Learning to Love the Heat - Everly Lucas

LEARNING TO LOVE
THE HEAT
EVERLY LUCAS
Copyright © 2017 by Everly Lucas
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any
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and retrieval systems, without written permission from the
author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
To my younger self,
for having faith that I’d eventually get my shit
together.
CONTENTS
1. Claire
2. Ben
3. Claire
4. Ben
5. Claire
6. Claire
7. Ben
8. Ben
9. Claire
10. Ben
11. Claire
12. Claire
13. Ben
14. Claire
15. Claire
16. Ben
17. Claire
Confession
18. Ben
19. Claire
20. Ben
21. Claire
22. Claire
23. Ben
24. Claire
25. Ben
26. Claire
27. Claire
28. Claire
Epilogue
Playlist
Acknowledgments
About the Author
ONE
CLAIRE
I’M LYING IN BED, WEARING ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.
My pink floral top sheet is a rumpled mess at my
feet. Sweat dampens the hair at the back of my
neck and glistens on my chest, between my breasts.
My long legs are spread apart, letting warm air lick
at the wetness between them.
I wish I could say that all this is from being
freshly fucked, but nope. It’s just stupid hot in here.
The sun went down hours ago, but the air
outside is still a balmy eighty-nine degrees—not out
of the realm of normal for summer nights in
Philadelphia. I have no clue what the temperature
is inside, since I refuse to keep a thermometer in
my apartment. I think I’d cry just from looking at it.
My dehumidifier rattles like a box full of
vibrators, and the fan positioned an inch from my
bed is as effective as a pinwheel. My air
conditioner is—
Oh, wait, that’s right. I don’t have one of those.
This isn’t working. The more I sweat, the more
frustrated I become, and the more frustrated I
become, the more I sweat. I roll over to face the
fan, but the new position squishes my breasts
together, creating a heat and perspiration trap.
Fuck, that is so much worse.
Flopping onto my back again, I throw a full-on
tantrum, pounding my fists into the mattress and
kicking the sheet at my feet. “Ugh! This sucks!”
Chances are good that my ear-splitting shriek
woke my poor upstairs neighbors. But you know
what? Screw them. I’ve had to knock on their door
three times in the past month because I could hear
their TV as clearly as if I were sitting right in front
of it. And don’t even get me started on their Call of
Duty obsession.
No, the annoying couple living above me can
listen to my completely justified scream of total
agony and get right over it.
When I moved into this building in June, it
didn’t take long to figure out my basement
apartment isn’t designed to accommodate any kind
of air conditioner. But it’s the perfect size, in the
perfect neighborhood, and at the perfect price.
And, really, how bad could one summer be? My
grandmom lived without AC until she was sixty
years old, and she never once died of a heatstroke.
Turns out, Grandmom was one tough chick, and
I didn’t inherit a lick of it.
Moving sucks, altogether, and should be
avoided at all costs, but I’d found myself with an
immediate need for a new roof to live under. It was
either this place or end up back at my mom’s.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Dawn Templeton to
pieces, but she sucks as a roommate. Plus, she lives
out near York, Pennsylvania, which would’ve made
for one hell of a commute.
With my pale—no, porcelain, since it sounds
prettier—complexion, Summer and I have never
been the best of friends. This year, we’re
completely at war with each other, and Summer is
kicking my pasty, porcelain ass.
Fifty-eight days until fall. It may as well be
forever.
Staying horizontal clearly isn’t helping me reach
my goal of not being awake, so I roll out of bed and
shuffle out to my tiny kitchen. I don’t bother with
clothes. Anytime-nudity is one of the main perks of
living alone, and I take full advantage of it as often
as possible. My ancient fridge makes its usual
alarming gurgly noises from having to work double-
time to keep its contents cold, and I give it a nice
pat on the head for a job well done. Then I abuse
the shit out of it by cooling off in front of the open
door while taking my time sipping a glass of water.
On nights like this, I miss the house I used to
live in. Not so much that I’d ever go back, but that
place had tons of windows, lots of light, and all the
central air a girl could want. If I believed in divine
retribution, I’d be convinced this apartment is my
punishment for past mistakes, of which there are
many.
But let’s not go there. I’ll end up with
nightmares if I think about it too hard…if I ever fall
asleep, that is.
I place the empty glass on the drying rack next
to the sink. The clock on the microwave says it’s
12:34 a.m., and my brain says, “Ha ha! I’m so
fucking woke, let’s circle the block ten times and
watch Food Network until the sun comes up!”
Me? I say, “Screw you, brain,” then collapse on
the couch and turn on the TV, utterly defeated.
