One Summer With Autumn Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Copyright © 2016 by Julie Reece

  ONE SUMMER IN AUTUMN by Julie Reece

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Swoon Romance. Swoon Romance and its related logo are registered trademarks of Georgia McBride Media Group, LLC.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ePub ISBN: 978-1-944816-83-4 Mobi ISBN: 978-1-944816-84-1

  Published by Swoon Romance, Raleigh, NC 27609

  Cover design by Danielle Doolittle

  Your soul mate is not always someone who comes into your life peacefully. They come to make you question, change your reality, someone who marks a before and after in your life. It is not the human being everyone has idealized, but an ordinary person, who manages to revolutionize your world in a second …

  ~Anonymous

  For my sisters, Jill and Jamie – together through thick and thin.

  1

  Autumn

  I watch the platinum-haired figure of my twin sister approach the doors of the Deer Creek High School gymnasium, and consider how having my eyelashes plucked from my lids would be preferable to entering that building today.

  Sydney peeps at me over her shoulder, strappy sandals clicking on the sidewalk. “Hurry up, Autumn. You know Daddy hates it when we’re late.”

  Yes, yes I do. It’s one of the reasons I never rush. “Fine,” I say, doing my best to catch up. My ability to trip over my own feet is well-documented. My gait is baby-fawn awkward in the borrowed heels currently producing blisters on my feet.

  “I know this isn’t how you’d planned to spend the summer.” My sister releases a melodramatic breath and tosses her gleaming hair. “But I wish you’d suck it up. We’re officially high school graduates now. A few weeks of filing papers or running errands, and you can take your stupid trip.” Her lids flutter over pale blue eyes. “Just try, okay? You’ll look back one day and regret it if you don’t. Plus, the program means so much to Daddy.”

  “I know.” And I do. Yet, I can’t help glaring at the red brick building as if it’s responsible for destroying my plans.

  My father and I fundamentally disagree on, well, many things. One being the purpose of high school. He sees it as a challenging opportunity to advance one’s education. My view is more a four-year prison term—designed by sadists who hate kids. I’d rather sew my head to the carpet than revisit The Joint, but my father’s made it clear that if I want to travel, I’ll have to spend the next eight weeks in some form of indentured servitude.

  Seems me and Sydney were awarded The Bagley scholarship for good grades, like every other kid here today. We’ll each receive two grand but on the contingency that we successfully complete a work-study program for any of the participating businesses inside.

  Sydney tugs open the heavy metal door, and we plunge into the gym-turned-job-fair. Rows of brightly colored booths are set up, each one housing a company display and the opportunity to score a summer internship.

  The place crawls with perky, high-achieving applicants. A familiar cramp pinches my stomach. There’s something sharp and mean growing in there, exacerbated by the fact that I’m supposed to join these sycophants. The newly-graduated seniors scurry from one cloth-covered table to another: interviewing, gathering information, skillfully vying for the most coveted positions.

  “I knew it. Everyone’s already here!” My sister’s cheeks pink as though she’ll bust something. I hope she does.

  Our father zeroes in on us from where he’s standing in the center of the room. William Oskar Teslow, principal of this hallowed institution of learning, approaches wearing his customary dark suit and crisp white shirt.

  “Daddy!” Sydney squeals.

  “Where the devil have you two been?” he asks.

  Sydney lifts her chin.

  My father’s expression hardens as his gaze lands on me. “I see. Well, never mind it now, the vice president of marketing at Banks and Cooper is holding a position open for you, precious. Hurry now!”

  My father’s pet name for my sister reminds me of Gollum’s obsession with the One Ring of Power.

  Sydney waves and rushes off to dazzle whomever with her Crest white-strip smile, leaving my father to scrutinize me. “Autumn, honestly, what are you wearing? Did you not understand my instructions to keep your attire business casual, and not … whatever this is?”

  I glance at my plain, black dress. The one I dug out of my closet this morning, only to discover I’d filled out in the three years since I’d last worn it. Multiple bangles cover my henna tattoos. I’d even forgone my beloved beanie and straightened my hair, though I did keep my chandelier earrings.

  “You’d almost be pretty if you wore an actual color, as your sister does.”

  My father’s words charge the blood in my veins. Sydney and I are fraternal twins. Since she inherited his Norwegian complexion, they can wear all the My Little Pony pastels they want, but sunshiny-yellow looks like death on the olive skin I got from my mother.

  I try explaining, but he waves me off. “Take a look around. See what companies represented still need an intern and apply. Quickly.”

  Last year—and without my knowledge—my father submitted my information to multiple scholarship programs including one for those of short stature and one for left-handed students. I missed the stature cutoff by two inches.

  My feet don’t move which must prompt him to add, “Chop, chop, Autumn. We need the Bagley.”

  I’m aware. He’s only reminded my sister and me a hundred times from December to May.

  “A rolling stone gathers no moss,” he says, and without waiting for a reply, he readjusts his perfectly straight tie and hurries off.

  He’s used this proverb with me before, and I find his choice perplexing. To some, it suggests that those who keep busy and moving will accomplish great things as opposed to those who sit around. But another interpretation says that those who keep moving can’t put down roots, and therefore become gypsies in this world. I don’t know which definition my father intends. He never expands, and I’ll never ask.

