“As you should.” She treats him to a wide grin, and I’m struck, not for the first time, how truly gorgeous she is.

When her eyes meet Matt’s, his lips lift into a smirk. “Hope you like venison.”

She scrunches her face. “I’ve never had it, but I’ll try anything once.” Her eyes narrow. “Wait, you cook it first, right?”

This draws a hearty laugh out of Graham. “Of course we cook it. We aren’t Neanderthals.”

“It tastes similar to steak. Maybe more gamey. But it’s not bad,” I say, since Summer’s still wide-eyed.

She nods, but I notice she doesn’t come any closer. Not that I blame her. It’s a lot to see a large dead animal on display. Nothing at all like shopping for your meat at the grocery store.

Austen adjusts his ball cap and announces he’s taking off.

“Where are you going?” Matt asks.

Austen tilts his head toward the house. “Mom made meatloaf. I haven’t eaten yet.”

Matt nods. “Enough said.”

“Enjoy, brother,” Graham calls to Austen’s retreating form.

“I’m going to build a bonfire,” I say, heading toward Summer. “Everyone’s invited.”

Summer turns to follow me. “Will we have marshmallows to roast?” she asks with a smile.

“For you? Anything. Let’s see if we can scrounge some up.”

While I get started on the fire, Summer insists on going up to the house to ask my mother for marshmallows. Matt drags over a couple of chairs.

When she returns with a big bag of fluffy marshmallows and a smile, I feel like I’ve taken a hit to the chest. She’s just so damn pretty, and my thoughts turn indecent almost immediately. But then she settles in beside me and hands me a flask of whiskey my mother filled for her.

I accept it gratefully and take a big swig, hoping it will extinguish whatever the hell this weird feeling is inside my chest. Too bad it doesn’t work.

Graham pours mugs of beer from a growler he’s just bottled. “It’s a day or two too early,” he warns everyone, but we all assure him it’s good, and it is. Nutty and vibrant with hints of grapefruit.

Summer rips into the bag of marshmallows and places two on a skewer, then offers me the bag. I dig out a marshmallow and eat it whole.

“Hey, that’s cheating. You have to roast them first,” she says, scolding me playfully.

Grinning, I help myself to another, and Summer’s laughter is the best sound. Light and slightly husky.

Those indecent thoughts are back—with a vengeance. This time, rather than another shot of whiskey, I shove another marshmallow into my mouth and chew. I expect to be hit with a sugary rush, but I’m so distracted by her, I swear I don’t taste a single thing.