SOMEONE ONCE TRIED to tell me that one hour of
sleep is worse than no sleep, at all. I found this
funny, since sleep is the greatest thing known to
man, no matter how much or how little you get. But
now that I’ve experienced it first-hand a few times,
I can safely say that, no, one hour of sleep is not
funny. In fact, it’s the unfunniest thing ever.
I’m fully aware I’m being a whiny brat, but the
situation is serious. If I don’t find a way to cool off
today, I’ll end up in jail for aggravated assault on
pretty much everybody.
I swear, I’m not normally this irritable. My
preferred state of being is less violent, more calm,
quiet, and drama-free. But, at this point, I’ve
reached a level of grouchiness so excessive, I’m
sick of my own bad company. If only I could figure
out a way to ditch myself like I’d ditch any other
toxic person in my life. That being disappointingly
impossible, all I can do is find ways to cope.
I could go to the movies—theaters are reliably
freezing. But my next paycheck is still a full week
away, and a ticket alone would set me back eleven
dollars. Between student loans and no longer
having someone to split the rent with, my checking
account has suffered greatly. It’d probably be wiser
to use what little is left in there for things like food
and, well, more food.
Another option is the café down the street. I
bring my laptop there after work most nights to get
a little writing in, but they never let me stay long
without buying more than a bottle of water.
Greedy, gluten-free bastards.
I splurged this week and bought a transpass, so
I guess I could ride the bus all day long…or until I
get sick of the sweaty summer-body smell.
Honestly, it doesn’t matter what I do. Anything is
an improvement on being cooped up at home. What
I could really use is a massive dose of fresh air to
clear my lungs, and I know just the place to go for
that.
Decision made, I throw on my royal blue one-
piece bathing suit and a shapeless white sundress.
Once I’ve packed my tote with a couple
paperbacks, some SPF 80, a huge bottle of water,
and an old blanket, I grab my keys from the bowl
by the door and head out. The second I step onto
the sidewalk, I’m hit with a scorching wall of heat.
What the hell? The sun should never be this
strong at eight o’clock in the morning. I’m
supposed to have at least a couple more hours of
ginger-friendly daylight.
Today’s current tally: Summer, one; Claire,
zero.
But it’s fine. Really, it is. I’m a big girl. I’ll
survive. I’m fairly certain of this.
On the bright side, Rittenhouse Square is still
relatively free of people when I arrive, so I have
my pick of lawn space. A large maple tree near the
Free Library calls my name with its leafy branches
providing ample shade. I spread my blanket over
the thick roots and get comfy against the trunk.
Because of the layout of the city, wind funnels
through the streets surrounding the park and into
the center of it, so I definitely feel that fresh air I
was craving.
Summer and I are now in a dead heat.
That’s unfortunate wording, but you get me.
I pull out one of my books, take a few sips of
water, and settle in for a long, lovely day at the
park.
TWO
BEN
ANDY’S TALKING TO ME. AT LEAST, I THINK HE IS.
There are sounds coming from his general direction
that might be words, but I’m not focused on him
enough to confirm that. I’m focused on her.
A flash of bright white danced at the edge of
my vision a few minutes ago, and I’d turned to
check it out. That’s when I saw her. Her pale skin
glows, even in the shade, making her look like some
kind of supernatural creature—an angel, maybe, or
an alien. She’s definitely the hottest alien I’ve ever
seen.
Her skin is what caught my attention, but when
I saw the bright red hair piled on top of her head, I
knew I was a goner. There’s something about a
gorgeous redhead that makes you want to find out
if she’s as feral and dangerous as she looks. And
hope like hell that she is.
This particular gorgeous redhead is camped out
under a tree, about forty feet from me. When she
bends her knees to prop up her book, the hem of
her dress pools at her hips, putting her long legs on
full display. It’s impossible not to picture those legs
wrapped around my hips or her creamy thighs
trapping my face between them as she screams my
name.
I can’t tear my eyes from her…until Andy
smacks the back of my head.
“What the fuck, man?” I jump back, rubbing
my poor, abused skull. “Was that necessary?”
My best friend tosses the Frisbee for his pit bull,
Cannoli—so named for his tan fur and white belly
—and the dog takes off across the lawn to catch it.
He trots back with the disc locked in his powerful
jaws, looking like he knows he’s the shit.
Like father, like son.
“Well, considerin’ I just told you I let a dude
fuck me in the ass and you didn’t even blink,
yeah,” Andy says in his South Philly accent. It has
to be the ugliest accent in the entire US, sounding
like the bastard child of Baltimore and New York
City, but, for reasons I’ll never understand, women
are into it. That could also have something to do
with his cocky Italian charisma, but they do love to
hear the man talk.
“So you dig dick now. Am I supposed to be
surprised?”
This earns me another whack on the head.
