer from when I was five years old until well into my teens.

  As I swipe through, I start to believe in fate as well as time having the ability to stand still. The same dock where whatshisname gave me my first kiss, if that even counts as a first kiss. Jackie Sneedle said it didn’t count when I told her the story, but I hardly think the opinions of my fifth-grade frenemy ever matter when it comes to romance.

  Biting my lip to hide a goofy smile, I keep scrolling through the listing photos on the sly. There was the raft anchored just off the lakeshore where I learned to dive. The fire pit where we made s’mores. The sidewalk where my sister and I drew butterflies with chalk.

  My heart catches in my throat for a second because this further brings up an embarrassing memory of the boy who kissed me. I could not remember his name at first, but now I do. More clearly, I remember the color of his swim trunks. They had surfboards on them and I thought he was so mature even though he was a gangly 13-year-old and I was 10. I had written with chalk on that sidewalk something to the effect of “Penny hearts Joshua,” and my sister teased me relentlessly for the rest of our vacation. “Penny and Joshua, sitting in a tree.” She avoided a punch to the popsicle hole by the sheer luck of being two years my junior.

  Teasing notwithstanding, the chalk scrawling got that boy’s attention, and he and I briefly became swimming buddies. He taught me how to do headstands in the water and later on, after vacation, we were pen pals for a few months until both of us became busy with school.

  “Penelope, do you have anything to add?”

  I’m slammed back into the fluorescent lighting of the boardroom where I’m supposed to be paying attention to the presentation. “Oh, yes,” I say, placing my phone facedown on the table.

  I perform my best impression of a model employee until I can sneak off an email to the owner of the rustic lakeside resort. The website says it’s booked up all summer, but you never know what could happen.

  The email reply comes within minutes: “You’re in luck. We just had a cancellation for a two-week reservation. It’s yours if you want it.”

  I jump on it, and now I’m way more excited than I ever thought I would be over a vacation right here in the upper Midwest.

  And there’s another reason to be excited and sentimental about it. Since my sweet mom passed away last year, this trip also could be a fitting tribute to her. From the cabin resort on the Great Lakes, I could take a day trip to that place where Dad never wanted to take my mom. I wonder if I’m allowed to do what I’m thinking of doing. Will I get in trouble with the fish and wildlife service? I could be overthinking it.

  Mom would probably scoff at the idea; it’s so cheesy. But the more I think about it, the more I completely fall in love with the possibility of bringing her with me for one last trip.

  When I go home that day to pack my bags, I stop at the fireplace mantel, which houses a collection of knickknacks and artifacts from all of us housemates, including one or two pet memorials and an art project or three—and rub my hand over the scrolled wooden box that has a tiny brass plaque on it with her name, date of birth and date of death. “Beloved mother, friend, and wife.”

  She was so much more than those things, but she was most proud of those labels.

  “Guess what, Jean?” I say to the box. “You’re coming with me on vacation.”

  Chapter 2

  Josh

  This must be what an injured pelican flopping in the water feels like, with nowhere to go as two ships barrel toward it, one from each direction.

  The two ships are the owners of the cabin that I’ve rented for two weeks this summer, who seem to have gotten their wires crossed over my reservation.

  “I wrote his reservation down in the logbook right here, Matthew. Look.” The co-owner, Gretchen, shows Matthew her spiral notebook while Matthew is looking on, slightly exasperated.

  “Babe, I don’t know what to tell you. I followed proper procedure and entered the Reeve reservations into the system via the spreadsheet after her card was approved through the vacation rental app. We
talked about the need to do this.”

  “We did talk about it,” Gretchen replies sweetly, “but I hadn’t had time to enter this gentleman’s information into the system before the time stamp on your email. I took the phone call in the middle of checking in other guests.”

  “Sweetheart, I told you, you have to come find me when you’re overwhelmed,” the husband replies.

  I look from the husband to the wife. “But this is why you put it in the physical book if you take a reservation online, even if you put it in the spreadsheet, or I might not see it,” she’s telling him. “So I’ll see it on paper.”

