Summer Attractions Read Online Free

but he was also completely certain of his own view. He was determined to be right, always , and stubborn beyond anything Jemma had ever encountered. She could very well picture him being asked to give up his phone and him refusing even though the intelligent thing to do would be not to receive a knife between the ribs.
    “He just didn’t do it,” Jemma finished quietly.
    They’d walked several blocks, and as they waited for a streetlight, the scent of salt on the air piqued her interest. “Are we close to the beach?” she asked.
    He shot her a sly, knowing look. “You said you wanted to see the real Rio. The real Rio is the beach.”
    Turning the corner, Jemma gasped in delight as the wide, deep blue bay and the ring of white sand beach, clustered with thousands of people, finally came into view.
    “Oh,” Jemma breathed out, filled with wonder.
    “I’ve missed it,” Gabe said, and the wistfulness in his tone took Jemma by surprise. She meant to ask him about it, but as they neared the broad boardwalk flanking the beach, she was too absorbed by the sights and sounds and smells of Copacabana.
    The brightly colored sarongs and headbands and shorts and the bright, flashing smiles of the laughing beachgoers as they streamed off the sand, looking for another icy drinkor maybe someone to spend the long, languid dusk with reminded Jemma that it was just her and Gabe together, and what had seemed so strictly business back at the hotel seemed a little friendlier under the sunset light.
    She felt a hand brush the small of her back, and though it was gentle even through the cotton of her blouse, Jemma still jerked. She knew he’d felt her flinch, but his hand stayed, and she gradually relaxed into the soft touch as Gabe steered her away from the beach and its full boardwalk. They walked down a tiny side street, ducking into a simple building that looked deceptively empty as Jemma glanced in the dusty window bordered with colorful stickers. But when Gabe opened the door, she was surprised at the sheer number of people packed into what looked like a small deli. A long, clear glass case ran along one side of the room, dozens of trays of delicacies inside. There were maybe a dozen or so tables, and Gabe shouldered around a few girls clearly waiting to pick from the case and grabbed the last table. It was rickety and tiny, the old wood etched with years’ worth of customers wanting to leave a reminder of their visit.
    Folding herself into the even ricketier chair, Jemma eyed the table dubiously.
    Gabe raised an eyebrow. “We’re lucky we got this one,” he said. And like he’d known what was coming, another wave of hungry Brazilians crowded in, some wedging themselves onto the deli line, and others searching for a free table.
    “Tell me about this place,” Jemma said, itching to pull her phone out of her purse and start snapping pictures of the crammed tables, gleaming glass case, and the hundreds of bottles of liquor balancing on a far-too-small shelf at the back of the restaurant.
    But even the camera on her iPhone couldn’t capture the delicious scents emanating from the kitchen and the flash of the gold rings on the hands of the bartender as he poured drink after drink, plucking bottles from the liquor shelf without even glancing at their labels. It couldn’t possibly record the low hum of happy chatter that seemed to rise and fall with each breath she took.
    “My mom was a maid at the Copacabana,” Gabe explained casually. “She’d sometimes stop by here on her way home and pick up a treat for me.”
    She didn’t know why she hadn’t seen it before. It wasn’t hard to feel a little stupid for completely missing the point that Gabe might live in LA now, but he’d been born here.
    He’d made it obvious enough himself, with his comfort navigating the busy streets of Rio, both in the car and on foot, without once consulting a map. And he’d made direct reference to it earlier by the beach, when he’d said