“What are you reading?” she asked as she peered down at me with one hand on her hip.
I looked up from my book and gave her a blank stare. I knew she was no more interested in what I was reading than I was at the moment. I sighed and closed the cover, displaying it for her satisfaction.
“Goldman? ‘The Lion in Winter’ is one of my favorite Broadway plays,” she remarked.
She took a bite of the apple she palmed and the audible crunch caused me to wince. It was one of those annoying little habits she had. From the time we were kids, she always crunched something with those pearly white teeth; apples, pears, crackers, ices cubes, Summer was driven to crunch things with her teeth.
Some women obsessively file their nails, while others twirl their hair. Summer crunched. If you counted the number of things she crunched through the course of one day, you might find yourself asking how she managed to maintain such a fabulous figure.
I eyed her with doubtful admiration. She always turned heads, but at twenty-eight, Summer was the type of woman who could cause a twelve-car pileup and keep right on walking. Amazingly, she never seemed to notice her effect on men. I found it disturbing that I was constantly reminded of the affect she had on me.
Summer was my twin sister, but it’s unlikely you would know it by comparing the two of us. We were fraternal twins, born in the heat of mid-July. Our parents named us Sonny and Summer, a rather unfortunate joke on me.
Summer’s name fit her to a ‘T’. She had deep blue eyes and a stunning head of naturally golden-blonde hair. It was smooth and silky, cut evenly below her shoulders. My gaze inadvertently trailed downward to where her pelvis formed a ‘Y’ at her crotch. Like an eager schoolboy, I made a conscious attempt to catch a fleeting glimpse of honey-gold in that area as well.
Summer didn’t seem to notice when I reopened the book and positioned it face-down over my lap. I felt heat flush my cheeks as I attempted to conceal the level of my interest. She perched on the overstuffed arm of the chair where I sat and placed one bare foot against the denim covered flesh above my knee.
She concentrated on the apple again, studying it and rolling it over in her hand before she nonchalantly asked, “Did you talk to Dad today?”
I grunted in response and sullenly pressed my hand to my jaw. I studied the one slender ankle attached to the foot she propped on my leg. Her toes curled against my jeans as she kneaded me like a cat pitter-patting with its claws. Her purple toe-nails scratched against the rough fabric in an aggravating way.
“What did he say?” she asked as she munched another bite of apple; its skin seemed to accentuate the dark color of her thick lower lip.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder and granted me an unobstructed view of both full breasts beneath the thin cotton nightshirt she wore. I drew in a deep breath as I noted her nipples standing erect. Frowning, I grasped her ankle and subdued the nails clawing at the leg of my jeans.