Maybe...
“Miss Robbins? Are you paying attention?”
“What?” She looked up to find Mr. Francis, the instructor, frowning at her and her immobile lump of clay. She belatedly realized she’d been so lost in her own thoughts that she’d missed her cue. Everyone else was already forming small bowls as their wheels spun and whirred in a cacophony.
“Just start easy,” Mr. Francis said, smiling a little, although she sensed he was a little impatient with her. She wondered just how long she and her lump of clay had been sitting there. “Wet your hands and just slowly work the clay. Okay?”
She nodded, horribly embarrassed that she was so far behind. She dunked her hands in the small plastic bowl of water and went at the clay with a vengeance.
“Slowly!” Mr. Francis cautioned, then started to walk away.
“Slowly,” she repeated, easing her foot off the pottery wheel’s “accelerator.” The clay barely spun. She pushed at it. It looked... like a smushed piece of clay, she thought critically.
She had always hated art projects, she remembered for no good reason. She’d stopped taking classes as soon as she could. At least art teachers never failed you, but she had ruined her high-school A average with art class.
What in the world was I thinking?
She shouldn’t be in an art class, or a dance class.
She closed her eyes. Her happiest memories were from the beach, back when she was very young. Before her father had become a CEO, then a venture capitalist… before her mother had become a successful nonfiction author and was just a sociology professor with summers off. They’d all gone to the beach, her brother, her sister and her parents.
She didn’t notice that she was pressing down on the pedal, didn’t register the clay slowly inching its way out from the center of the wheel. Didn’t see any of it.
Sean Gilroy might be a pain in the neck, but he didn’t look unhappy, she thought. In fact, she had yet to see a stressed-out-looking surfer. Maybe there was something there that she shouldn’t give up on so easily.
“Miss Robbins!”
Her head snapped up with an audible click. “Yes?” she said out of reflex, tensing. Her foot floored the pedal.
The clay finally got critical momentum, and it flew across the room, a wet, heavy projectile. Mr. Francis barely squeaked before it smacked him hard in the center of the chest, knocking him over.
“Oh, crap! ” Allison rushed over to him, as did several other students. “I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry. Are you all right? Are you...”
He looked at her. “Slowly,” he grunted. “I said slowly."
She nodded, glum. "I'll...er...”
“Have you considered,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow, “trying painting?”
She nodded, even more miserably. “I took watercolor with Ms. Peterson.”
“And...?”
Allison sighed. “She suggested pottery.”
He rolled his eyes, wincing and touching his chest. “You know,” he said, getting up, “I think there’s a few open spaces in the origami class.”
That was it. The final straw. The last humiliation. How much worse could it get than this?
She took a deep breath. “I think this is my last art class,” she said, and packed her things.
She’d just have to swallow some pride, and go back to Tubes. And convince Mr. Sean Gilroy that she had what it took to be a surfer. She convinced people for a living.
How hard could it be, right?
CHAPTER THREE
SEAN SAT at the counter at Tubes, at four o’clock on a Saturday. He couldn’t believe it was this slow, especially when Christmas shopping ought to be in full swing. Still, there was at least one good thing to come out of business being so wretched. It gave him plenty of time to go through the classifieds. He now had twenty-four days or so to find a new place to live. When life gives you lemons, he thought ironically, trying not to wince as he saw the prices of places to live. Sixteen hundred bucks for a one-bedroom that wasn’t even close to the beach? He knew he had been lucky to have the sweet setup with Oz, just steps from both the beach and his job. At this rate, he was going to have to get a second job just to cover rent. And it had better be at a restaurant, because he wasn’t going to have enough money left over to eat.
After an hour of combing through Craigslist, a few rental sites and the LA. Times, he was glad to hear the jingle of the bell on the door. A customer. Finally. Just what he needed to get his mind off the depressing state of rentals in the Redondo/Manhattan Beach area. He also tried not to focus on the depressing state of sales at Tubes. One battle at a time.
He stood up, headed toward the front of the store. “Hi, how can I help—“
He stopped abruptly when he got a look at who had just walked in. Wearing an emerald-colored suit, with her hair in a loose ponytail and her highest high heels on, she looked adorable. Like a lawyer for leprechauns, or something.
Pixzilla returns, he thought, smothering a chuckle. She frowned, as if she could read his mind.
“Well, this is a surprise,” he drawled instead, putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans and rocking back on his heels.
“Isn’t it, though,” he thought he heard her mutter. “Hello again, Mr. Gilroy.”
“Hi back atcha, Miss...” He paused. “Sorry. I never did get your name before.” He put his tongue in his cheek, waited for a beat. “I believe you might’ve been too busy telling me off to get around to proper introductions.”
She took in a deep breath. He didn’t think brown eyes could snap the way hers did, but she was proving him wrong, and looking awfully cute in the process.
“Robbins. My name is Allison Robbins,” she said, holding out a hand. He was surprised and amused enough to take it. Her hand was soft, and tiny compared to his own. His large, callused hand engulfed hers. Still, she had a grip that meant business—something that didn’t surprise him at all. “I’d like to start off with an apology,” she said, her voice low and contrite. “There really wasn’t any good reason for my awful display last time I was here. I...well. Let’s just say I was having a bad day.” He watched as her eyes clouded, and she laughed, a tiny, self-deprecating laugh that wasn’t mirrored in her eyes. “Possibly a bad week.”
