Stolen Summer, page 1
Cassie Mint
Stolen Summer
First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2022
Copyright © 2022 by Cassie Mint
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-914242-94-6
Cover art by Avery Daisy Book Design
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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Contents
1. Poppy
2. Whit
3. Poppy
4. Whit
5. Poppy
6. Whit
7. Poppy
8. Whit
9. Poppy
10. Whit
Teaser: Silver Fox
About the Author
One
Poppy
You know those action movies with all the explosions and the guys in sunglasses? Those blockbusters packed with car chases and hot people fighting on trains?
That’s gonna be my summer. Metaphorically, I mean. Because over the next few months, I’m gonna burn my whole life to ash.
I will sever every family tie; pour gasoline over all their excuses; carpet bomb the future career my father lined up for me. And once everything is truly ruined, once there’s nothing left of my old life except scorch marks and smoking craters, I’ll stroll away like one of the action heroes in those movies, smirking behind my cool-guy shades. I swear I will.
An institution.
I can’t believe it.
My father is sending me to an institution, locking me away like a feral dog. And for what? ‘Behavioral issues.’
Bullshit, that’s what.
I’ve never done half the things he’s accused me of, but a tragic part of me really thought that maybe, just maybe, this time, he’d listen to me. He’d try to see my side. He’d think about this situation for more than twenty furious seconds.
The suitcase resting open on my double bed says: no. That was such a naive hope, and now what are my options? My father is a powerful man. You either cooperate, or things get much worse.
So I pack my case, stuffing it with crop tops and swimsuits and my To-Be-Read pile, like I really am going on vacation. I go along with this stupid plan, throwing polite smiles at the bruiser in a suit and earpiece watching my every move, and I say my silent goodbyes to the bedroom I’ve lived in for the last twenty two years.
The peacock blue feature wall. The sparkling glass doors, opening onto my own balcony; those wrought iron railings threaded with ivy. My walk-in closet and the desk I studied at for so many long nights over the years, finding solace in the sharp click of highlighter pen lids snapping back into place.
This room was my home. My only safe space. And you know what? It’s pretty damn nice.
But any minute now, I’ll be torn away and bundled off to some horrible doctor on the coast, sitting quietly in the back seat for the whole drive like a good little parcel.
Behavioral issues. Such bullshit.
So I won’t stay at that place; I won’t let him control me, and I won’t keep quiet about this, never mind my father’s political ambitions.
I will burn. It all. Down.
“Ready?” The head housekeeper Lilian bustles through the doorway, her painted lips pursed and the collar of her uniform ironed to vicious points. If she scrapes her red hair back into its bun any tighter, she’ll tear it out at the roots.
This woman has zero interest in arguing with her powerful employer on my behalf. I’m just another errand to her. Another mess to clean up.
“Born ready.” I flash Lilian my toothiest grin, yanking the zipper of my suitcase closed. I’ve probably forgotten a ton of stuff, but who cares? No doubt they’ll confiscate all my things at the institute anyway. Dress me in one of those white hospital gowns and try to force pills down my throat.
I hate them already.
“Do you think there’ll be WiFi? What about a mini-fridge in my room?” I trail after Lilian through the halls, my glowering temporary bodyguard bringing up the rear to make sure I don’t run. The brute’s dragging my suitcase, the wheels trundling over the expensive floors, and for his own sake, he’d better hope they don’t leave a scratch. My father is not a forgiving man.
Ask me how I know.
“You know how it is, Lilian. I’ve got a lot of trashy TV to catch up on. Big plans for this summer, big plans.”
That part’s true, actually. Not about the TV—though god knows I love a weekend binge-watch as much as the next girl—but about my summer plans. I’m supposed to be backpacking around Europe from next week, starting in Oslo and working my way south. Seeing the sights. Eating the food. Living, finally, out from beneath my father’s thumb.
I planned and paid for it all myself with the earnings from my secret proofreading jobs. I booked the tickets; read the guide books; learned please and thank you in a dozen languages. I even invented an elaborate cover story about an internship for my father, much good it did me.
Less than an hour after he discovers my plans, and the prison door is slamming shut. Cutting me off from that carefree life.
And maybe if Lilian knew these things about me, if she knew that my ‘behavioral issues’ boil down to a secret passport, she’d be less harsh—but the housekeeper thinks I’m the most vapid, irritating girl in existence, and there’s no hope of changing her mind.
I don’t even try anymore. I lean in, and challenge myself to draw out a loud huff from between those pursed lips.
“Oh, hey!” Clapping my hands together, I do a little skip to catch up. Lilian’s heels drum against the tiles: left, right, left, right. Marching to war. “Do you think the doctors will be dreamy?”
There it is! Victory. One angry huff to me.
“I think they will be strict.” The look the housekeeper throws me is withering, and I’m rattled enough by everything that I can’t hold her gaze, so I glance over her shoulder instead. Framed paintings line the walls of this corridor—all modern artworks. All priceless originals, naturally. “Lord knows you need some discipline, Miss Lennox. Perhaps with the right medication, you’ll prove a worthy daughter.”
