The Summer You Found Me (The Summer, #3)

by Elizabeth O'Roark

“Nothing wrong with being the evil queen. Most men appreciate a little bad with their good.”

Kate is a hurricane in human form, and no one has ever called a hurricane cute—especially one who walks around my house in nothing but a fucking T-shirt. She clearly thinks being married to one of my closest friends will stop me from doing something I should not. I’m somewhat less sure. One of many reasons I need her out of my home.

There was a minute there, before we’d ever even spoken, when I wished I’d met him first.

He comes off as harsh and even frightening to people who don’t know him. But he actually has the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever known.

I put on a horror movie and watch with growing impatience. What female goes into the creepy basement of a haunted house, finds a hidden passageway, and decides to investigate on her own?

My fear is that fun is like cocaine—something I’m incapable of enjoying in small quantities—but it sounds too crazy to be said aloud.

He looks so fucking good sitting there with that smirk on his face. Better than he should to a woman desperately trying to win her husband back, but Beck is hot, and I haven’t had sex in a very long time. Anyone in my shoes would feel the same.

I’m still waiting for the part of adulthood that lives up to the hype.

Having her around has proven how little I like my life without her.

“Let’s go for a ride.” Her head jerks up. “On your bike?” “No, on my magic carpet. Yes, of course on my bike.”

He steps into my space, backs me to the wall, and kisses me with his hands in my hair, my body tucked into his. “You. Scared. Me,” he says. “That doesn’t mean I think you’re a child or incompetent. You fucking scared me because that’s what happens when you care about someone and they disappear.”

“Sometimes the good news is harder to take than the bad,” she says. “And sometimes getting the thing you want makes you realize you wanted other things.”

It’s either Beck or Jason Momoa, and Momoa doesn’t seem like the breaking-and-entering type.

“I don’t know who you are or why you’ve broken into my apartment,” I announce, “but it would be a shame to let an erection of that size go to waste.”