Naked Love

by Jones, Lisa Renee

  I squared my shoulders as I rose.

  There. I hadn't told the I'm fine lie. The one, which in the past month, had become my refrain to the point of sounding glib. But I hadn't told the truth either. I was fucking weeks, probably years away from fine. Because although I didn't miss Cassidy and knew I could get laid easily enough if I bothered to go out and find someone for the night, I didn't want to be alone forever. Which is possibly why I asked her to marry me in the first place. Idiot.

  "Gage," Gray said sharply.

  He smiled apologetically. "I am sorry. But you may want to stick around for another fifteen minutes or so."

  I eyed him warily. "Why?"

  He glanced at the door, then back at me. "It was Reid's idea. Lena's fresh out of her divorce, so we thought maybe that you two could…"

  I shook my head. "Oh hell, no."

  I'd heard enough horror stories through Reid to know that his psycho half-sister, no matter how chastised from her failed marriage she may have been, was the last thing I needed.

  Demanding and over the top were not things that would make me a happy camper right now.

  "Sorry, man." I tossed two twenties on the table. "But I've got to go. Glad we could meet while you were in town."

  I barely gave him time to say "Bye, Gage" before my legs rapidly weaved me past rows of round tables toward the door. I was practically through its heavy frame when I nearly collided with her.

  Lena raised her drawn-on eyebrows at me, to which I gave her a curt nod. She's lucky she'd even got that before I continued out the fucking door, the adrenaline ricocheting inside me fueling me forward.

  Most of my relationship with Cassidy had been on her terms, and I wasn't about to subject myself to that doomed experiment again. Over the course of the time we'd been together, Cassidy and I'd enjoyed weekly yell-fests, monthly breakup threats, and quarterly out-and-out walkouts. Cassidy had also been especially skilled at meticulously outlining every single one of my faults.

  Faults, which, as it turned out, were as numerous as the fucking stars in the solar system…apparently. Fucking socks on the floor? All her complaints had circled back to one overarching theme: I never opened up to her, and I hadn't truly appreciated her.

  Heading to my Mercedes-Maybach with the wise owl of hindsight on my shoulder, I had to admit it was possible that she'd had a point there. Whatever the case though, she should've made up her mind then—either accepted me for the disappointment I was—or left me a long fuckin' time ago. And it now makes me wonder if Parker is the first? Ah, who gives a fuck.

  Finally inside my car, I closed my eyes and pictured the beckoning vista of blue that awaited me to help me calm down before I started driving. When I opened them a minute later, I wasted no time in heading out. It was a twenty-minute drive to Folly Beach in low traffic, and no way did I want to be thinking of my dearly departed, bitchy ex for the duration.

  That was harder than it should be, though. This whole area was haunted by her to some degree—because we'd lived here together for two years.

  And yet, Charleston was my place, had been since I was a kid. As easy as it would have been to leave, it felt like there was something wordless tying me here—something like unfinished business. Or maybe it was because this was the only home I'd known, and that I'd designed the beach house I now lived in. Or rather in my ex's words: this godforsaken beach shithole. Again, I should be offended, but what-the-fuck-ever.

  Its location right on Folly Beach was perfect for surfing when I wasn't working. No way would I give that up because the woman I'd made the mistake of trying to build a life with had decided I wasn't husband material. She hadn't minded my money though. Cassidy had liked to spend it with gusto, so I hoped that fucker Parker was up to the challenge of credit limit increases on his Amex. I think the real beginning-of-the-end came when I asked her to sign the prenup. I'm not that dumb. I wouldn't have married her without it, and she must have known it.

  It was time to quit fucking crying over a girl that probably never even loved me anyway. Had I ever loved her, though?

  No, was the honest answer to that question.

  I was better off without her. Gray was right. I didn't miss Cassidy as much as I was furious about how she'd left me standing at the proverbial altar with my dick hanging out and thirty thousand dollars of non-refundable wedding cancellations. The blow to my ego in being dumped still stung, but I'd have to get over my butt hurt with that. I hadn't loved her any more than she'd loved me. Honestly, I doubted I’d ever fall in love. Maybe I was broken when it came to loving someone.

