Mai Tai'd Up Page 10

  The real question is, did he notice how I whimpered the tiniest bit when he took off his shirt? No idea—because when he did, I couldn’t look anywhere but his torso. Lean, tan, lightly freckled, especially on the tops of his shoulders from a lifetime spent on the beach. He was in his wet suit in a flash, zipping up the back with practiced ease. And when I struggled to zip my own suit, he offered to help, taking his time.

  He held me steady with one hand on my shoulder, while I looked over at him with a hairy eyeball. “You okay back there?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he teased, his eyes nowhere near my own hairy eyeball, which earned him a slap on the butt from me as he went to grab the first paddleboard.

  He went easy and slow, giving me a mini lesson on the beach first. To distribute your weight on a paddleboard, you want to make sure you keep your feet about shoulder width apart and in line with your body, rather than in a surfing stance, where one leg is in front of the other. Because I grew up with surfers, it didn’t seem natural to me, but I was going to give it a go.

  The water was bracing but the day was warm and sunny, so it was a good mix. It was calm, hardly any waves, which was great for paddling. Once we were up to midthigh, he showed me how to sit comfortably on my knees and how to hold the paddle.

  “Hold it about midshaft now. Once you’re standing up, you’ll want to grip the end.”

  “Midshaft. Grip the end. I see what you’re doing there,” I muttered, struggling to keep my balance when what looked like a tiny wave actually made the board move quite a lot.

  “You’re the one with the dirty mind, Chloe—I’m just trying to show you how to stay on top,” he said with a wink. “Relax a little. If you fall off, no big deal, you get back on. And if you do fall off, fall away from the board. You don’t want to smack yourself in the face.”

  “This is supposed to be relaxing?” I sputtered thirty seconds later, when I did in fact fall right off.

  “Once you get into it, you’ll love it, I promise,” he said, holding the board steady as I climbed back on. “Straddle it.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I yelled, falling in again. When I finally made it back on and felt reasonably stable, we paddled out a bit farther. Once I felt comfortable enough to look up from my board, I took in the scenery.

  He sliced his board through the water, his strong shoulders moving effortlessly as he paddled just ahead of me. His back muscular even through the wet suit. That hair, messy and tousled by the wind and the water, a dark mahogany now that it was wet.

  That coastline was real purdy too.

  And before long, it was time to try standing up. “Now remember: go up on your hands and knees, get steady, then slowly raise up, bringing your feet to the center of the board. Not too far back, or you’ll tip. Just find that sweet spot,” he cautioned, demonstrating the standing-up part, not the tipping. He made it look really easy.

  “Hands and knees . . . sweet spot . . . Do you have a job taking late-night phone calls that I don’t know about?”

  “You’re stalling,” he said, and I nodded. I took a deep breath, scanning the water for fins. Nothing.

  “You can do this, Chloe,” he said, only a few feet away.

  And you know what? I did. I stood up on my first try, legs trembling a bit as I wee-wawwed trying to find the sweet spot, something that really did exist. Holding tight to the paddle, I stood up strong.

  “Way to go!” he yelled, and I turned to smile . . . and promptly fell into the water.

  But it was okay, that was just part of it. I stood up once more, and under his careful instruction, started paddling. And before I knew it, I was totally doing it! We went out farther and he showed me how to turn slowly, and then how to make a quick turn. He fell in, I fell in—okay, I fell in many more times—but each time it got easier, and before long I was skimming the surface, making great long pulls with the paddle, flying across the water.

  At one point I looked back toward the coast and realized how far out we were. It was so quiet. No cars, no buses, no radios; just lapping water and a few gulls crying overhead. It was a bit unnerving at first, feeling so far out, but then I looked to my left and there was Lucas, gently paddling next to me, grinning.