Ouch.
That one lands exactly where she aimed it: right in the squishy bit between my ribs.
It’s no use showing weakness, though. I’ve lived in this mansion my whole life; I know the drill. And Lilian’s so far up my father’s ass she probably never sees daylight anymore, so which of us really needs sympathy here?
“I bet there’s a hot doctor.” I jostle her pointy elbow, ignoring her harsh words altogether. Behind us, the bodyguard curses when the suitcase skids against his heel. “Guaranteed. Hey, maybe he’ll take my temperature, Lilian. You know: the French way.”
Is that a myth? Probably. Either way, Lilian flushes an angry red beneath her powdered cheeks.
“The Honey Cove Institute is a professional organization, Miss Lennox. The doctors there will have far better things to do than indulge your bad behavior.”
I hum loudly. “Sounds fake, but okay.”
And this is fun and all, tormenting Lilian, but I can’t hide the way my stomach drops when we file out through the front door, squinting through the sunshine at the black car already idling on the driveway.
Dear old Dad moves fast.
“Safe travels,” Lilian sing-songs, all victorious spite.
I stomp to the car and yank the rear door open. And if I were well-behaved like they all want me to be, I’d probably have waited for a staff member to open it for me. I’d be dressed in a crisp designer dress, not these frayed old jeans and a tight red t-shirt.
Is a secret summer trip truly such a crime? Is it really a reason to hate me?
I can’t wait to never see any of these bitches again. When I throw myself into the backseat, the air con is freezing against my heated cheeks.
“The journey will be five hours, Miss Lennox,” the driver says, his tone bored. The partition closes with a slow whir, leaving me in silence.
Guess we won’t be chatting, then. What would he say, anyway? Sorry your father is locking you away and I’m an accessory to his evil plans. Want to stop for a drive-thru coffee?
The trunk dips down behind me, settling under the weight of my suitcase, then slams shut. The echoing thump is so final. The bodyguard prowls back across the driveway, one hand to his ear as he gives an update, and I’m left all alone.
Fine by me. I stare out of the tinted window at the ivy climbing the front of my father’s mansion, pointedly ignoring the smugness radiating from Lilian as she waves us off.
There’s no time to be sad. No time to mourn my beloved bedroom, or the rest of my belongings, or the fact that my father didn’t even bother to say goodbye. No time to think about Oslo, and the whale watching tour I had planned.
I don’t want to chat with the driver anyway.
Vengeance is on my mind.
Two
Whit
I lock up the private villa for this afternoon’s arrival, keying the code into the pad beside the door. Poppy Elizabeth Lennox. That’s quite a name. I scan her intake notes on my tablet and find a history of reckless behavior; no contact wanted with other patients; a strictly low carb, low sugar diet; private therapy sessions only and a request for immediate medication. She sounds…
Well. She sounds like a handful.
Her father specifically requested that we keep her onsite, because Poppy is a danger to herself and to the public, and she’s liable to flee. His statement was countersigned by Poppy’s own doctor.
Hmm.
I scroll down Poppy’s profile, my mouth flattening into a line. Her head shot stares up at me from the tablet screen, and it’s somehow the surliest photo I’ve ever seen. Long dark hair is scraped back in a pristine bun; her makeup is flawless. The crisp points of her eyeliner look like deadly weapons.
Poppy is pouting. She glares at the camera with ill-concealed distaste.
Yeah. A handful.
The midday sun is bright and warm, palm trees swaying on each side of the villa path. I focus on my surroundings, blinking away the lingering image of angry gray eyes, but my chest is oddly raw as I turn away from the accommodation.
A fine layer of sand crunches beneath my shoes as I stroll back toward the communal areas, the tablet tucked under one arm, waving at several patients when they call to me from the pool. I change direction, walking over to meet the nearest guest.
The Honey Cove Institute is more retreat than institution. Plenty of people come here bracing for the worst, for pills that make them feel sick and for group therapy sessions that tear their darkest secrets wide open, but often we find what they really need is rest.
Time to lie by the pool.
Time to read and reflect.
Time to finally stop running from whatever they’re afraid of, and face their fears in a supportive environment. Of course some do need more, and those measures truly help them. We provide that too.
But though I may be a medical man, I’ll never prescribe a drug when a few weeks by the pool will do the trick.
“Hello, Janice.”
The woman on the nearest sun lounger beams up at me. In her late fifties and widowed, with tight bleached blonde curls and tanned skin, Janice has taken to the rest-and-relaxation culture here with gusto.
“Is she here yet?”
We haven’t had a new patient at Honey Cove for over a week. It’s a small place with a community feel. Whenever we get a new arrival, there’s always a flurry of excitement.
“Not yet.” I don’t mention the ‘no socialization’ request on Miss Lennox’s form, nor the fact that I’ve prepared the most secluded villa for her. It’s confidential, anyway. “Did you sleep better last night?”