  The air conditioning in our gymnasium must be set for penguins. I shiver, rub my arms, and glance outside. On one hand, I want to ditch these shoes, run out the double doors, and keep running until I’m too tired to feel anymore. On the other, I want the internship over with so I can take the trip Mom and I started planning ten years ago. My father doesn’t get it. No one does, but that’s never stopped me before.

  I get to work touring four rows of vendor booths. There are forty applicants in this room with an equal number of businesses giving each student a shot at a job. Eight weeks. The entire summer gone, volunteering to work without pay for whatever menial chores the company wants to pawn off on their slave laborer. Joy.

  A boy named Jake from my physics class shakes hands with a man in a gray suit. The banner over their heads reads Edwin Caine LLP, Attorney at Law.

  Goody for you, junior.

  Jake’s gaze lifts to mine, but drops just as fast. Typical. I earned a reputation in middle school over an incident now known as “The Cafeteria Bloodletting of 2012” resulting in my suspension. Rumors multiplied until the story became ninety percent exaggeration, which is fine
with me since it keeps everyone at a distance.

  I pass an industrial tire booth and another devoted to whole foods. A third claims to be the best in Global Internet Intelligence, and I feel a yawn coming on.

  Farther up the line there’s a cardboard cutout flanking the last booth entitled Behr Mountain Sporting Goods. A hulking brown bear stands on shaggy hind legs, roaring Work here, honey. I can only kill you once! But inside the booth is dark and unmanned, and it seems I’m given a reprieve.

  Across the aisle from Teddy is a girl from my neighborhood. She’s leaning over a table, filling out paperwork for the You Give Me Chills ice cream franchise. Despite my carefully crafted façade of boredom, panic wells inside me as the other kids claim their spots for the summer. I’m going to end up stacking boxes at a tire warehouse in ninety-degree heat if I don’t get my butt in gear and apply somewhere.

  My last cigarette was exactly one hundred and twenty-three days ago, but my anxiety tempts me to break that record. I started smoking shortly after meeting my now ex-boyfriend but ditched nicotine after ditching him because both were toxic. Gum is less effective for stress, maybe, but also non-carcinogenic, so there you have it.

  I walk while digging through my purse for Dentine, so I don’t look up in time to avoid a collision. Trevor, the skinny kid with bad skin from homeroom, punches my ribs with his elbow, nearly knocking me down. “What the hell?” I snarl, tugging my dress straight, and glaring, though it’s possible I’m equally at fault.

  “Sorry.” Trevor says this to his shoes, as though eye contact with me will turn him to stone. “Are you okay?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. He just sidles around me, and as if I really am Medusa, makes a big show of watching the floor.

  As Trevor disappears around the end booth, I take a wobbly step forward. My constricting, sausage casing of a dress only makes me crankier. The door to my left tempts me again with freedom, but I can’t leave without fulfilling Dad’s terms for my trip.

  “Oh, Autumn? Could you be a dear and … ”

  Deer Creek’s art teacher Mrs. Phelps stands a few feet away, fumbling with a heavy stack of files. A flurry of paper slides from her folders and scatters across the floor. I rush to help, no small feat in this prophylactic dress, and gather up the pages before they’re trampled. There’s counter space at the Little Dickens Book Shoppe exhibit near us, and it seems as good a place as any to regroup.

  “Thank you, dear. I was in real trouble until you came along.” Impervious to my moods, only Mrs. Phelps calls me dear and lives. “How are things going?”

  “Okay,” I say, straightening a stack of papers.

  “Hm. Any prospects yet?” Mrs. Phelps is seventy, if she’s a day, English, and talks like a PBS special. But she’s the only teacher here that treats me like a person instead of a felon.

  I lower my chin and give her a meaningful look.

  She chuckles. “The battle lines are drawn, eh? Far be it from me to interfere—”

  “But you will anyway.” I smile, just enough to show that I don’t mind, then arrange her paperwork in a folder.

  “There’s life after high school. And it’s good. Sometimes, it’s more important to get where you’re going, than to trifle over what mode of transportation you use.”

  “Point taken,” I say. Because she’s right. I can do this. A few weeks is a small price to pay for emancipation.

  “Then my work here is done.” She slides the newly organized folders into her arms. “Thank you for your assistance, dearie. Write to me one day when you’re settled. I’d like to know what becomes of you.”

  That makes two of us. We exchange nods and she leaves me to it. With a renewed sense of purpose, I set out to find a job.

  Up one aisle, down the next, I arrive at the Banks and Cooper booth where Sydney is speaking with a silver-haired man in a navy suit. Coordinating black, yellow, and white fabrics cover the walls of the design company’s space. A few antiques are placed on exotic, faux-animal rugs. Pretty swanky.

  My sister jumps up and down like a super-ball, her white-blond hair splashing her shoulders. “Omigosh. Oh. Migosh!” Her volume is impressive. “Thank you for this, Mr. Taylor. You won’t regret choosing me.”

