Perfect Summer (4 page)

Clint tunneled his fingers through his hair. What had he done wrong? Replaying the conversation with Ms. Ames in his head, he couldn’t quite figure out where he’d lost the upper hand. Apart from being an ass, which was his fallback when charm didn’t work, he couldn’t see why Summer Ames didn’t like him.

He shook his head as he handed the cashier at Starbucks a twenty. “Keep the change.”

Walking to the end of the counter, he waited for his Vente Decaf with an inch of soy milk.

“Hey, man, can I have your autograph?” A redheaded boy in a hoody and droopy jeans handed Clint a napkin. “That Hail Mary in the last second of the Super Bowl was a miracle. You’re the man.”

Clint smiled and took the napkin. Maybe Summer Ames didn’t like him, but everyone else did. “Thanks. What’s your name?”

“Mike.” Red grinned, a gold tooth glinting in the sunlight filtering through the dark, wooden mini blinds. “Mike Hernandez.”

Clint scribbled his name, added a personal “Mike, Thanks for your support” before handing the napkin back. “Here you go. Have a good one.”

“Coffee ready for Clint.” It was a low female voice twanged with a Texas drawl.

Clint picked up his coffee and caught the eye of the bottle-blonde lady barista.

She smiled and winked at him. “My number’s on the cup.”

Clearly, she liked him too. Why didn’t the schoolteacher?

“Thanks.” He nodded and headed out to his Tesla Roadster. It wasn’t his favorite car, but it was eco-friendly, and since he was cleaning up his rep, he might as well clean up the environment.

Transferring the coffee to his left hand, he slipped the other in his pants pocket and pulled out his keys. After clicking the fob to unlock the door, he slid behind the wheel and set his coffee in the drink holder. His right hip buzzed. He pulled out his iPhone.

Bunny Duplantis’s picture blinked on the screen.

This wasn’t going to be pleasant. After closing the car door, he slid his finger across the screen. “Bunny…”

“How’s my favorite client?” Bunny’s accent had just enough New Orleans to make him hungry for beignets and chicory coffee.

“Good. And yourself?” Not that he was stalling—he was being polite.

“You were on every station. Schoolteacher’s not much to look at, but the media loved her.”

He valued her advice because she was the best agent in the industry, but she got to voice her opinion because she was his aunt.

“Maybe we could send her for a makeover at a day spa or something? Call it a Teacher of the Year bonus. I’ll see what I can manage—”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” He sipped his coffee. Apart from Ms. Ames’s scowl and the fact that she hated him, there was nothing wrong with her. True, he couldn’t recall much about her body, but she had a very sexy mouth.

“Clint, the girl-next-door look is one thing, but that hair. Was it me, or was she a dead-ringer for Chewbacca?” Bunny never minced words—she chewed them up and spat them out.

“That’s harsh. She might not be…well…um”—his eyes squinted as his mind tried to pull up Ames’s image, but all he got was that naughty mouth—“conventionally beautiful, but she’s not bad.”

Extreme nerves had turned him into an unobservant ass. That was inexcusable because he prided himself on being observant. The ass part was a convenient role that kept him from stuttering.

Better to get the unpleasantness over with and quit stalling. Plus, she needed all the advance warning he could give her to head off the media. No doubt, Ms. Ames had found the closest reporter and was trash talking him right now. If she were smart, she'd sell the story for some serious cash.

“She fired me.” Failure was one thing; admitting it was another.

Frigid silence blasted from Bunny’s office phone in Dallas all the way to Clint’s ear in Austin.

“You’re killing me. Shoot me now and save me the pain.” Some deep, cleansing breaths led to a couple more beats of silence. He could all but see her yoga-centering herself. What had she called it last week? Melding her physical-ness with her inner-ness? “I’m sure we can fix it. What happened?”

“I fell asleep in class.” When he said it out loud, it sounded pretty damn bad.

It wasn’t entirely his fault. He’d been up all night rehearsing his speech and pacing, and there might have been some vomiting. A room full of unknown faces all staring at him and waiting for something brilliant to pop out of his mouth was enough to push him over the edge.

Clint heard the drumming of her fingernails against her desk. “Please tell me the reporters were gone.”