  “Digital information supersedes a phone conversation,” Matthew says.

  I don’t know what this husband is expecting, but he’s not going to win this argument.

  The only real problem I see here is I don’t have the key to my room yet. I’ve been driving all morning from downstate to get here, and I should be on the lake with a fish on my line by now. This domestic misunderstanding is eating into my two weeks’ vacation of fishing, eating, and drinking beer while staring into a campfire, sleeping, waking up, and starting all over again.

  I plan on only one break in that routine: On Friday, I’m going to tour the locks up in Sault Ste. Marie. The locks on the Saint Mary’s River connect Lake Huron to Lake Superior, and every year, the US Army Corps of Engineers opens up the locks to the public for tours. It’s one of my favorite nerdy activities and I look forward to it every year.

  How nerdy am I? I am a frequent reader of BoatNerdgasm.com, which reports on all the freighter ships passing through the locks every day, and I have memorized the names of every ship and its country of origin. So pretty fuckin’ nerdy.

  But right now, I just want the keys to my cabin. And instead, I’m stuck in a loopy game of spousal conflict.

  Gretchen taps a pencil to her chin and finally shrugs. “I’ll have to call around town and see if anyone has any openings for the lady,” she says to her husband.

  A knot of guilt twists in my gut. Call me old-fashioned, but the knowledge that it’s a woman who’s getting the shaft makes me feel worse. I mean, I’m not giving up my cabin, but I’ll feel bad about it.

  “I’ll have my key now,” I say, holding out my open hand.

  Gretchen smiles apologetically for the delay as she opens a desk drawer to find my key.

  Matthew’s stern façade is crumbling. “My love, this is why I showed you how to use a spreadsheet.”

  She pouts at him. “And I asked you to check the physical book instead of doing everything automatically online.”

  Matthew rubs his temples. “Why do you refuse to join the digital age? You’re like a feral mermaid.”

  The tone in his voice is suggestive, and it sort of makes me feel dirty, like I shouldn’t be witnessing this.

  “You like me feral.”

  Somebody save me, this feels like a little game between them. Are they going to start humping right here on the office desk? Do I need to cover the eyes of the fake moose head that’s mounted on the wall? And those of the poor little cuckoo bird in the clock?

  Gretchen finally hands over my key, and that’s when she walks in: the person who was double-booked for my cabin, I presume.

  Her friendly eyes quickly transform into confused and wary when she reads the room. Soft waves of hair brush her bare shoulders, exposed in a checked halter top. Below that, her denim shorts have been cut off so high I can see the ends of her front pockets. If it weren’t for her bare fingernails and practical-looking sneakers, she’d look like a curvy pinup model. But the most arresting thing about her is a pair of familiar eyes that communicate openness and kindness. I need to know her. I will know her. As crazy as it sounds, I know right then and there I’m looking at my future wife.

  Gretchen and Matthew can make all the calls they want, but this lady is not going anywhere. Because I’m not letting this person out of my sight.

  Chapter 3

  Penny

  I can’t believe I’m back here.

  I arrive at Rocky Shores Resort and my first thought is, Everything is the same. There’s the sparkling lake, the rickety dock, fir and birch trees lining the shore, a scrubby patch of sand where my sister and I used to fight over the sandcastle buckets, the firepit, and about ten quaint log cabins that look like they came straight out of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Some have two bedrooms, but I’ve rented one of the smaller cabins.

  I park my car at the main office and go inside, where instantly I’m slapped by a chaotic energy I wasn’t expecting. There are the three bears all right—a frazzled mama on the phone, an angry papa bear with flames shooting out of his ears, and an overgrown, annoyed teddy bear with so much sinew in his forearms that my knees tremble.

  Those forearms are impatiently crossed at his chest while he stares at the ceiling. He has that look of someone awaiting a third round of bad news from customer service.

  All eyes pivot to take me in when the screen door smacks shut behind me.

