Chapter 8: Lemonade Memories

The house Mr. Carter booked was nice—a three-story place in the suburbs, with a long swimming pool out front.

The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and charcoal. Someone had already started the grill.

There were two big grills in the yard for barbecuing.

Burgers, hot dogs, even veggie skewers sizzled on the racks. It felt like the Fourth of July.

I picked a room at random, dropped off my things, and planned to rest a bit.

The bed was soft, the room filled with sunlight. I kicked off my shoes and flopped down, letting the stress melt away.

Half-asleep, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to see our team’s intern, Jamie.

He stood there, cheeks flushed, clutching a tray like it was a peace offering.

Jamie had joined two months ago, still a college student, apparently with family connections.

He always dressed a little too formally, and his hair never had a strand out of place.

He was polite and thoughtful, holding a plate of grilled chicken wings and veggies.

He smiled shyly, shifting from foot to foot.

“Rachel, have something to eat before you rest.”

He offered the plate with both hands, like he was afraid I’d refuse.

I quickly took the plate. “Thank you. You didn’t have to bring it—I could’ve come down myself.”

I tried to sound grateful, but not too encouraging.

A hand suddenly reached over and snatched a chicken wing.

I blinked, startled.

I turned and saw Mr. Brooks coming out of the next room, a chicken wing in his mouth. “It’s okay. A bit bland.”

He chewed thoughtfully, then shrugged.

Jamie’s face turned red.

He looked like he wanted to sink through the floor.

I frowned at Mr. Brooks, but he didn’t look at me. He took the tray. “Barely edible. Thanks.”

He shut the door with a click, leaving Jamie and me in awkward silence.

Seriously, what’s with Mr. Brooks? Why does he act so weird sometimes? Is he switching between human and dog?

I shook my head, trying not to laugh.

Jamie froze, then smiled awkwardly. “Sorry, Rachel. I’ll grill more for you. What would you like?”

He bit his lip, looking hopeful.

I waved him off. “No need, I’ll come down myself later. Go have fun, thank you.”

I smiled gently, hoping he’d take the hint.

A hint of disappointment flickered across Jamie’s delicate face. “…Okay.”

He shuffled away, shoulders slumped.

I knew he seemed to like me, always trying to please, but I wasn’t into younger guys and didn’t want to give him hope, so I nodded and closed the door.

I sighed, feeling a little guilty, but it was better to be clear.

I get carsick, and even after resting, I still felt off and didn’t want to eat, so I lay back down.

I closed my eyes, listening to the muffled laughter from downstairs.

After a while, there was another knock.

I groaned, rolling over. "If that’s Jamie again, I’m pretending to be asleep."

A bit impatient, I opened the door, forcing a smile. “I’ll come down to eat, you don’t have to—”

Mr. Brooks stood there.

He leaned against the doorframe, looking casual for the first time since I’d met him.

Unlike his usual suit and tie, he wore a black T-shirt, hair unstyled and messy.

His hair stuck up in the back, and there was a hint of stubble on his jaw.

He looked younger, a little wild.

For a second, I saw the boy he must’ve been before he became my boss.

He handed me a glass of lemon water. “Have something to drink.”

The condensation dripped down the sides, and the scent of citrus hit me before I even took a sip.

The cup was chilled, tiny beads of water on the surface.

It felt good against my palm.

The refreshing scent of lemon and mint instantly cleared my nausea.

I took a tentative sip, the coolness soothing my stomach.

I looked up at Mr. Brooks in surprise, but he just turned away without a word.

He lingered for a second, then walked back to his room, leaving me in the doorway.

The lemon water had perfectly peeled segments, no white pith.

It tasted like home, like something from a summer picnic.

There was rock sugar and honey, sweet and slightly tart.

He’d gotten the balance just right. I wondered if he made it himself.

The taste was so familiar, my heart skipped a beat.

A memory flickered at the edge of my mind—summer afternoons, laughter, the smell of fresh-cut lemons…