  Sometimes we all needed a sharp kick in the balls to move on, I thought as the water came into view. Taking my own sharp kick from the waves would do me the most good. And then? Forget the bitch, pay the debts, and move the fuck on with my life.

  Luckily, I'd been prepared when I'd met Gray at Jazz Street by wearing board shorts to our late lunch and taking my surfboard with me. As close a friend as Gray was, instinct had told me that our meal wouldn't go well. Probably because every time I met up with anyone these days, my failed wedding disaster cast an impossible-to-escape shadow over it.

  It cast a shadow over my thoughts these days, too. By now, thanks to Cassidy, I knew more about the dark side of women than I cared to.

  Ah yes, women.

  Why did we chase after them? Barely memorable sex? I couldn't remember the last time my cock had been in her mouth for longer than two seconds. Or the cordial treatment in public that was probably all an act in the first place. Her BFF girlfriends tittering as they shopped away our joint finances, in on the big bad secret—that they didn't need us as much as we needed them. Lies. This was all a bored game for them, a hopeless clash of make-believe with reality. And, in the end, everyone lost. Their Disney Princess bubble view of men was burst, as was our hope for any companionship or comfort. I'd seen them, the longtime "tamed" husbands with the already-dead eyes. The last thing I wanted was to become one. She was right. I'm not husband material, and I never fucking will be. But I hoped she was wrong about the "being alone forever" thing. Wasn't it possible to have enough in a long-term relationship to keep me from being alone?

  Once I finally arrived at my house, I sat for a minute, taking a breath. Mental rants like this—against Cassidy and women in general—were happening more often than I'd like. It wasn't good for me. Maybe I needed to go on a vacation somewhere…Costa Rica, Bermuda…somewhere hot and sleepy where I could drink away my problems for a good week or three on a beach with some waves.

  Going on vacation right now wasn't an option with work. No, the closest thing I had to an escape was surfing, and I took it every chance I got.

  I made a beeline for my house, tossed my shirt and shoes inside, tucked my beloved Hypto Krypto under my arm, and I was good to go.

  Sinking my toes in the warm sand, my eyes closed with gratification.

  Yes.

  No matter what had happened before, things were going to be okay now. The ocean sent a beckoning finger of sea air up my nostrils. My eyes snapped open.

  It's time.

  Since it was the middle of a Wednesday afternoon, the beach was empty—just how I liked it. Perfect for how I surfed.

  Being out there alone with no one to be seen for miles made me feel like a king, one who tempted fate. Like a fearless explorer or adventurer. I'd loved Indiana Jones as a kid, and riding waves, which were as untamed a beast as Mother Nature gave us, was the closest I could get to my own modern-day adventure.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I strode into the water.

  Unhalting. The very best way to bear the uncomfortable cold shock of the water.

  As it mercilessly encased my legs in its icy tendrils, I soldiered ahead. This was how you dealt with the cold, literally and figuratively. The same way I'd been dealing with the separation. One day after the next, hurling myself into work with a more determined, single-minded drive than I'd ever had.

  Once the waves reached my waist, I clambered onto my boa
rd and started paddling to the approaching swells.

  And then suddenly, I was there. As I was lifted, I arched my back, hyper-focused on popping up. This was it. If I wasn't focused, the unsympathetic wave’s strength would slam me back down, mocking my paltry attempt.

  My squint of focus relaxed only slightly with the realization that I'd done it. I was riding the sea.

  Not conquering it but moving with it—in a synchronized dance between wave and man. Saltwater hung from my face and a far-off gull cry echoed in my ears, and yet none of it mattered in this, this single, perfect instant when I was immortal. When the mirage of life opened its shaded doors to me.

  And then the wave crashed, and I was freed, spewed out, to chase the next one. The next fleeting escape.

  The next hour was more of the same. The wash of water over my eyes and ears. The dives, the falls, the bravery. My head resting on my board. My feet held fast on my board, sailing on pure liquid rush. The closest I could get to walking on water.