Andy tries to collect the Frisbee from Cannoli’s
mouth and ends up in a tug of war with an animal
bred for tugging.
“Fuck you,” he says to me, giving up the fight.
“You spaced out. You see somethin’ you like?”
When I point to my redhead, he contemplates her
for a second before giving his unsolicited
assessment. “She’s cute, but she needs a fuckin’
tan. She should get outta the shade, get some sun.”
“You’re shitting me, right? Look at her. She’s
an angel.” If this guy weren’t my best friend, I’d be
shaking my head and walking away from the
obvious crazy person. “Oh, that’s right. You’re only
interested in women with fake tans and fake tits.”
“I like a girl who takes care of herself. I see
nothin’ wrong with that.”
I let it drop and go back to my blatant staring.
At some point, I’m going to grow a set and talk to
her. I just need a little time. These things can’t be
rushed.
Looking away from her for a moment, I snap
my fingers at Cannoli and point to the ground. He
drops the Frisbee at my feet, and I give the happy
pup a good scratch between his ears.
“Damn…”
My head pops up, and I catch Andy gawking at
the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.
She’s standing now. No, that’s too tame a word
for what she’s doing. She's stretching her lithe body
from her toes to her fingertips, elongating her limbs
and making herself appear even more unreal than
before. With her arms raised, the bottom of her
dress rides up, revealing her upper thighs and,
where they meet, a bright blue triangle of whatever
she’s wearing underneath. The color is shocking
against her white skin, and I can't help imagining
what other shocking color might be hiding behind
it.
A strong breeze hugs her cotton dress to the
side of her body, showing off her curves. Watching
her before, as she sat against her tree, I’d assumed
she was simply slender. But this girl has hips and
breasts I’d be willing to commit all manner of
crimes to get my hands on, and—
Fuck me, she’s taking it off.
Does she have slow-motion superpowers? She
can’t possibly be undressing as slowly in reality as
she is in my head. That’d be far too provocative in
a park full of small children and dirty old men.
Then again, I wouldn’t complain if this lasted
forever. But the show does eventually come to an
end, to the eternal disappointment of my dick. My
angel lies down on her blanket, releasing her hair
from its clip and fanning it around her. I can look
away, now. And breathe.
“If you’re not gonna man up, mind if I take a
shot?”
Oh, yeah, Andy’s still here. I’d forgotten all
about him.
Wait— "I thought you said she needs a tan.”
I have to remind him he didn’t see the appeal
before, or he really will go after her. Once Andy
sees a woman he deems fuckable, he oozes charm
all over her until she’s on her knees or naked in his
bed. No way in hell is he allowed within oozing
distance of this one.
“She’s not your type, man.” I nod in her
direction. “Look, she’s not even wearing makeup.”
“Like I give a shit, anymore. A body like that’s
every man’s type. Plus, I’ve never had a real
redhead before, and that one looks like a ripe
fuckin’ peach I’ve just gotta sink my teeth into.” He
sinks them into his fist, instead. Better that than her
perfect skin.
When he strips off his shirt, I know he’s serious
about making a move. A panting Cannoli sits at our
feet and watches our exchange with one of those
big pit bull grins on his face, completely oblivious
to the fact that I’m about to neuter his owner.
I shove at Andy’s shoulder and stake my claim.
“I’ll talk to her. Just give me a second—and stay
away from her. Got it?”
The douchebag laughs at my uncharacteristic
territorial outburst, but at least he has the good
sense to step back and hold up his hands in
surrender. “She’s all yours, man. Take all the time
you need.”
I know he’ll stick to his word and leave her
alone, but he’s wearing one of those wicked,
arrogant grins I’ve learned not to trust. Snatching
up the Frisbee from where Cannoli dropped it at my
feet, Andy aims at an empty area of the lawn. I
crouch down to grab my water bottle and steel my
nerves, and when I look up, Cannoli’s chasing the
neon disc…and headed straight for my redhead.
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Flipping
my soon-to-be nutless friend the bird, I take off to
try and prevent a disaster. Cannoli wouldn’t hurt a
fly, but a massive pit bull charging toward her might
scare the future mother of my children into leaving
the park. And I’m not ready for her to go.
A high-pitched squeal has me picking up speed.
By the time I get close, Cannoli’s already
abandoned his plastic prey and has his mouth at her
neck. I call his name, shouting at him to back off,
but he doesn’t budge.
As soon as I grab his collar, my angel busts out
laughing. Not cute, girly laughter, but loud and
unrestrained, and I want to cover her mouth with
mine and swallow it all down. She’s squirming, too,
which…yeah, let’s not go there.
When she pushes the seventy-pound beast off
her and sits up, I see a large patch of shiny dog
slobber on her neck and shoulder. Instead of wiping
it off right away, she gives Cannoli a thorough
scritching and plants a kiss on his forehead.