“It was after the press conference—”

“You know I love you, but this isn’t good. Not only is Summer Ames Teacher of the Year, but she volunteers at a teen shelter, answers phones at the local runaway hotline, and organizes food drives for the Salvation Army.”

“How do you know all of this?” Clint took another long pull on the coffee.

Jesus, if all that was true, Mother Teresa looked like a slacker.

“Think it was a coincidence you ended up with her? I hedged your bets and had her investigated. It cost me every favor I had to swap you for the Prius.” Bunny sighed long and hard, her disapproval seeping through the phone. “Play nice. She’s your ticket to World Wide. Don’t screw it up.”

Millions of dollars hung in the balance, but having Ms. Ames investigated felt slimy…even for Clint.

“Don’t worry about falling asleep. I’ll call Charlie Sheen’s ex-publicist and find the best way to spin it. A delayed reaction to cold medicine or something.” She typed on her computer. “I’ll email you Ms. Ames’s dossier—”

“Dossier? Who are you…the CIA? I don’t want her dossier. That’s just…wrong.” Clint knew how it felt to have his privacy invaded. Even he had scruples. Sort of.

“Says right here she’s single. Got jilted.” Bunny shuffled some papers. “Whoa, her ex is hot. Yummy. What was he doing with someone like her?”

“I’m hanging up now. Bye.” Clint ended the call. After starting the engine, he rammed the gearshift in reverse, backed out of the parking lot, and pulled onto South Lamar.

He was approaching this all wrong. What he needed was a game plan, an offensive strategy. Walking onto the playing field without a plan meant he would surely lose—life was no different. From here on out, his number one goal was winning over Summer Ames.

Six hours later, Clint pulled into the teachers’ parking lot, double-parked in two handicap spots close to the door, turned off the ignition, and opened the door. After school, this place turned into a dead zone. Only a few cars dotted the vast, wide-open lot. He popped the hatchback and hefted the box of team goods he’d snagged for the class. A promise was a promise.

He might no longer be the class mentor, but he’d promised copy paper and sports equiptment, but team swag would have to do.

Across the parking lot, a flurry of motion caught his eye. A lone student threw football after football through a tire propped between two tree limbs.

Clint rested the box on the hood of the car and watched. That was possibly the worst tire drill he’d ever seen, but the boy kept at it. His posture was wrong, his footwork was messy, and if he didn’t correct his angle, he’d burn out his shoulder before the end of the season.

Clint took two deep breaths and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. He could help this kid, only it would require talking to someone he didn’t know. It was the right thing to do.

Did one right cancel out a lifetime of wrongs?

Balancing the box more firmly on the roof, he swallowed the nausea creeping up his throat, plastered on his game face, and walked toward what served as a practice field. Disreputable was being kind. The grass was dead, the lines hadn’t been painted in so long they were barely visible, and sunlight bounced off patches of broken glass in the end zone. He’d have a crew out here tomorrow to spruce everything up. Only it wasn’t up to him because he may or may not still be a mentor. As long as he concentrated on fixing the practice field, his nerves couldn’t get the better of him. For the third time, he wiped his hands on his jeans.

Weeds crunched under his loafers as he stepped onto the field. This field was ridiculous. No matter what it cost, this monstrosity was getting a facelift, tomorrow. Clint cleared his throat. “Your feet are too far apart.”

The kid turned around. It was the overeager boy from class. Wonderful. One of the witnesses of his earlier shame got to laugh at him in person. Clint turned on the charm. “Mario, isn’t it?”

Early on, his father had taught Clint the necessity of remembering names and faces. If the public believed he actually knew them, they’d love him forever.

The boy’s brown eyes went huge. “Holy shit.”

Ms. Ames would not have been happy.

“It’s you. I mean you’re back. You’re here.” Words seemed to be tumbling out of Mario’s mouth. “You’re Clint Grayson.”

“If you don’t mind a little constructive criticism, I think I can fix your aim.” Clint’s nerves calmed, and the nausea weaving through his gut disappeared. Playing football was comfortable ground.

***

The next morning, Summer balanced her sixty-four-ounce bladder-buster Diet Coke on her tattered copy of
Romeo and Juliet,
shifted her backpack, and tossed her keys back in her purse. For once, she was early for school.

With her elbow, she felt around for the light switch to her classroom. She knew this terrain better than she knew her house. After she made contact with the switch, the overhead lights flickered in protest and then hummed to life.