  “We’re happy to have you aboard, Ms.—”

  “Daddy!” It’s classic surprise on Mr. Taylor’s face as Sydney brushes past her new employer, mid-sentence, to greet my father.

  Dad’s chatting up my calculus teacher, Mrs. Hale, but my sister’s too revved-up to care. “I got the job. Imagine me in New York City for eight glorious weeks!”

  Heads close together, Sydney says something that makes Dad laugh. I don’t know what he finds funny, because when she’s like this, all I hear is I, me, my, mine. Dad pats her hand, and a lump too big to swallow forms knowing I will never make him that happy.

  Sydney peeks at me around my father’s arm. “Ooh, did you hear my news?”

  I nod.

  “So, where are you working this summer?”

  My father releases her to face me. They stand together, staring down like two ice giants.

  My mouth is dry and my lungs restrict airflow. I give them a slow, one shoulder shrug, unable to answer in the face of my father’s hopeful expression.

  A muscle in Sydney’s cheek jumps, a telltale sign of her frustration. “Seriously?”

  “Will you relax?” I say. “I’m still—”

  “Ugh, it’s not that hard! Why can’t you, for once, just make an effort?” People watch, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “Well, don’t worry about it, Autumn. I have the perfect solution. I hear there’s still an opening at Midland Safari Zoo. Scooping crap in the tiger exhibit is a perfect job for you. You’ll fit right in.”

  The nervous laughter of strangers fills the space around us.

  Something shuts down inside me. I think it’s my heart, because I swear it stops beating. My father plans every detail of these events, so I know the zoo isn’t part of his program this year. Sydney’s making a point; she just doesn’t usually make the ones about me quite this public.

  I meet her gaze, deciding between retaliation and quiet retreat. My eyes narrow. Retreat’s never been my style.

  There’s a tap, tapping on my shoulder.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Teslow?”

  I whirl and face a broad, plaid covered chest. Annoyed, I step back and crane my neck up several inches. Whoever he is, he’s a good six feet against my five foot two—with heels. “Yeah?” I snap.

  Feet apart, the guy has a confident, almost cocky stance. His face is mostly hidden between a full, copper beard and the cap pulled low over his eyes. The tanned skin of his arms shows where his sleeves are rolled back. The guy could pass for the centerfold in a lumberjack calendar, if you’re into that sort of thing. Which I’m not.

  “What do you want?”

  “Uh … ” He glances at Sydney and back to me. “I was told you like working outdoors and might be interested in a job?”

  Wait, zoo guy?

  My cheeks blaze as I realize what’s happening. Sydney said if I didn’t try, I’d regret it, though this set-up is elaborate, even for her. I don’t know where she found the lumber-clown standing in front of me, but with a few empty promises, my sister can make any boy her puppet. Well, she’s gone too far this time.

  “Really?” I say. “And what job is that, exactly? Cage scrubber, chief dung shoveler? No, thank you.”

  “What?” he asks, eyes widening. “I don’t think—”

  “That’s obvious.” My finger pokes his very firm chest. “I’m sure you two think you’re clever, but if this is some sick way of sucking up to my sister, it’s pointless. Gorillas aren’t her type.”

  “Hey! Now wait just a—”

  “My sister swaps guys like other girls change their days-of-the-week panties. Now, if you want to keep your balls intact, I suggest you get out of my way. I don’t need your fake job, or to work for some hairy Duck Dynasty wannabe, too dumb to know when he’s being played.�
��

  The idiot blinks once as I push past him. Through the silent crowd I walk, head held high, toward the gym’s double doors. And freedom.

  2

  Caden

  Me, a Duck Dynasty wannabe?

  Okay. Now, I’m pissed. Unwilling to give this girl the last word, I pivot to face her and see nothing but a rigid back. “Hey! Wait a minute. You can’t just … Don’t hate on the beard!” No reaction from the angry creature storming away from me. Brilliant comeback, by the way, I tell myself.

  Maybe she does have my balls.

  Caught between insulted and twisted fascination, my mind tries to unravel the chain of events where I definitely missed something. Clearly, the girl thinks I’m her enemy, but I have no clue what I did.

  Also, she’s insane.

  The room’s gone quiet and a crowd has gathered. Not surprising after that show, I guess, except they’re full-on staring at me. Some expressions are obviously amused, while others seem sympathetic. Most turn away, shaking their heads or looking embarrassed as I meet their gazes. My face is too warm and my heartbeats won’t slow. All of it makes me feel like a first class chump. Like I need pity for being bested by some shrieking, pygmy-girl.

  I head toward the doors she just slammed through, trying to understand why the tiny she-devil unloaded on me. Her hazel eyes, outlined in Egyptian-style liner, flashed like a lit match as she challenged me. “Maybe it’s some sick way of sucking up to my sister … ”

  My feet stop. What the hell? What sister? The memory of her hip cocked provocatively to the side imprints on my brain. How she crossed her teeny little arms and said, “ … it’s pointless. Gorillas aren’t her type.”

  Gorilla? Yeah, she definitely said that, too.

  “I don’t need your fake job, or to work for some hairy Duck Dynasty wannabe, too dumb to know when he’s being played.”

  No one plays me, babe.