in.
Wow. Calling out for a man in her house was a new experience. She needed to decide if she liked it. In this case, maybe so.
No answer.
She brought her briefcase to the kitchen and dumped it on the table, where she spotted a note written in what she now recognized as Peter’s scratchy, all caps handwriting. ALARM IS IN. WAVES ARE GOOD.
She laughed. A man of many words. She stepped to the French doors and peered out. Three surfers sat atop their boards waiting for the promise of a next wave. She spotted Peter in a sleeveless, red wetsuit. Yowzer. Without a doubt, she needed a closer look.
Maybe she’d change clothes and sit on the beach with a glass of wine. She had work to do, but mental and physical fatigue had set in hours ago, and her body ached from head to toe.
Yes. No sense wasting a wind-free, eighty-degree evening.
Ten minutes later, armed with her beach chair, a couple of oversized towels and a glass of wine, Isabelle stepped off the back deck and headed down the beach to her favorite spot.
The afternoon’s blazing hot sand had cooled and her feet nearly sighed with joy. Sometimes warm sand was better than a foot massage. The sound of breaking waves crashing into the shore helped release the stress of the last couple of days and her body hummed.
Her space.
She watched Peter grab a wave and ride it in, deftly handling the process. She held her hand up. He waved, but headed back to the water. Apparently, nothing came between Peter and surfing. Just as well. She could enjoy her wine and watch, which couldn’t be considered a hardship with him in that wetsuit.
One of the other surfers, Doug, came out of the water and dropped his board to the sand. He surfed here often and they’d chatted a few times. Seemed like a nice enough guy. His surfer-boy blond hair and tanned body didn’t diminish the package and, recently, she found herself contemplating his maybe-we-should-get-a-drink-sometime suggestions.
Isabelle’s attention turned back to Peter, who caught another wave and promptly got tossed. Ouch. His head popped out of the water and he shoved his hair from his eyes before reeling in his board and heading to shore.
Sorry, Doug, y ou don’t have fantastic hair.
She stuck her wine in the sand and pondered greeting Peter at the shoreline, but with Doug standing not four feet away, she didn’t want an awkward situation. Not that they had anything going, but still, he’d showed an interest in her, and she didn’t want to be rude by ignoring him while talking to Peter. Men. Such complicated creatures.
Peter solved the problem by coming to her. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey yourself.”
She tossed him one of the two towels and eyed him as he ran it over his face and rioting hair. She had to get her hands in that hair. Soon.
Doug, his board tucked under his arm, chose that moment to walk by. He slowed his pace but didn’t stop. “Hi, Isabelle.”
“Hey. Good ride?”
He smiled, his straight white teeth and dimples shining. “Pretty good.” He jerked his head at Peter. “Howzit, brah?”
“Good,” Peter continued drying himself off and rolled his eyes. He watched the other man walk toward the street and turned back to her. “Surfer speak. Has he ever even been to Hawaii?”
Isabelle laughed. “I couldn’t say.”
“He a friend of yours?”
That’s right. Peter the caveman didn’t like to share. He’d said so yesterday when he talked about his ex-wife. “I know him a little bit.”
Peter spread the towel on the sand and reached back to unzip his wet suit. Oh, this would be a pleasure. She already had a nice view of his rock-solid arms and, given what she saw in that clingy wetsuit, the rest had to be good.
Focused on shoving the wetsuit down his arms, he peeled the suit off his body to reveal his chest and abs. Yummy. Springy dark hair, perfect pecs and one hell of a six-pack. The heat of something truly amazing happening stole her breath. Had the sun just risen inside her
Wow. Calling out for a man in her house was a new experience. She needed to decide if she liked it. In this case, maybe so.
No answer.
She brought her briefcase to the kitchen and dumped it on the table, where she spotted a note written in what she now recognized as Peter’s scratchy, all caps handwriting. ALARM IS IN. WAVES ARE GOOD.
She laughed. A man of many words. She stepped to the French doors and peered out. Three surfers sat atop their boards waiting for the promise of a next wave. She spotted Peter in a sleeveless, red wetsuit. Yowzer. Without a doubt, she needed a closer look.
Maybe she’d change clothes and sit on the beach with a glass of wine. She had work to do, but mental and physical fatigue had set in hours ago, and her body ached from head to toe.
Yes. No sense wasting a wind-free, eighty-degree evening.
Ten minutes later, armed with her beach chair, a couple of oversized towels and a glass of wine, Isabelle stepped off the back deck and headed down the beach to her favorite spot.
The afternoon’s blazing hot sand had cooled and her feet nearly sighed with joy. Sometimes warm sand was better than a foot massage. The sound of breaking waves crashing into the shore helped release the stress of the last couple of days and her body hummed.
Her space.
She watched Peter grab a wave and ride it in, deftly handling the process. She held her hand up. He waved, but headed back to the water. Apparently, nothing came between Peter and surfing. Just as well. She could enjoy her wine and watch, which couldn’t be considered a hardship with him in that wetsuit.
One of the other surfers, Doug, came out of the water and dropped his board to the sand. He surfed here often and they’d chatted a few times. Seemed like a nice enough guy. His surfer-boy blond hair and tanned body didn’t diminish the package and, recently, she found herself contemplating his maybe-we-should-get-a-drink-sometime suggestions.
Isabelle’s attention turned back to Peter, who caught another wave and promptly got tossed. Ouch. His head popped out of the water and he shoved his hair from his eyes before reeling in his board and heading to shore.
Sorry, Doug, y ou don’t have fantastic hair.
She stuck her wine in the sand and pondered greeting Peter at the shoreline, but with Doug standing not four feet away, she didn’t want an awkward situation. Not that they had anything going, but still, he’d showed an interest in her, and she didn’t want to be rude by ignoring him while talking to Peter. Men. Such complicated creatures.
Peter solved the problem by coming to her. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey yourself.”
She tossed him one of the two towels and eyed him as he ran it over his face and rioting hair. She had to get her hands in that hair. Soon.
Doug, his board tucked under his arm, chose that moment to walk by. He slowed his pace but didn’t stop. “Hi, Isabelle.”
“Hey. Good ride?”
He smiled, his straight white teeth and dimples shining. “Pretty good.” He jerked his head at Peter. “Howzit, brah?”
“Good,” Peter continued drying himself off and rolled his eyes. He watched the other man walk toward the street and turned back to her. “Surfer speak. Has he ever even been to Hawaii?”
Isabelle laughed. “I couldn’t say.”
“He a friend of yours?”
That’s right. Peter the caveman didn’t like to share. He’d said so yesterday when he talked about his ex-wife. “I know him a little bit.”
Peter spread the towel on the sand and reached back to unzip his wet suit. Oh, this would be a pleasure. She already had a nice view of his rock-solid arms and, given what she saw in that clingy wetsuit, the rest had to be good.
Focused on shoving the wetsuit down his arms, he peeled the suit off his body to reveal his chest and abs. Yummy. Springy dark hair, perfect pecs and one hell of a six-pack. The heat of something truly amazing happening stole her breath. Had the sun just risen inside her
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