  Then I really looked around. When I saw the coast, this time I didn’t see how far away it was—I saw how from this distance you could really take in the cypress groves, the twisted rock sawing at blue sky, the mossy green grass. It was the same coastline I’d been sitting on not thirty minutes before, but from this angle, it was a totally different thing. From a totally different perspective. “Thank you,” I whispered.

  It was quiet enough that my words were carried to Lucas, who simply said, “You’re welcome.” And then asked, “You want to go see some otters?”

  Always answer yes if anyone ever asks you that question. Because they are the cutest fudging animals on the planet. Not far from where we started was a tiny, protected cove filled with kelp beds. And that’s where we saw the sea otters, in groups, rolled up in the sea grass to keep them tethered while they ate their breakfast on their backs. Breaking open tiny abalone and mollusks on their chests, they ate while floating in the kelp bed, aware of us nearby but not bothering to hide their buffet. I could have watched them for hours, their sweet little mouths busily prying off the outer shells to get to the tasty treats inside, all the while floating on their backs.

  Eventually the cold water became too much, and we reluctantly paddled back to shore. Chilled to the bone but feeling exhilarated, we plodded up the beach to the truck.

  “That. Was. Amazing!” I cheered, pounding on his back in excitement as we dragged our boards up through the sand. “Seriously, anytime you want to go, let me know and I’ll be there!”

  “I’m glad you liked it so much. I was a little worried you were going to freak out when we saw that fin.”

  “You’re hilarious.” I stretched my arm behind me, feeling for the string connected to my zipper. “Very funny.”

  “Okay,” he said, pulling his zipper down and peeling the wet suit down his torso, stopping around his bathing suit.

  “No, really. You’re joking, right?” I asked. “You’re just teasing me.”

  “Okay,” he repeated, a devilish look in his eye.

  “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” I shuddered, determined not to let anything bring me down from this paddleboard high. Except this damn zipper.

  “Want some help?”

  “Please.” I held up my damp hair so he could get to the zipper. He unzipped me most of the way, and I could feel the edge of his warm, pruney thumb graze the middle of my back, just below the line of my bathing suit top. I scooted away from the warm and pruney thumb to slip all the way out of my wet suit, wrapping up in a towel that was warm and soft from sitting in the sunshine. He grinned, peeled his suit off the rest of the way, and dropped the gate on his truck, creating a place to sit.

  Sitting next to each other on the edge, watching the now stronger waves beginning to roll in, he unwrapped the sandwiches he’d made while I pulled a bag of chips open with my own pruney fingers. Licking the saltwater off my lips, I looked around for something to drink.

  “I’ve got soda in the cooler,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder.

  Seeing it, I scrambled over the truck bed, losing my towel in the process. And as I leaned in to grab the soda, I realized I had very nearly hit him in the head with my bum.

  “You want something to drink?” I asked, looking over my shoulder to see him grinning.

  “Sure. Whatever. And feel free to take your time. Take a look at every soda in there. Twice, if you want.”

  I swung wide and made sure to knock him in the head with the object of his affection on my way back to my seat.

  “Here you go,” I said sweetly, handing him his soda while I popped the top on mine. We clinked, then sipped. The morning on the water made us famished, and as we demolished our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, he told me about another beach not far from here that we cou
ld try next time.

  “You’re making an awful lot of plans for someone who’s leaving again in eight weeks,” I teased, my words casting a bit of a shadow on the day. Part of me didn’t want to get excited about all these new plans, since he’d be leaving. But hey, this was just for fun, right? We weren’t dating; just friends spending some time together.

  “I’ll make sure those nights and weekends are worth it between now and then, okay?” he said, nudging me with his shoulder.

  I crunched down on a chip and showed him my chewed food. Even the otters heard him laughing.

  We spent the rest of the day lazing around at the beach. He dug a Frisbee out of the back of the truck and we ran up and down the beach, laughing and shouting and calling foul play whenever it went into the water. When we finally packed our sunshined bodies into the truck and started for home, it was nearly five o’clock.

  When we pulled up, I asked if he wanted to come in for a bit.

