Sweet_Tea_and_Summer_Love_-_Regan_Claire.pdf

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Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Now
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Epilogue
DV Plug
A Note About Reviews
Acknowledgements
Other Books
Who She Was
Copyright © 2017 by Regan Claire
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced without the express
written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly
journal.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of
their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one
of those terms.
This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Book cover and designs: Bruce Gore|Gore Studio, Inc.
Jarrett, I used to think that True Love was less believable than Wizards, Dragons, and Perfect Credit.
Thank you for proving me wrong.
Now
Why is this so much harder than I imagined it would be? The question echoes through my head over
and over as I carry my suitcase up the stairs and into my old room. Maybe it’s because I’ve barely been
back since that fateful summer over ten years ago? Or maybe because I can still sense my grandmother’s
presence flitting through the hallways even though she’s been dead for nearly a year now. It came as a
surprise to all of us when she left her home to me and my sister, Layla. My mother threw a fit when she
found out; she loved this house and its ocean view. Or, she loved the status that goes with such a home.
That’s the real reason we came here every summer while I was growing up. Not because she wanted us to
get to know our only living grandparent, or because the Yacht Club we were members of here provided a
safe environment for her children. It was the status that the family name brought her.
I’m excited to finally settle down. To think, I’m actually in a place that I have no plans of leaving.
Getting to know my sister again now that we’re both adults is a side-benefit. We haven’t lived in the same
house since, well since my last summer in this house, and our nine year age difference hasn’t helped with
our bonding. Though Layla hasn’t seemed to change much through the years. Her bright red hair has turned
a few shades darker, but she is still the girl that dances her way through life instead of walking like the
rest of us mere mortals. Her high emotions explainED the dampness on my left shoulder, since she
immediately burst into tears of supreme happiness when I walked through the door. After ten minutes of
hugging and sniffling, she ushered me upstairs to get myself settled before drinks on the patio to catch up.
My room, which had been completely in vogue when I left twelve years ago, is a sad, faded shade of
pink. My vanity mirror still has a million photos from my youth squeezed into the frame, and I’m pretty
sure if I look in the top drawer of my dresser I’d catch a whiff of the Tommy Hilfiger cologne that
adorned the hoodie that he gave me on our very first night together.
I toe off my sensible heels, then shimmy out of the tight, black pencil skirt I wore today and slide into a
pair of jeans so broken-in that they feel like silk and fit like heaven. After spending half a minute scouring
through my suitcase for the sweatshirt I just know I packed, I eye that top drawer.
“What the hell,” I sigh to myself and walk around my bed to the dresser. The faintest hint of cologne
does hit the air as I pull the hoodie out from the drawer. Or perhaps that’s just wishful thinking. Either
way, I wrap the arms of the hoodie around my waist to use if it gets chilly, and pad back downstairs and
onto the patio where Layla is waiting with a pitcher of Arnold Palmers.
“Anna Lynne!” Layla calls me over, saying my name the way only a true Southerner can: as if my first
and middle names were just one word. I grab the iced tea drink from her outstretched hand once I get
close enough, and thank her before taking a sip and blanching.
“Layla, don’t you think it’s a little early for liquor?” I nod towards the pitcher that I now notice is
shoved full of mint. That, and the heavy dose of whiskey that is now burning its way down my throat, is
all that stands in between the promised tea and lemonade drink and a true Southern-Style John Daly.
“Oh, hush. We’re supposed to be catching up and celebrating your return home! We can’t do either one
without proper libations. Besides, it’s what we’ll be drinking at your Homecoming party next week.
Which is what we’re calling your birthday party since you refuse to celebrate it like a normal human
being.”
I roll my eyes in a gesture much younger than my soon-to-be 30 years. “Just because you’re twenty-one
now doesn’t mean you have to pour alchohol in everything.” I wish someone had told me the same when I
turned twenty-one.
Layla ignores me and continues. “I figured we’d have a few now before the caterers come by later
with the menu samples. We want to make sure your signature drink tastes good with the food, don’t we?”
I give her a big smile then sit down in one of the chairs that circles the glass patio table. “You’re right,
of course. Come, sit. What have you been doing with yourself?”

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