Is this girl even real? If Andy hadn’t seen her,
too, I’d think I just imagined her and have officially
lost it. It was bound to happen, eventually. You can
only search for the One for so long before your
sanity craps out on you.
“Your name’s Cannoli, huh?” she asks the
thoroughly pleased pup. He wags his tail, like her
speaking to him is the greatest thing ever. And now
I’m jealous of a damn dog. “You look like a
cannoli. I could just eat you up!”
And I could just stand here and watch her all
day. But as much as I disagree with my best friend’s
methods, he did give me the perfect opening. He’ll
never let me hear the end of it if I don’t take it.
“Hi. I’m Ben.”
THREE
CLAIRE
I LOOK UP FROM MY NEW BUDDY TO SEE A MAN
standing next to him. Well, the shape of a man. I’m
only seeing him in silhouette, what with the bright
sun directly behind his head, blinding my poor,
sensitive eyes. I slip on my sunglasses, but they’re
not much help.
“Shit, sorry,” Ben says, stepping further into the
shade. Good boy.
He extends his hand to me, and I dig my fingers
into the quilt to keep from flinching away from it.
It’s a perfectly normal guy-hand. Nicely manicured.
A few callouses. No scars or warts or sores—
nothing gross or scary. I know what I’m supposed
to do with it, but instead of giving a quick shake, I
eye it up, debating its ability to ruin me.
Deciding that politeness isn’t worth the risk, I
send Ben a weak-ass wave. He drops his hand,
shoving it in the back pocket of his shorts, and I
feel a slight pang of guilt.
“Claire Templeton. Nice to meet you.”
Oh, good lord. Claire Templeton? What do I
think this is, a job interview? Am I so out of
practice with meeting new people I’ve forgotten the
normal way to go about it?
Well, it’s been a couple years, so…yeah.
Ben chuckles but takes pity on me by making
his own formal introduction. “Ben Cohen.”
Able to get a good look at him now, I have to
lock my jaw to keep it from dropping open. The
man is handsome. Too handsome. Beautiful, really,
but in a scruffy, masculine kind of way.
I’m tall, but Ben’s taller, probably by a good
half foot, so I’m testing the limits of my neck’s
bendiness to look up at him from where I sit. And
yet, I can’t not look. His unbuttoned linen shirt
gives an unobstructed view of his lightly tanned
skin and toned stomach. And he’s not wearing a
belt, so his cargo shorts hang low on his hips,
showing off a few inches of a treasure trail my
long-deprived eyes can’t help traveling.
Kicking off his sandals, he takes a seat a couple
feet from me and stretches out his long legs.
Well, that’s damn presumptuous of him.
“I don’t remember inviting you onto my
blanket.” In fact, I don’t remember even remotely
considering it.
“No, and I didn’t think you were going to, so I
invited myself,” he says as if that’s perfectly
acceptable reasoning.
“Uh huh…”
And that’s about all I can manage to say. I
blame his sweet smile for that—the damn thing
knocks me completely off kilter. It accentuates the
finely etched lines at the corners of his moss green
eyes. The shallow creases lead me to guess he’s at
least in his mid-thirties, about a decade older than
me.
His dark blond hair is pulled back in a bun—
something I find incredibly sexy on a man. No one
can ever know that, though. I’m the only one
allowed to judge me for my shameful desires.
“Your dog is adorable,” I say to fill the silence I
just made awkward by blatantly checking him out. I
rest my hand on Cannoli, who’s serving as a
convenient barrier between me and his attractive
owner.
“I wish he were mine, but no. He belongs to my
friend, Andy… Andy DelVecchio.” The corners of
Ben’s lips twitch, and I shoot him a warning glare,
daring him to let those lips curl up into the mocking
smile I know he’s fighting.
He nods in the direction of a tall, dark, and
heavily muscled half-naked guy. Andy, who’s
apparently been watching us this entire time,
flashes a kilowatt smile and waves. I shoot him a
half-smile back.
Not that I was planning on talking to any men
today—or any other day, for that matter—but I’m
glad Ben’s the one sitting on my blanket, and not
Andy. That man looks…intense.
“He’s a lucky guy,” I say. “Cannoli’s pretty
awesome.”
“Don’t let Andy hear you say that. His
philosophy is, ‘Luck is for the lazy.’ One day he
decided he wanted a dog, so he visited every
shelter in Philly until he found the perfect one.”
Ben rests his hand on said perfect dog’s neck, just
inches from my mine. The closeness startles me,
and I pull back, tucking my hands under my thighs,
where they’re nice and safe.
Andy’s whistle slices through the din of the
park. Cannoli perks up and runs to his owner, ...