"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

Rated R

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

Chapter Seven

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Summer tried not to hover or show that she was stalking Atwood.

But she was.

She watched as Luke became giddy.

She watched as Seth agreed to drive them home, protesting that he was being used because he couldn't drink.

She watched as the two of them loaded up in Luke's maroon Jeep.

She watched as Atwood gathered dirty plates and glasses, head down and back stiff.

Then she was through watching.

"Leave those," she said abruptly. "Let's go into the living room and talk."

Atwood looked at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, then back at her.

"Really," she said. "I'll do them later."

She wouldn't. She would leave them for the housekeeper. But Atwood didn't need to know that. And she needed to talk to him. She walked toward the living room and plopped down on the overstuffed sofa. Atwood stood in the doorway, hands braced on the frame, but feet not crossing from kitchen tile into hardwood.

Oh, for crying out loud. Apparently, Atwood had decided he could come in the kitchen, but not the living area. Demarcation must have occurred, and she was going to have to coax him into sitting down before she could even begin to sweet-talk the last four years out of him. She sighed.

"Summer, it's time for me to go, too," Atwood said. But Summer noticed his hands didn't leave the door frame. He wanted to stay. He just needed a reason.

"Are you working tomorrow?" she said.

"Yeah, and I need to get some sleep." Atwood seized the excuse she had offered.

"So you could come back tomorrow night then?" she said, delicately.

"Umm … I have to work tomorrow night," he said.

"Second job?" she said, lightly. "Or third?"

He glanced at her before turning his eyes to stare at her ficus in the corner.

"Second," he mumbled.

"Do you have a third job?"

He turned his head and gave her a single nod before returning his eyes to the fascinating ficus.

"Plus school?"

He nodded again, this time without looking at her.

"So you probably wouldn't have time to talk to me again for a couple of weeks, right?"

He turned his blue eyes fully on her. He was smart, and he knew her. He had figured out it was a set of trick questions. He didn't say a word. She ignored his lack of response. He had willingly walked into the trap, and she was ready to spring it.

"So if you want to know what else I've been up to the last couple of years – besides setting a world speed record for marrying and divorcing – you need to sit down so we can talk tonight," she said.

She toed off her flip-flops onto the area rug, crossed her legs on the sofa and waited for Atwood to decide whether he was more curious or more stubborn. She was betting on curious.

After a long moment, Atwood's shoes clumped across to the green wing chair next to the sofa. Ha! She had won! Take that, Mr. I've-Got-To-Go-Too. None of that triumph showed on her face, though. Well, maybe just a little bit.

Maybe just enough that Atwood broke out a tiny grin.

"OK, you win," he said. "What do you want to know?"

"How many skanky hos you've slept with since you left me," she said promptly.

Woops.

She covered her mouth, wishing the words back in it.

But Atwood was laughing.

"One skanky ho," he said. "And one good friend. You?"

"Just the husband," she said, chagrined. "I can't believe I blurted that out. I sounded like Seth, didn't I?"

"Maybe just a little."

But he was still smiling. Summer felt hope begin to rise in her. She loved the way his mouth quirked up when he smiled. She liked the way it made his eyes crinkle, like dark blue thumbprint cookies.

"OK. Let's play a Getting-To-Know-You-Again game. I'll tell you one thing about the last four years. Then you tell me one thing. They should be related things. Like, I didn't learn to cook and you did. So. No. 1. I didn't learn to cook," Summer said.

"I learned to make tortillas," Atwood said. "And I can braid a little girl's pigtails now."

Summer was ready to stop right there and talk about that for a little while. Maybe a long while. But she forged on, afraid he would clam up again if they lost momentum.

"I learned I look like my best friend's mom when my hair is completely red," she said. "I learned going to work every day sucks."

Atwood looked curious, but he went on, too.

"I took a four-day vacation once," he said. "And I now know the toxic chemical effects of just about every pool cleanser on the market."

"Well, I've learned that being cute doesn't help when your boss is a woman," she said. "You have to get the work done. And Italy is terribly romantic in winter. Romantic enough to make you say 'yes' to a marriage proposal you should have said 'no' to."

"I've learned that if a blonde wants to drive your pickup to the liquor store, you should say 'no' unless you want to buy a new pickup," he said after a moment of thought.

"Oh, you got a new pickup," she said, stopping the game.

"Well, new to me," he answered. "Your turn."

"I've learned that when Daddy's not paying for it, I don't need as much car or as much house," she said.

Summer paused. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"I've thought about you at least once a week since you left and sometimes every day," she said, abandoning the game. "I know it was mostly my fault you left me. But now I'm stronger. And I hope smarter. I think we could make this work this time."

"I'm smarter, too," Atwood said. "Smart enough to know it wasn't your fault and it wasn't my fault. Smart enough to know this still isn't going to work, Summer."

"It could," she said. "If you give us a chance. Neither of us gave us a chance last time."

"Summer, I'm living in the nicest apartment I've ever lived in," Atwood said. "I think sometimes that I wouldn't be embarrassed to let you see it. But I would be embarrassed to let you live in it."

"I wouldn't be embarrassed," she said. "I've learned more about what counts and what doesn't. And what counts is this."

She unfolded her legs and stood up. The couch whooshed as air returned to the overstuffed leather cushions. Atwood's eyes followed her as she circled toward him, lifted his chin with a plum bisque fingertip and gently settled her lips onto his.

Atwood's mouth tasted so right. His lips were there, waiting for her, like tasting strawberry jam on warm bread, like holding hands in the moonlight, like coming home at the end of a long day.

Atwood let her kiss him long moments before he started kissing her back. It was like it had always been, so good, so good, so good.

She put one hand on his neck to draw him closer, pulling in the nutmeg scent of him, the familiar brush of his sun-toughened skin, the wisp of his sighs.

She broke away from his lips to slide her mouth to his cheek, feeling the whiskers waiting to erupt beneath as she searched for that soft, tender spot just in front of his ear. It was still there. She licked it once, twice, then blew on it gently before nibbling.

She pulled away from him as he groaned.

He slowly opened his eyes. They were sleepy and dense with desire.

"Stay the night," she said. "Be my lover again."

Atwood didn't answer. He pushed himself up from the textured arms of the wing chair, standing. He roughly captured her mouth with his own one more time, caressing her hair with his hands, then scooped her into his arms. She sighed. He was so strong. She rested her head on his shoulder, nuzzling into the warm bend of his neck. He always made her feel safe and warm.

He carried her down the hall and into her bedroom.