Bad week. He looked at her. She had an angel’s face, with a tiny rosebud mouth, huge eyes, the highest cheekbones he’d ever seen. Still, he noticed the tiny lines of strain etched lightly in that porcelain face.
Bad week, nothing. Honey, I’ll bet you’re having a bad year.
“Apology accepted,” he said easily, and meant it. He saw her looking at him warily, then noticed the tiny, almost imperceptible shift in her attitude as she realized he was serious.
“Good,” she said, the relief ringing through her voice. “Now, about those lessons—”
“I have to repeat,” he interrupted. “I’m not going to just load you up and send you out there.”
She looked startled, then shrugged. “I didn’t expect you to change just because I apologized.”
“No,” Sean said, studying the stiffness of her posture. “But it’d be a lot easier if I did, huh? Because now you’re going to have to work on me.”
Her eyes widened, and to his surprise, she let out a bell-like laugh. “Well, yes,” she said, and in that moment, she looked completely unguarded. He got the feeling she didn’t laugh a whole lot, and inexplicably, he felt like changing that. “I’ll level with you,” she added. “I still want surf lessons.”
“I can guarantee you’re not going to be able to learn how to surf in six weeks,” he said bluntly. “Or is it only five now?”
“No, I guess you wouldn’t be able to teach me,” she said, pricking at his pride a little, even though from her tone, baiting him obviously wasn’t her intent. “But it’s not completely hopeless, right? I mean, I could learn something in six weeks, couldn’t I?”
He nodded thoughtfully, wondering what weird angle she was working now. “The basics
, yeah, sure.”
“All right, then. Now, we’re getting somewhere.” He noticed that her smile looked satisfied, almost smug, and that she’d shifted her focus from him to the merchandise around them. “And there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be able to go out on the water just a little, right? I mean, just to practice the basics, being very careful?”
He sighed impatiently. She was going to jump ahead anyway, that much was certain. He sensed a—well, recklessness probably wasn’t the right word. This little woman obviously planned things to a T, and she’d had his number before she even stepped foot in the shop. No, reckless, she wasn’t. Driven was more like it. Or possibly unstoppable.
She was starting to look through the wet suits, and he stood next to her, close enough to ensure she was paying attention. Close enough that she had to crane her head up to look into his eyes. He hoped his height would intimidate her, even if he doubted the results. “Okay I can’t stop you if you’re determined to go,” he admitted in a low voice, staring into her eyes as if he could hypnotize her into submission. “Still, considering how new you are, I have to strongly urge you not to attempt even the basics by yourself. I wasn’t kidding before. People really do get hurt. And I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
She stared at him, swallowing gently. She looked beautiful, and just a little apprehensive. He’d finally gotten through to her.
Of course, standing this close to her, staring this intensely, had caused a few changes in his own body. She was pretty, and he’d been single for too long not to react to her. He took a cautious step back. “It’s smarter for you to go with a buddy,” he said gruffly, around the huskiness in his throat, “until you’re more confident about what you’re doing.”
“A buddy?” she repeated, frowning. “Like, a surf friend?”
“Or a teacher,” he said. “Just somebody to make sure you’re okay.”
She smiled, although he couldn’t figure out why...until she said, “And you give lessons.”
He shrugged. “Now and then. Usually to kids, or guys.”
“But you don’t teach women?”
“No, I’ve taught women,” he said. “But they usually are more comfortable with a woman instructor...”
“No,” she said in her firm voice. “I want you.”
He felt the words like a fist in his gut, but despite the sexual tension that knotted him, he couldn’t help but smile.
She blushed, her fair skin coloring like a raspberry. “I mean, I want you to be my teacher,” she muttered, looking at the toes of her shoes.
He smiled. “Well, I guess I could teach you,” he said. “There are a few—”
“How about every day?”
He blinked at her. “Every day?”
“I want to get up to speed as soon as possible. It’d be best if I were practicing daily,” she said.
“Do you do everything this way?” he asked.
The question seemed to startle her. “What way?”
“Full steam ahead. Damn the torpedoes.” He grinned at her. “No half measures.”
Her eyes glowed, and she sent back a confident smirk of her own. “You have no idea.”
Oh, lady, I’m beginning to. He wondered if she was that way about other things. Nonwork-related things. He looked over her trim, petite body. Physical things, say.
Immediately, his mind supplied a mental image that almost had him blushing.
Ryan’s right. You do need a girl.
He shook his head. The last thing he needed was to get involved with a woman like this. She was a poster child for type-A people. They couldn’t get involved with people like him—he was the opposite of type A. He was type Z, surf- Zen, so laid-back he could be mistaken for comatose under the right circumstances. People like her usually wanted to kill people like him. Something about his relaxation seemed to activate more stress in them somehow. He still wasn’t quite sure how that worked.
“So, Mr. Gilroy... do we have a deal?”
