Lemon Crush Read Online R.G. Alexander

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary Tags Authors: R.G. Alexander Advertisement1

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After she died, the invitations had, for the most part, simply stopped coming. Either everyone had gotten tired of me saying no, or they felt the same way I did.

I didn’t belong here.

The only one who might disagree—and who would definitely be upset about my decision to leave—was my goddaughter. Phoebe visited me all the time, whether I’d invited her or not, because “eccentric hermit aunties were her jam.”

She brought me soup when I was sick and we watched animated musicals together. We also talked about everything going on in her life. I’d been the first to find out she was pregnant. Mostly, I think, because she knew I had no life of my own and wouldn’t tell anyone until she was ready.

Being with her reminded me of the way things used to be between me and her mom.

And this house reminded me way too much of mine.

I ate another cracker at the table where Mom had had her regular dinners with Wade Hudson himself. I should preface that by saying the man had only stepped foot inside my house twice since I moved here. Once for our move-in party, and once for Mom’s celebration of life. But he’d shown up in my backyard every month for Sam Retta.

Before you go there, it wasn’t like that. She couldn’t have kept a juicy tidbit like that to herself, plus my office and bedroom windows both look out over the pool and her apartment. I might have taken advantage of that view whenever he made his appearances.

Mom hadn’t been amused.

“You could join us instead of snooping while pretending to answer emails. He was only rude that one time, and it’s not like you to hold a grudge. Wade is part of our family and he could use a friend. Your sister’s got her husband, Bernadette has her daughter and Yvonne’s moved out to the sticks to join a nudist coven or something. It’s not good for anyone to be alone in this world. Not even antisocial authors who have never learned to listen to their mothers.”

She’d basically adopted him, and to be fair, he’d tried to be friendlier after those first few gatherings. But instead of acting like an adult and rising above it, I’d been unnecessarily prickly around him ever since. All because he wasn’t that into me.

I glanced over at the pool I’d shocked with chlorine this morning and swallowed hard. Partly because of the peanut butter, but mostly because every time I looked at it, I remembered floating in it with Mom and Morgan in the early months after we moved here. Or that torrential rainstorm, when Mom had pulled out a red umbrella, not to keep her dry, but as a prop so she could dance in the shallow end of the pool. Soaking wet and singing in the rain. I still looked at that video on my phone now and then.

“Come on in, August. Dance with me.”

Yep. This was the right decision. I took a steadying breath and started sweeping again. “Let’s get back to Lemons, shall we, Merlin?”

He was lying down by the table, his eyes on the crackers, which meant he was willing to listen as long as he got paid for his time.

“I watched a few more videos last night. I’m not going to lie, the actual racing looks scary, but those guys are hilarious. They said, and I quote, ‘racing is not just for rich idiots. It’s for all idiots.’ Great for me, because I’m probably an idiot, but we are the opposite of rich. In fact, I’d say we only have another four months or so before our supply of peanut butter crackers runs dry, so enjoy them while you can.”

Like I said, even if I could talk my brother-in-law into my insane, but also possibly brilliant, plan, I’d need to spend some serious cash to make this happen. I’d ordered a helmet and racing gloves online last night, but my must-have list still included a fire-retardant racing outfit—including shoes, socks and underwear—and safety gear, as well as several different fees required to enter the endurance race.

Was I really going to do this? I had Jiminy as my ace in the hole, but on the other hand, I also had paralyzing fears of rejection, embarrassing myself in public and dying a violent, fiery death my first time on the track.

“I had the greatest idea, sweetheart.”

I was still doing it. I had to.

It was a pretty appropriate way to honor a woman that neither Morgan nor I could ever keep up with. Sam Retta had raced through her entire life like there might be a prize for the first over the finish line, moving from one challenge to another, impatient for the next horizon and too eager to wait for the turn of the tides. It had been impossible to keep pace with her when we were younger, and even after the triple bypass at forty-nine forced her into early retirement, she’d still run circles around us.


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