  The mama and the papa bear change their faces as if getting ready to apologize. The third bear looks like he could eat me for breakfast with some berries and wild honey. I would let him, and I would say “Thank you very much, sir, would you like some more?”

  The woman looks at her counterpart, urging him to take the lead. “Uhh, it seems we had a mix-up. The cabin that came open was unintentionally double-booked. I’m so sorry. But we are doing our best to take care of you and find you another place to stay,” he says.

  Shocked and disappointed, I look from the man to the woman I assume is his wife. “I don’t understand. I made the reservation yesterday over email,” I say.

  The husband, who introduces himself as Matthew and his wife as Gretchen, nods and replies, “Yes, and my wife took this gentleman’s reservation over the phone early yesterday morning and didn’t enter it into the spreadsheet.”

  I look at the feet of “this gentleman,” because if I keep looking at his piercing eyes, I might fold like a chair under the pressure to change my reservation. His cheap flip-flops and ratty cotton shorts remind me of every other bro I’ve ever met. At least his toenails are trimmed. Nothing worse than a dude with unkempt toenails.

  Gretchen pipes up, “And my husband didn’t check the physical logbook before taking yours, dear.” She appears to be on hold, looking for some other place for me to stay.

  I gather my courage and lift my gaze again to meet the other guest’s eyes. Still looks like he wants to eat me for dinner. I can’t tell if he’s upset or trying to intimidate me into giving up my room. Matthew continues to explain and apologize, but I’m not even mad. I feel this stranger’s stare, and I’m digging his frustrated energy. He needs to lighten up; How recently has he gotten laid? I wonder.

  The slightly naughty corner of my mind dares him to lick his lips while he eyes me like that. The dirtier place in my mind imagines how talented those full lips of his might be. The filthy me says his talents won’t matter as much if I’m the one riding his face.

  If Matthew and Gretchen find another place for me to stay, I might be sad to leave now. Because Mr. Forearms is a snack and a half.

  Gretchen places the receiver back in its cradle and looks sheepish. “I’m so sorry about this. Every place is booked solid, up and down Lake Huron from here to Saint Ignace. Nothing even in the Soo unless you’re okay with a motel room,” she says, using the local nickname of Sault Ste. Marie, the biggest town on the peninsula. “Otherwise, best I can find is an extremely rustic place up on Whitefish Bay near the shipwreck museum in Paradise, but it’s more than an hour’s drive from here and has no electricity. Again, I’m so sorry.”

  I’m not sure what to do here. I can’t go all the way to Whitefish Bay. That would tack on hours to the day trip I need to take with my mom’s remains. I don’t know if I can afford a hotel room on the island where I’m taking her. The stranger sees my worry, and his expression shifts. Softens. A look passes between us. I feel like I know him, have known h
im for years. The only solution in this scenario is for one of us to leave and take our chances elsewhere, or for us to share a cabin. My brow lifts in a question; the stranger returns my question with a nod, a silent agreement. He needs me to be the one to suggest it; he doesn’t want to look like a creep.

  Are you sure this is wise, Penny? I glance over at Matthew’s beefy shoulders and stern face. If this stranger isn’t safe, if I complain about a single crossed boundary, I’m pretty sure Matthew would knock his ass down. And so would Gretchen, for that matter.

  I glance back at the stranger, and he lifts his eyebrows in anticipation. He’s waiting for me to say it. If this goes south, I can always get in my car and drive away.

  This is unlike me, but I’m jumping in with both feet.

  I tear my gaze away from Mr. Forearms to address Gretchen. “Oh, it’s all right,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “I’ll take the cabin here. It has one bed and one couch? Then he can have the bed since he technically booked first. I’ll take the sofa. We’ll just have to find a way to put up with each other.”

  “Well, if you insist,” grumbles Teddy Bear McForearms. The grumble feels like a show for Gretchen and Matthew. I can read right through it. He’s happy about this.

  Am I going to let this total stranger share a bathroom with me? A tiny kitchenette? Yes, I am. Do I know him enough to trust him? No, but there’s something oddly, cozily familiar about this guy, and I can’t put my finger on it.