  “Nah, I need to get home. Get some laundry done before the work week starts up again,” he said, leaning his head back against the seat. “This is one of the times I really miss my ex.”

  “She did good laundry, huh?”

  “She did!” he exclaimed with a sheepish look. “It’s just not the same when I do it, you know? I used to just open a drawer and bam. Clean shirts, all folded and lined up.”

  “I did my own laundry, living at home with my mother. But Charles sent everything out; he liked his dress shirts pressed in a very specific way.”

  “I mostly wear scrubs.”

  “You sure do,” I said on a sigh, remembering how good he looked in that navy blue heaven. I cleared my throat hastily. “Anyway, enjoy your laundry. I’ll talk to you soon?”

  “You bet,” he answered, and I slid out of the truck. Looking through the window, I said, “This was an amazing day; thank you so much. Like, it was one of my favorite days . . . ever.” I meant it. It’d been perfect. I shrugged, trying to lessen what I was saying for some reason. “So, thanks.”

  “It was an amazing day, Chloe,” he nodded, his gaze burning into mine. “Thank you.”

  “Okay. So . . . bye.” I whirled around and headed inside before I could say anything else. Though what else could I say? How could the day possibly get more amazing?

  Oh, I had an idea—boy, did I have an idea.

  chapter eight

  The next morning, I was in town filling out the last of the paperwork I needed to file with the Monterey county and I stopped by the animal clinic on the way home to pick up some blankets they’d collected for me.

  Marge came pranced around the edge of the desk to catch me into a Jean Naté–scented hug. “Oh, sugar, I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever! How have you been? How was your trip down to see Lou? You saw him when you were there, right? How was he—I mean, how was your trip? Is he coming to town for the grand opening? Lou, I mean?”

  “Well, you are just all about my recent travels. How sweet of you to ask,” I teased, giving her a knowing glance. “And, yes, he’s coming for the grand opening.”

  “Well, now, that’s just fine, just fine, indeed. I’ll make sure to bring extra of my famous baked beans. Have you heard about my baked beans? Everyone back home in Savannah just raves about them, and everyone out here always asks me to bring them to picnics and potlucks and such. I’ll bring some and you just watch . . . that’s all anybody’ll talk about,” she singsonged.

  Lucas came in the front door with a bag over his shoulder and a cup of coffee in his hand. “Hey, Chloe, I thought that was your car out there,” he said, smiling and stopping just a few inches from me. “Morning, Marge.”

  “Hey, Lucas, how’s your day going?” I asked, turning from Marge slightly to look at him, which meant looking up at him. Fudge, this guy was tall; it surprised me almost every time I was around him. “I see you got your scrubs washed in time for work today.”

  “I’m barely here on time; I overslept. You wore me out yesterday.” He groaned, rotating his shoulders a bit.

  “Me!” I exclaimed, massaging his left shoulder. “You’re the one that wanted to keep going; I was good after twenty minutes. Especially once I found that sweet spot.”

  “Yeah, but admit it. You loved it.”

  “Oh, yeah. Totally worth the soreness today. But next time we should stretch afterward.”

  “Agreed. By the way, you left this in the back of my truck yesterday,” he said, pulling my bikini top out of the bag on his shoulder.

  “Oh, thanks, that was thoughtful. I wondered where that went.”

  Marge’s head exploded in a cloud of Jean Naté confetti. “What the . . . But when did . . . Now wait just a—”

  The two of us grinned at each other, perfectly aware of what we’d just said and how it sounded.

  “See you tonight?” I asked, and he gave me a slow nod.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” he murmured, his voice low and full of promise. “You headed home now?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I nodded also, just as slowly. I pursed my lips. He licked his. Marge sighed dreamily, and I had to cough to cover up a laugh. “Walk me to my car?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Setting his bag and coffee on the front desk, he guided me out the front door with his hand in the small of my back. Not pushing, just the warmth of his skin telling me which way to go.