“Call me Sean,” he said out of reflex. "Mr. Gilroy" sounded alien.
“All right. And you can call me Allison. After all, we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.” She picked up her phone again. He wondered if she slept with it. “What times work for you? I’m in the middle of this really hellish project at work, but I could manage early mornings, or later in the evenings. I know the days are short, and I might be able to sneak out at a lunchtime or something, once in a while...”
“Wait a minute. Just wait a minute,” Sean protested. Suddenly, he remembered the classifieds...and his other problems to deal with. Neat, how just talking to her had managed to derail his train of thought completely. “I don’t think I can start teaching you right away.”
He saw it again—a mixture of annoyance and anxiety.
“Why not?” She rolled her eyes. “This isn’t, like, a waiting period or anything, right? I mean, it’s not like I’m buying a gun.”
“You’re sort of weird, you know that?” He shook his head. “Strangely, no, this isn’t about you. This is about me. I have to find a new place to live in the next month. That’s probably going to take up all my time.”
“You can’t teach me anything for a month?" she said, aghast. “I can’t wait that long!”
He couldn’t understand that statement at all. Then he remembered. Client related. He frowned. “Okay. If you want me to start earlier, you can just find me a place to live, then.”
“All right,” she said, flooring him. “What are you looking for? What are your parameters?”
“Um...” he hedged, caught off guard. “Something I can afford.”
“What can you afford?”
“I work here,” he pointed out. “What do you think?”
She looked around and bit her lip. “Just give me a number.”
He did, seeing her blanch a little. Well, he didn’t make much. Still, he felt embarrassed, and a little defensive. She was obviously rich. Not that it made a difference.
“That’s the only guideline?” she finally asked, jotting down the monthly rent target in her phone's notes.
“I don’t want a huge commute,” he said, thinking he might as well go full-out. He was having no luck. Besides, did he really want her involved in his life this much? “I still want to live close to the beach, too.”
“Just curious,” she said. “Where are you living now?”
“Over the store,” he said, gesturing to the ceiling. He then felt guilty. He was handing her an impossible task. “Listen, you don’t have to do this. I know how hard—”
“The sooner you get yourself settled,” she pointed out, “the sooner you can teach me. So helping you helps me.”
He just wished he didn’t feel so uncomfortable about that statement. “If you say so.”
“So, I’ll find you a place to live, you’ll teach me how to surf and it’ll all work out,” she said, putting her phone back in her purse. “I’ll have a qualified list of places for you to check out in a few days. Is it all right if I stop by?”
“Sure. Why not?” The woman moved at the speed of light. Still, he doubted that she was going to find anything. He’d been looking all week, and he’d struck out. So why shouldn’t he let her run herself ragged? Hell, she might even turn up. something. And teaching surf lessons was no hardship—it was something he loved.
So why shouldn’t he go ahead?
“Good luck,” he said with a grin.
“You don’t need luck if you work hard enough,” she said cheerfully, winking at him. “All right. It’s a deal. Sean.” She held out her hand again, and he shook it... and held it. And for a second, as their gazes locked and he smiled at her, he felt it again, that sliding sense of attraction that sliced through him like a samurai sword.
“Deal,” he murmured, and let her hand go. “I’ll, er, talk to you later.”
Her breathing had gone shallow, he noticed, and her eyes were round. “’Bye,” she said hastily, then turned and left the store.
&nb
sp; He could still feel his body burning, and he turned back to the counter.
Why shouldn’t he get involved with this woman?
Because she was going to be trouble. He could just tell.
“HOW ARE THOSE SLIDES coming?” Frank yelled from the hallway leading to Allison’s office.
She didn’t even look up from her computer. “They’d be done a lot faster if you’d stop popping your head in and asking me about them every twenty minutes,” she muttered.
“What was that?” he asked from her door frame.
She looked up, a smile plastered on her face. “Going fine! I should have a mock-up by five o’clock. I’ll make sure you get a copy before I go home.”
He frowned. “You’re going home early?”
She sighed. Only in advertising was six o’clock considered early, especially since she’d come in at 7:00 a.m. “I’m doing work at home,” she said.
He nodded, although he still looked a little suspicious. “You’re my hero,” he said. “Just get the mock-ups on my desk before you leave.”
He walked out, and she glanced at her watch. He’d be back, no matter what he said, at least once before she was done.
When she was sure he had walked all the way down the hall, she toggled her screen from the presentation she was working on to the Internet, calling up the apartment-search Web site she’d been frantically working with. She still needed to help Sean find a place to live. It was harder than she had anticipated, which frosted her a little. No wonder he’d been eager to let her. He thought this would slow her down.
Not likely. She set her jaw. Once she decided to do something, she did it.
“Did any of those listings I pulled help?”
She jumped, then spun to see Gary, who had wandered behind her like a shadow. “Have you reconsidered the idea of wearing a bell?” she said, trying to calm her system.
Gary ignored her comment, frowning at the screen instead. “You realize, of course, that in that price range, I figure you’re only going to find studio apartments. In demilitarized zones. And next to the beach is a pipe dream... you know that, right?”
The Surfer Solution Page 4