"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Summer's eyes followed Atwood's as he looked up at her, obviously stunned.

He licked his lips, nervously, before trying to speak.

Summer's ability to speak came back to her.

"If you call me Miss Roberts," she warned, "I will kick you in the shins until they are both broken and bleeding."

Atwood closed his lips.

Summer regretted intimidating him, but she couldn't stand hearing her first love, her best love, call her by the name that had driven them apart. Summer heard her own harsh breathing, in and out, in and out. Just like Atwood had … once, long ago. It was over.

Summer snapped back to herself.

"What's the meaning of all this noise on a Saturday?" she demanded.

Atwood's eyes went hooded and dark.

"I have a work order to drain the pool and scrub the surface," Atwood said, consulting a clipboard. "We're also supposed to trim the lawn edges and around any obstacles before mowing later."

Atwood offered her the clipboard. She scanned the work order and gulped. That was certainly the correct signature at the bottom.

"If this is the wrong day or time, Martinez Landscaping can come back later," Atwood said.

"No, this is right," Summer said. She hated being wrong, and she was almost always wrong around Atwood. He never rubbed it in, though. That was one of the things she liked best about him.

That and his shoulders.

And his biceps. Summer's eyes followed her thoughts down the tanned forearms covered in sun-bleached hairs to the hands that made her writhe in bed like no one else had since then. Summer blushed.

"I'm sorry for disturbing your work," she said.

"It's not a problem, ma'am," Atwood said.

Summer watched as Atwood looked carefully over her shoulder. He didn't look at the ground in front of her. She had verbally smacked him enough times that he wouldn't do that. And he didn't look down her crop top like most men would. But he didn't meet her eyes, either. Obviously, he still had issues. And she hadn't seen him in three years – or was it four? Not since he walked out on her without giving her the chance to yell at him or talk him out of it or beg him to stay.

Which she would have. She had no pride back then where Atwood was concerned. But she was stronger now. And she had noticed that there wasn't a wedding ring on the hand Atwood was using to twist his gloves into a knot.

"Come see me when you finish," she said abruptly, knowing that Atwood would take it the wrong way but unable to come up with kinder words. "I want to talk to you."

She looked around to leave and saw all the interested lawn workers, no longer working, staring at her and Atwood.

"About this contract," she blurted.

"Yes, ma'am," Atwood said. "It will be at least two hours."

As Summer walked away, she heard the pump's motor roar into action again. She should have kicked him in the shins anyway. "Ma'am," indeed. It wasn't "Miss Roberts," but it wasn't "Summer" whispered in her ear, either. Well, she had a couple of hours to find her aplomb, and she was going to start with a warm bath – cold showers were for boys – while she tried to decide what to wear for a conversation with the man who broke her heart for her own good.