swiveled in her seat to stare at him. âYou have a house here?â
âI have a lot of houses. I donât like hotels. Theyâre too cold and unfriendly. Besides, real estate is a good investment.â
Sure, she was a big land mogul herself, her with her one apartment in San Francisco.
His house was more of a large, ocean-front cottage and was all clean angles and modern lines. It had clearly been designed around the view and there were windows everywhere.
Hardwood floors, cool colors, modern, sleek furniture. Two bedrooms and a loft. Heâd made it his, though. Heâd hung old surfboards on the walls like artwork along with surfing photos, tide charts, and ocean maps.
âWant something to eat or drink before we go?â
She shook her head. âIâm a little nervous about the surfing. I want to get it over with.â
âAll right, then. Get your cossy on and letâs go.â
âOkay.â She took a deep breath. Surfing wasnât going to kill her. Unless a shark got her, or the riptide, or one of those stone fish sheâd read about . . . âUm, which bedroom?â
âI use that one,â he pointed to the beachside room. âYouâre welcome to join me, or take the other.â
She didnât even bother to answer, but strode to the other room. At the doorway, she asked, âDo I wear a wet suit?â
He looked at her like she was crazy. âNaah.â
So much for that idea. In a couple of minutes she was back out with her bathing suit on and her sarong, her sunhat, and glasses. Sheâd already lathered herself up with sunscreen. She was as ready as she was ever going to be.
Cam was already outside with a couple of surfboards. They both looked enormous. Didnât he know sheâd never done this? She wanted something the size of a skateboard, not the monstrosity he was hauling around.
When she raised this excellent point with him, he said, âNaah,â once more in that poetic way of his. âThis is a learner board. Made of foam. You canât hurt it.â
âVery reassuring.â
He only grinned at her, and then carried both boards to the beach. She followed, thinking if he was going to carry that big heavy board around for her he wasnât all bad.
He put the boards side by side and told her to lie on hers on her stomach and practice paddling in the sand. He threw himself onto his own board and demonstrated. She tried to concentrate on his technique and not on the tawny skin bulging with nicely defined muscles, or the way the sun caught highlights in his unruly hair, or the little patch of sand that had stuck to his chin.
When he was focused on something other than getting her into bed, he could be a lot of fun, she decided, as they flapped their arms around and pretended they were perched on waves rather than sand-bound. âOkay,â he said, paddling his muscular arms while her own were already tiring, âyouâre paddling for shore, right?â
âRight.â
âWhen you feel the wave grab the back of your board, jump to your feet and squat. Like this.â He jumped and crouched there, looking like the real thing with the balanced stance, feet moving like a fencerâs, arms out to the sides.
âOkay,â he said, âyou try.â
It wasnât so hard, except she didnât feel like a surfer in control of her board; she felt dork-like and tippy. It was bad enough on the sandâshe couldnât imagine doing this with water wobbling away beneath her.
âAll right,â he said after theyâd practiced about fifteen minutes. âReady to have a go?â
âWhat, already?â
âSure.â
With a deep breath she rose and removed her sarong, the glasses, the hat, even the shoes.
There was a leash that attached her board to her ankle, which she hung onto as she pushed and dragged her board, fighting the waves and the âsoup,â the white choppy
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