  And then it was over.

  But my mind was the textbook definition of clear. Maybe even holy calm had been achieved. Like the waves and the daring of them had somehow sloshed the disturbing thoughts out of my head.

  No, there was only life, plain and simple and right. The cool lick of the water stroked my front, slipping down my body. The far-off wheeling seagulls, celebrating. The sweeping expanse of tan beach. Empty.

  Almost.

  Except her.

  A girl who was…beautiful and carefree…standing on the beach with the wind fluttering her sea-colored dress against her body and whipping her long dark-blonde hair across her face. She also looked straight at me as I came in from the water.

  Or did she?

  I craned my head over my shoulder, transported back to high school. One of the handful of times a hot girl—like Nina with her unsettling Spanish eyes, or Chelsey with her rainbow bracelets encircling each arm, or Jeanne with her tall boots on long lovely legs—waved at me, and I'd craned my head around my shoulder to confirm whether they were actually waving at me and not another uniformed boy with floppy hair in the mass of students.

  But this time, there was no one and nothing else in sight except for an orange buoy bobbing innocuously in the sea. Only…me.

  Catching my eye, a radiant smile emerged on the girl's face. She waved.

  I guess that was a yes?

  She was waving at me.

  2

  “How are you liking it?" Stupid thing to ask, but my mouth seemed to be in the mood for only doing stupid with her, so I just went with it.

  Her delicate fingers had formed a visor shading her from the sun as she peered up at me from where she was now sitting in the sand. "How am I liking what?"

  Blankly, I stared at her. Really, I'd meant the beach. But now that I saw she had an open notebook in her lap and a sharpened pencil in her hand, I wanted to know what the half-visible image on the paper was. And she clearly had an accent—French maybe—which for some reason made me want to get to know her even more.

  I gestured at her notebook. "How are you liking whatever you're doing?"

  She bit her lip into a grin, glancing down.

  When she aimed her dark eyes at me again, they carried the same radiance as her smile. "I love it."

  I stood there awkwardly for a minute, debating whether to press her when it was obvious she was sidestepping my question.

  With a half-smile and a toss of her head, she flicked her notebook to me, paper-side out. Striding forward and crouching down, I made out the drawing. A well-rendered sketch of Folly Beach showcasing some pumping waves and, what looked to be a small figure on a board.

  "Sorry." She turned the drawing back around. "I have been at this for ages, but still get self-conscious. Some people despise being drawn."

  Her pretty eyes flicked to me again, looking for some kind of a response.

  I shrugged. "I'm only the size of a paper clip in your sketch." As her cheeks colored, a tempting thought occurred to me. And again, my mouth took over speaking more stupid shit I couldn't take back. "Actually, I've never had my portrait done. It could be cool. I mean, I could sit here for you with my board…if you want." Your fucking mouth, dude.

  She paused, her gaze drifting away from me as she followed the undulating waves. Perhaps she sensed my innocent question was not all that innocent. I could see now that her blue dress was fishnet, with holes large enough for me to see the yellow bikini she wore underneath it. Plenty of her very lovely golden skin was visible too. I could sit and stare at her for a long time without getting bored. My view was certainly spectacular, and if she talked to me in that accent of hers while she drew, I'd like it even better.

  She surprised me though when she gave me a vigorous nod. "As long as you are fine with sitting for a long time. An hour at the very most least."

  The adorable double negative she added to the end of her sentence was the clincher for me…if I hadn't already been convinced. I slung my board down and sat beside it. "I've got time." And for some reason, for her, I do have time. It was as thought I’d slipped into an alternate reality. When had I ever answered, I’ve got time?

  Something I couldn't name drew me to this girl. I wasn't able to walk away. My feet would simply not fucking move even as my brain shouted for them to go. Because I needed to find out who she was. Why was she here? Where did she live? I needed to know so much more about this beautiful exotic girl with the Parisian lilt to her words and the sexy smile, who wanted to draw my portrait.

  Oh, yes.

