The Fourth Summer. Kathleen Gilles Seidel

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      LYRICAL PRESS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

       www.kensingtonbooks.com

      To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

      LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      119 West 40th Street

      New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2018 by Kathleen Gilles Seidel

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      Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

      First Electronic Edition: July 2018

      eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0733-9

      eISBN-10: 1-5161-0733-0

      Printed in the United States of America

      Dedication

      For Cynthia Matlack because when you need her,

      she is always, always there

      CHAPTER ONE

      “I’m so screwed.” Seth stared at his phone.

      Nate grabbed the device and looked at the screen. “Oh, yeah, you are. Didn’t your mom warn you about this?”

      Ben was on the sofa, his feet on the coffee table, his hands linked behind his head. “I don’t know how you clowns ever get women when you still count on your moms so much.”

      “I don’t know either,” Nate replied cheerfully. “But we do.”

      The three guys were hanging out in the chalet they shared on the grounds of the Endless Snow Resort on Oregon’s Mt. Hood. They were wearing long-sleeved tees and hoodies, low-slung pants, and knit caps pulled over their shaggy hair. A snowboarding video was playing on the newest-model, wall-mounted TV. The front hall was carpeted with boots and wet coats. Medals of every color were draped over the necks of empty beer bottles.

      They were professional snowboarders, three friends in their midtwenties who had trained together since they were kids. On the mountain they were disciplined, dedicated, and determined. They had to be. Snowboarding is dangerous. The rest of the time they felt contractually obligated to have fun. Fans expected snowboarders to be the pirates of winter sports: brash, reckless, and a little weird. This came quite naturally to these three.

      “This isn’t a joke.” Seth shoved his phone back in his pocket. “Have some sympathy. You don’t have to go home and report for jury duty.”

      “Because we already are home,” Ben pointed out. “We changed our addresses. We are officially Oregonians. Have been for a couple of years.”

      “My mom did it for me,” Nate admitted. “But relax. Why would anyone ever want you on a jury?”

      Despite living in Oregon, Seth was still registered to vote in North Carolina where his parents lived, he carried a North Carolina driver’s license, and he paid his income tax to the Tar Heel State. He had already burned through two postponements during the winter competition season. Now he was stuck. He either faced a contempt of court citation, or he went home, spent the night on the Luke Skywalker sheets in his old bedroom, and reported for jury duty. Luke Skywalker it was.

      So on the last Sunday in June the male twig on the Street family tree flew home and spent the evening with his parents and his sisters’ families. Monday morning he drove to the courthouse, found the jury assembly room, and got in line to check in like an actual adult. As he waited, he scanned the room, looking at—let’s be honest here—the young women.

      One blonde, pretty in a popped-collar-and-pearls way, nudged her companion, also a blonde, also with the popped collar and pearls. They recognized him. Seth tried to make eye contact; they looked away nervously.

      He took another step forward in line. A dark-haired girl, wearing headphones, was working on her computer, using a wireless mouse. Her elbow was propped up on the table; that hand blocked a view of her face. The rest of her looked petite and hipster cute. She was wearing a short black skirt, retro sneakers, and a big man’s watch on her narrow wrist. There were empty chairs at her table. He would go sit there.

      Then she straightened, dropped both hands to the keyboard, and started to type...well, hello, was this possible? Yes, she was Caitlin, Caitlin McGraw, from the summers.

      Suddenly he was a kid again, in his mother’s kitchen, staring at the clock, desperate to have the minute hand move faster. The bus from Charlotte gets in at...then her grandmother will pick her up...and it takes twelve minutes for me... But he would still get there too early and have to sit on her grandmother’s front steps, waiting.

      An instant later he was at her table. “Caitlin?” He touched her shoulder in case she couldn’t hear him over her music.

      She looked up, pulling out her earbuds as she did. One of the cords got tangled in her hair.

      Those eyes, those beautiful brown eyes...how could СКАЧАТЬ