Stepping deeper into the room, her mind registered that there was a cardboard box in her way a fraction of a second before her toe caught on the edge, making her stagger to the left. Ice-cold Diet Coke sloshed down the front of her tee shirt as her vintage Coach hobo did a summersault, popped open, and landed in a heap of Kleenex, grocery store receipts, tampons, and brown leather.

TGIF—
Thank God it’s Friday
.

With both hands, she twisted her shirt and wrung out Diet Coke into the trashcan.

Why had someone shoved a box in her classroom? Leaning over the box, she tossed back a flap, and a jumble of red, white, and blue Lone Stars merchandise stared back at her. Even when Clint Grayson wasn't here, he made an impression.

Her hand closed around a red foam finger with
Go Stars
in white block letters across the front. She tossed it behind her and rummaged through tee shirts, ball-point pens, hats, and key chains until she found one ream of copy paper.

She shook her head. Clint got points for trying, but when it came down to it, he just didn’t understand what she was doing. Unless foam finger pointing turned out to be a growth industry, it wouldn’t do her much good. While promotional items were great for bank grand openings and car dealerships, they weren’t exactly going to help her students with reading comprehension or life skills. Then again, she had one more ream of paper than she’d had yesterday. Grayson wasn’t a total loss.

Summer looked down. And she sure could use a clean, dry shirt. After digging around until she found a size L, she unfolded it. It read,
I’m Clint Grayson’s #1 Fan
. She grabbed an XL and unfolded it. 
Livin’ La Vida Lone Star
.

Maybe she could wear the box?

“Ms. A.” Mario walked into the room. His face lit up as he spotted the stuff she’d pulled out of the box. “What’s all this?”

He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, which meant either he hadn’t been home last night, or more than likely, Mario and his five little sisters had spent the night, cold and alone, in the park down the street from their apartment because his dad had been too high to remember he had a family, and Mario’s mom worked nights.

“Mr. Grayson sent over all this stuff.” Summer shrugged. This was more than she’d thought she’d get out of Grayson.

“I know.” Mario tried to look nonchalant. “He stopped by after school to apologize, and we ran into each other. The QB’s not all bad. We threw the ball around, he helped me with my throwing stance and footwork, and then he took me out to dinner. We ate some kinda fancy steak thing. It was really good. Dessert was this hot, runny, chocolate lava stuff with vanilla ice cream. I tried to save some for my little sisters…and guess what Mr. Grayson did?”

“I have no idea.” Summer’s heart melted just like the vanilla ice cream in Mario’s chocolate soufflé. Grayson was a nice guy; how had she missed that?

“He bought five more desserts to go. Can you believe that?” Mario’s sheer amazement at kindness made her sad. “Mr. Grayson said to tell you that he’s sorry and he left a box for us.”

“Stumbled over it on the way in.” She pointed to the mess that had been her purse. “Why don’t you pick out what you want, but make sure everyone gets something.” She grabbed the size-XL shirt. “I’m going to change.”

She turned toward the door. Mario dove into the box, and his stomach growled so loudly Summer practically felt it vibrate.

Grayson had helped one of her students. Fed a boy who would have gone hungry. Kindness was not something she’d seen in her new mentor. Perhaps she hadn’t been looking hard enough. Then again, he’d fallen asleep in her class. Given all he’d done for Mario, a mild attack of narcolepsy seemed minor.

If Grayson still wanted to be her mentor, he was in…too bad she’d pulled the stunt with his phone and didn’t have his phone number.

Without a backward glance, she called over her shoulder. “There’s half a dozen blueberry muffins somewhere in the pile that was my purse.” He needed her breakfast more than her, but he wouldn’t take charity. “I tried a new recipe last night and would love an honest opinion. Help yourself. And I have exactly twenty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents in my wallet. I trust you’ll make sure it’s all still there when I get back.”

“Ms. A, that hurts my feelings…” His voice faded as she rounded the corner into the teacher’s lounge.

Ten minutes later, Summer walked into her classroom and stopped short. Lone Star merchandise had found its way onto every single student—the explosion of red, white, and blue was a surreal, patriotic tableau. All they needed was a grill and a couple of Igloo coolers and they could pass for gang of tailgaters waiting to take their seats on the fifty yard line.