  She stood abruptly. "In that case it would be better if we sit in the shade. I was only sitting here because it was the only place with a good view of the water."

  I swallowed back my grin at the purring quality of her "r"s, and got to my feet, gesturing with my hand. "There's a palm tree about a five-minute walk down that way. I'm Gage, by the way, and I live in that house over there." I pointed out my place for her, so she would feel—

  Feel what? Safer? Assured I wasn't a serial killer? I had no fucking idea what I was even doing with this girl. Offering myself as a sketch model for a stranger—because she waved at me on the beach? Sounded fucking dumb when I spelled it out in my head. But that's exactly what I'd done. Happily, too.

  Another brilliant smile lit up her face. "Gage, it is lovely to meet you. I am Giselle. Your plan is perfect."

  Perfect all right. And I fucking love your name.

  Five minutes later, my ass was planted in the sand with my surfboard across my knees and the mysterious Giselle studying me in silence.

  She ripped a piece of paper out of her sketchpad and placed it on top. Feeling oddly self-conscious, I scratched at the side of my neck and wondered if I was going to regret this. "Am I allowed to talk?"

  She fired back with a quick and firm, "No."

  The disappointment must have showed on my face, because she laughed. "Of course, it is permitted." She then added a playful pat to my hand.

  My dick twitched in my shorts and my hand tingled from her fingers, as I sat there and said…nothing. My brain needed to catch up—fucking quickly. This kind of shit did not happen to me. Pretty girls rendering me speechless with a simple touch to my hand and a few smiles? Not part of my universe. Could she be an alien female perhaps?

  Biting her lip and brushing a stray curl out of her face, she said, "In actual fact, it is probably quite a lot better if you do talk."

  "Great."

  It occurred to me that I had absolutely no idea what to say to her. Everything seemed hopelessly stupid and trite. So, I settled on the most hopelessly stupid and trite question of all. "You're not from here, are you?"

  Another laugh.

  She'd started on the actual sketching, and since it involved her coffee-colored eyes bowed to her work instead of inspecting every inch of me, my shoulders relaxed a little.

  "What gave me away?"

  I bit back "everything" and instead settled on, "Your dress."

  In a roundabout wa
y, it was true. The style was way more bohemian and less buttoned-down than Charleston's usual beach-chic locals or its beach-casual tourists.

  She ran a hand over the fishnet material absently. "This dress I actually made myself." She smiled, drawing her arm down her body as if painting the picture of what she was saying. "Originally, when I saw this crazy too-large jumpsuit in the thrift shop, it looked so horrendous that I classed it as a lost cause. But something about the crochet fabric beckoned to me, so I bought it on a whim and decided to see what I could do with it."

  My eyes spanned the dress, but even more so what was underneath the dress, trying to imagine how the gorgeous result in front of me could've ever looked horrendous.

  "The material is very soft. Here, touch."

  She offered the hem of her dress. It felt kind of stiff and rough to me rather than soft, but I didn't want to sound rude. I hoped she was so entranced in her drawing, she couldn't see my reaction at exactly how un-soft her blue crochet dress felt.

  I caught her eyes sneaking my way before I clued in she was teasing me again. "Nice one," I said with a shake of my head.

  Pausing, she clapped her hands together as more laughter poured out. "Ah, sorry. I really ought to stop. It's just that everyone here is so polite, I can't help but to tease."

  Since I couldn't decide whether to be annoyed or intrigued, I settled on an easy laugh instead. "That's Charleston for you. Full of people who are polite to a fault."

  She focused on her notebook again, her pencil scrabbling away. "And you?"

  Her question caught me off guard, because I didn't want to talk about myself at all, but I couldn't deny her even the most basic of requests.

  "And me, what?" I asked, even though I knew what she wanted to know.

  Her eyes lifted momentarily from the sketch. "Are you like that too?"

  The hardened patch of sand where I was sitting started to dig into my ass.

  "It just helps," she explained. "For the portrait. I find knowing details about the sitter makes it easier to draw them. A more accurate portrayal, I guess."