Janice rolls her eyes, her lips pursing, and after a few minutes of listening to the widow recount her night, I sit on the edge of an empty sun lounger, the tablet resting by my side. Janice is still going, tripping over her words in her rush to get them out, and this, to my eyes, should be an official symptom of loneliness. Word dumping.
It’s like all the unsaid things get stuck, lining up on a person’s tongue, until the dam bursts and they finally come out in a garbled flood. I smile faintly, nodding in encouragement as Janice goes on.
She’ll have to repeat it all later in our official session once I have her notes in front of me, but for now, this is what she needs. A friendly ear. A chance to let it all out.
Will Poppy Lennox need a friendly ear? Smoky gray eyes drift through my mind, and I stiffen, sitting straighter on the lounger. The warm breeze rustles through the foliage beside the pool, and the deep blue water is calm.
Across the pool area, someone snores loudly and rolls over on their towel.
“I’m not a bad sleeper,” Janice says for the dozenth time. “You know I’m not a bad sleeper, Dr Whitaker. But these nights in my villa…”
It wouldn’t matter if Janice were a bad sleeper. It’s not a test, and it’s not a matter of blame or failure. But I let her go on, listing all the reasons she still hasn’t had a full stretch of eight hours since she arrived: the muggy heat that feels so oppressive at night; her indigestion from all the fresh fruit; the cry of seabirds in the early hours of the morning.
Missing her husband.
“Perhaps another group session this evening,” I suggest. Sadly, I fear the sun lounger has taken Janice as far as it can go. “There are others here who know how you feel. Who can empathize.”
Mouth twisting, Janice frowns toward a nearby palm tree. The bark is rough and peeling.
“Fine,” she mutters eventually. “But,” she jabs a finger toward my chest, her bracelets clinking, “I still want our sessions too. Don’t you cancel on me, Doc.”
I hold up my palms. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The sun lounger creaks as I push to my feet, a songbird trilling in the bushes nearby. It’s only midday, and there are still lots of patients to check on. Staff to brief. So much paperwork.
And one surly society princess to settle into her villa.
Lucky me.
* * *
Poppy Elizabeth Lennox has a wild mane of dark hair, freed from the tight bun of her photo. Her eyes are ringed with kohl, and her frayed jeans and worn t-shirt are… not what I expected.
She makes an odd sight, climbing stiffly out of her father’s sleek limo. The engine purrs, the car idling on Honey Cove’s circular driveway, and the glossy black paint is already smeared with dust.
“Oh, perfect,” Poppy says when she spots me waiting for her. She throws her next words over her shoulder to the driver where he’s lifting her suitcase from the trunk. “Tell Lilian I was right, will you? There is a hot doctor here.”
Poppy turns back to me and smiles, but it’s not friendly. It’s toothy. It reminds me of those cheesy old vampire movies.
I clear my throat and walk forward with my hand thrust out, but Poppy folds her arms over her chest, her smile sickly sweet.
“Better not. Haven’t you heard? I’m out of control, doctor.”
Reckless behavior.
A danger to the public and herself.
I frown at the bitter young woman in front of me. She’s tense, yes, her slender body rigid with anger, and she bites out each word like she can barely unclench her jaw. Her pulse thrums in her throat, and she’s grinding her teeth. If anyone needs to relax, it’s this girl.
But Poppy doesn’t strike me as out of control. Not at first glance, anyway.
“We’ve prepared a private villa for you.”
“Fancy,” she spits.
Yes, she’ll be a handful alright, and I choke back a sigh. “The Honey Cove Institute is gated, with security on site. Until we’ve completed your first assessment, Miss Lennox, you are not permitted to leave. This is for your own safety and the safety of others.”
Flinty eyes bore into me, crackling with hatred. I wouldn’t be surprised if the sky opened up and a lightning bolt struck me down. “And after the assessment?”
Isn’t it obvious? This is a treatment center, not a prison. “If you are deemed well enough, you’ll be free to come and go as you please, and to withdraw yourself from the program if you wish. We have your medical notes from home, of course, to give the assessment more context, and you and I will complete a full interview—”
Poppy turns on her heel, marching across the circular driveway.
“Your villa is this way,” I call.
She wheels around, somehow even more furious than before. How is her storming off in the wrong direction my fault?
“I want that assessment today,” she says, shouldering past me with her arms still folded. Rolling my eyes, I take her elbow and guide her toward the right path between the trees. “Don’t bother bringing my suitcase.”
I won’t. I’m a doctor, not a fucking bellhop.
“I’ve got it,” the driver rumbles behind us, dragging the wheeled case along the cobbled path.
Shame. A petty part of me would have liked to watch this society girl struggle with her designer suitcase all the way to her villa, huffing and puffing, her forehead dewy with sweat.
“I have appointments already scheduled for the rest of this afternoon, Miss Lennox. Other patients besides yourself.” Other priorities. “We will have our first session tomorrow morning.”
Her scoff makes my temples throb. “And then you’ll let me go?”