  “See ya, Marge,” I called over my shoulder, then rested my head on his bicep for good measure. We could hear her sputtering halfway out into the parking lot. “I think we just made her day,” I cackled, collapsing against the side of the clinic.

  “I don’t know how you kept it together. I thought for sure I was going to lose it when you started in with the sweet spot.”

  “Well, that’s typically when everyone loses it,” I quipped, and he groaned. We took a moment to compose ourselves, and then started to walk over to my car.

  “So, tonight?”

  “What about tonight?” I asked, wiping a tear from my eye, still chuckling a bit.

  “Pretty sure you just insinuated back there that we had plans for tonight.”

  “I did?”

  “You said, and I quote, ‘see you tonight,’ ” he said. “In a very Marilyn Monroe voice too, which was a nice touch, by the way,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah, I guess I did,” I mused. “Well, we don’t really have to do anything. It was mainly for effect, just to mess with her a bit.”

  “While I always love an opportunity to mess with Marge, I’d hate to make us liars. What time should I come over?”

  “Come over?”

  “You said it, sister. Now you plan it,” he replied, pointing at me. “It’ll be hard to top paddleboarding, but try.”

  There was that twinkle again. You’d think a guy that twinkles as much as he does wouldn’t get to me, but boy . . . this guy’s twinkle had some voodoo magic.

  “I can’t promise anything as elaborate as paddleboarding, but how about dinner? Should be a nice night; we could grill and sit out on the patio?”

  “Done. Six thirty?”

  “Done.”

  And with that, a plan was made. And he was keeping his promise: those nights and weekends were getting filled.

  Speaking of getting filled . . .

  No one was speaking of getting filled!

  Officially, that day I stacked dog treats, made thirty phone calls to animal shelters within a hundred-mile radius, letting them know we’d be open soon and to call us with anything they felt they couldn’t handle, and color coded the dog bones. I also signed up two more veterinarians in Carmel and Salinas for our spaying/neutering program where we offered potential adoptive families the opportunity for that service for free.

  Unofficially? I daydreamed about a certain vet with ice-blue eyes. The daydream also featured those eyes staring up at me as he trailed wet kisses across my tummy, around my navel, and . . . no.

  No, I told myself repeatedly. The word rebound kept, well, rebounding through my head. Rebounds never l
asted. They weren’t meant to last—they were supposed to be the in-between guy, the transitional guy, the one you lost your mind with after a particularly bad breakup, the guy who went down on you in the kitchen while you made him dinner and . . .

  Fudge. Now I couldn’t get that image out of my head.

  But on the surface? I was cool, calm, and collected. Like the cucumber I was currently peeling to make crudités. Just a simple platter with radishes, heirloom pear tomatoes, red carrots I’d found at the farmer’s market, and some orange peppers I’d cut into matchsticks. And homemade buttermilk ranch dip. Made from buttermilk I’d gone to a local dairy to get.

  What? Just because it was a last-minute invitation doesn’t mean a guest should feel any less welcome . . .

  I could hear my mother’s voice in the back of my head, imprinting her rules of entertaining and forever being a good hostess. Always smiling, always easy, incapable of letting anyone know that the turkey came out of the oven and fell on the floor. If no one saw it, serve it. If the soufflé falls apart? Pretend it’s exactly the way it was supposed to happen. And if a hot ginger vet puts his face between your thighs and licks you until you come? Well, dear, just scream into a dish towel, because you’ve got guests in the other room.

  Oh my. Where was this all coming from? Delayed reaction to seeing him in his bathing suit? Because, wow.

  I arranged the cukes on the platter, clustering them next to the tomatoes. Due to my mother’s training, I knew how to cook, and I knew how to put together a beautifully thought-out table. And as it got closer to six thirty and the impending ginger kryptonite, this vegetable platter was the only thing keeping me from running to the bedroom and grinding on my hand for a few minutes.