mess when I see him tomorrow
morning. And we just can’t have that, can we?
* * *
My timing is impeccable.
I do not want to miss a chance to see Chris
walk across the sand, so there’s no reason for me to be on time
when I can be early.
I park on Taraval Street along Ocean Beach,
get out of my car, and wait. I try my best to look busy, fiddling
with my phone, and checking compartments in my purse, but when
Chris appears on the horizon, surfboard in hand, wet suit tucked
under his arm, I freeze.
And then I blush, remembering what he did to
me in my mere imagination yesterday. I’m sure he’ll be able to
tell, to read it in my eyes. I really should pretend I’m not
watching him. But it’s impossible not to. I didn’t look away during
that scene in Casino Royale either when Daniel Craig emerged from
the water. He wears board shorts, low on his hips, and a pair of
flip flops. I watch him as he walks through the sand, closer,
closer and there, now I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I
would like to lick all those water droplets off his chest and his
abs and then run a hand down his body to sear into my memory the
feel of that kind of firm outline.
He’s lickable. He’s kissable. He’s
chat-up-able. He’s precisely the type of guy a girl can fall into
some kind of crazy crush for. He catches my gaze, and I should be
embarrassed, I should act as if I’m not staring, but there’s this
fluttery feeling inside me, and I want to hold onto it, especially
because he’s looking at me and not letting go either. Those green
eyes of his are the definition of dreamy, and if I were a writer,
I’d find a way to pen a song about them, how they draw me in,
romance me, entice me.
Soon, he’s mere feet from me, scratched-up
surfboard by his side, in all his glistening, ocean-ed up glory.
Neither one of us says anything for a few seconds, and it’s the
kind of silence that’s filled with unsaid things.
With wishes, with hopes.
Mine at least.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“Thanks for meeting me here,” he says, as a
wet shock of hair falls across his forehead. He pushes it back.
“Thanks for being a surfer,” I say, then I
want to kick myself for sounding so goggly-eyed.
He flashes me a grin and walks to his car, a
sporty red car that I recognize as being one of the newest hybrids.
He stows the wetsuit in the trunk, then slides the board into the
rack on the roof, stretching his arms to lock the board in place. I
picture myself slinking into the narrow space between Chris and the
car, the look of surprise on his face, then wicked delight, as he
closes the gap between our bodies. He’s warm and wet from surfing
and sun, and I’m warm and wet from him, and I imagine him lazily
tracing a finger down my arm, enjoying the way the slightest touch
sets me ablaze. I’d shift closer, my hips inviting him to become a
puzzle piece that locks into place with me.
I force myself to shutter those images,
because they have no bearing to reality.
He opens the passenger door, reaches inside
and hands me a bag with the camera in it.
“Good as new,” he says.
“How did you fix it?”
“I can’t give away all my secrets now, can
I?”
I smile. “I suppose not.”
“But maybe you’d be willing to tell me your
last name now that I’ve fixed your camera.”
Another smile. Another nervous laugh.
“McKenna. McKenna Bell.”
“Well, thank you for letting me fix your
camera, McKenna Bell.”
“Maybe if I’m lucky, the cat will pee on my
router next.”
He smiles, then runs a hand through his wet
hair. There’s something so effortless about the way he moves, so
natural, that I don’t even think he’s aware of the effect he has on
women.
Of the effect he has on me. I want to run my
hands down his chiseled chest, exploring the lines between his
muscles, the way his stomach is outlined so firmly. I want to know
what those arms feel like wrapped around me, pulling me in close. I
want his hands on my hips as he teases me
morning. And we just can’t have that, can we?
* * *
My timing is impeccable.
I do not want to miss a chance to see Chris
walk across the sand, so there’s no reason for me to be on time
when I can be early.
I park on Taraval Street along Ocean Beach,
get out of my car, and wait. I try my best to look busy, fiddling
with my phone, and checking compartments in my purse, but when
Chris appears on the horizon, surfboard in hand, wet suit tucked
under his arm, I freeze.
And then I blush, remembering what he did to
me in my mere imagination yesterday. I’m sure he’ll be able to
tell, to read it in my eyes. I really should pretend I’m not
watching him. But it’s impossible not to. I didn’t look away during
that scene in Casino Royale either when Daniel Craig emerged from
the water. He wears board shorts, low on his hips, and a pair of
flip flops. I watch him as he walks through the sand, closer,
closer and there, now I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I
would like to lick all those water droplets off his chest and his
abs and then run a hand down his body to sear into my memory the
feel of that kind of firm outline.
He’s lickable. He’s kissable. He’s
chat-up-able. He’s precisely the type of guy a girl can fall into
some kind of crazy crush for. He catches my gaze, and I should be
embarrassed, I should act as if I’m not staring, but there’s this
fluttery feeling inside me, and I want to hold onto it, especially
because he’s looking at me and not letting go either. Those green
eyes of his are the definition of dreamy, and if I were a writer,
I’d find a way to pen a song about them, how they draw me in,
romance me, entice me.
Soon, he’s mere feet from me, scratched-up
surfboard by his side, in all his glistening, ocean-ed up glory.
Neither one of us says anything for a few seconds, and it’s the
kind of silence that’s filled with unsaid things.
With wishes, with hopes.
Mine at least.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“Thanks for meeting me here,” he says, as a
wet shock of hair falls across his forehead. He pushes it back.
“Thanks for being a surfer,” I say, then I
want to kick myself for sounding so goggly-eyed.
He flashes me a grin and walks to his car, a
sporty red car that I recognize as being one of the newest hybrids.
He stows the wetsuit in the trunk, then slides the board into the
rack on the roof, stretching his arms to lock the board in place. I
picture myself slinking into the narrow space between Chris and the
car, the look of surprise on his face, then wicked delight, as he
closes the gap between our bodies. He’s warm and wet from surfing
and sun, and I’m warm and wet from him, and I imagine him lazily
tracing a finger down my arm, enjoying the way the slightest touch
sets me ablaze. I’d shift closer, my hips inviting him to become a
puzzle piece that locks into place with me.
I force myself to shutter those images,
because they have no bearing to reality.
He opens the passenger door, reaches inside
and hands me a bag with the camera in it.
“Good as new,” he says.
“How did you fix it?”
“I can’t give away all my secrets now, can
I?”
I smile. “I suppose not.”
“But maybe you’d be willing to tell me your
last name now that I’ve fixed your camera.”
Another smile. Another nervous laugh.
“McKenna. McKenna Bell.”
“Well, thank you for letting me fix your
camera, McKenna Bell.”
“Maybe if I’m lucky, the cat will pee on my
router next.”
He smiles, then runs a hand through his wet
hair. There’s something so effortless about the way he moves, so
natural, that I don’t even think he’s aware of the effect he has on
women.
Of the effect he has on me. I want to run my
hands down his chiseled chest, exploring the lines between his
muscles, the way his stomach is outlined so firmly. I want to know
what those arms feel like wrapped around me, pulling me in close. I
want his hands on my hips as he teases me
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