The Surfer Solution

by Cathy Yardley

  “Not quite,” Sean corrected. “You’re going a little too fast, and you’re still looking down. Remember? Don’t look down. You’ll get rolled. You want to look out, in front of you.” His voice was smooth, encouraging. ‘Try it one more time.”

  She was getting a little tired, she realized. She’d had another full day of work, and Sean had graciously agreed to come by at eight o’clock on a Tuesday night. They’d now been at it for the better part of an hour and a half. He’d had her work on her balance, stretching, the whole nine yards. It was like having a personal trainer.

  She sneaked a glance at him, sitting on her couch, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, staring at her intently.

  A very sexy personal trainer.

  She got back down on the carpet, even though her muscles protested the action. She started to jump, and botched it. “Damn it!”

  He got off the couch, walking behind her and tapping her on the shoulder when she started to lie down again. “Okay, maybe that’s enough for one night.”

  “No, I want to get this,” she said stubbornly.

  “You’re not going to learn surfing in one night,” he replied in that gentle voice of his. “I’ve probably pushed you too hard already. You’re going to be feeling this tomorrow, for sure.” She didn’t want to admit she was already feeling it tonight. She had made progress, at least. “Just teach me one more thing,” she wheedled, like a kid begging for just fifteen more minutes of television before going to bed.

  He sighed, smirking. “You’re like some force of nature. You know that?”

  She didn’t know if that was meant to be a compliment or not, so she just made a noncommittal “hmm.”

  He laughed, his tone resigned. “Okay, when you’re standing on the board...wait a second. Which is your dominant hand?”

  “I’m right-handed.”

  “Okay. So your right foot is probably your dominant foot,” He then stood behind her, close, and she felt a little tightness in her chest. Not the squeezing sensation of panic, thankfully, but her heart rate accelerated a little and her stomach jittered. “You’re going to be leading with your dominant arm,” he continued, his breath tickling the back of her neck. She shivered. “Keep your arm out in front of you. That’s going to be your steering, basically.”

  “Like this?” She stood in the pose that every surfer she’d ever seen in a movie seemed to strike.

  “Um...close enough. Bend your knees a little more,” he said, and she felt his hand press on the back of her thighs. Her breath caught.

  Stay focused, she counseled herself, and obediently crouched a little more.

  “Okay,” he said...and, if possible, seemed to get a little closer, brushing against her there for a Second.

  What, was the guy an oven? She could feel the heat of him through her own T-shirt and sweatpants. He now put his hands on her hips, leaning her forward ever so slightly.

  “Now,” he said, his voice low and smooth, “what we’re looking for is the sweet spot.”

  You get any closer, and I can almost guarantee you’re going to find it.

  She gasped at the naughty and eager humor her mind seemed determined to provide. “We’re doing what?” she said, shooting him a startled look over her shoulder.

  “Stay low,” he said, his fingertips turning her chin back toward her right arm. She could hear the amusement in his voice. “The sweet spot. That’s a surf term for...well, your center of gravity, more or less. It’s where you’re standing on your board and you’re perfectly balanced.”

  “Oh,” she murmured, embarrassed. “Got it.”

  She tried to pretend she was out on a wave, not on the thick plush of her carpet. She jumped on the string outline, then crouched.

  “Not too low.”

  She corrected her posture, and felt like the Rock of Gibraltar. “This it?” she said, finally allowing a little confidence to seep into her voice.

  “Let’s find out,” he said.

  Before she knew what was happening, he’d given her a small, gentle shove. And she wound up on her knees by the coffee table.

  “Crap!” She turned over, lying on her back in the middle of the living room and letting out a frustrated huff of breath. “Just… crap!”

  “I usually hear that said a bit more colorfully,” Sean said, sitting on the floor next to her companionably. “But yeah, I understand how you feel.”

  She gazed at him, all sloe-eyed and slumberous looking. Probably his only acquaintance with stress was reading about it in a magazine or something. “I sincerely doubt it.”

  “Believe me, it’s really tough to find the sweet spot when you’re starting out.”

  “I haven’t found a guy yet who has,” she muttered, closing her eyes tiredly. Then opened again when he laughed, groaning and turning onto her stomach, burying her face in her hands. “What is it about you? I swear, I’m usually very well behaved. And I certainly never make comments like these.”

  He rubbed her back. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” His voice was an amused rumble.

  She rolled onto her side, and immediately groaned.

  All humor disappeared from his voice. “Muscles hurting?”

  She tried to shrug, and the effort was brutal. “A bit,” she admitted in a strangled voice.

  “I knew I was pushing it, but you never said anything,” he said, surprising her.

  “It was my fault. I was asking for it. Heck, I was begging for it,” she joked, then bit her lip.

  He didn’t even crack a smile, making her feel even worse. “Lie down on the sofa,” he said.

  She blinked at him. He’d been, well, she wouldn’t say he was all that bossy, especially as a coach. But now he sounded imperative. “It’s getting late,” she said, still puzzled.

  He sighed. “I’m going to work on those muscles a bit. Do you have anything for sore muscles?”

  “Like what? Vodka?”

  He shook his head, finally chuckling a little. “Like sports cream.”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re going to want to change that by tomorrow,” he said, and to her distress, he tugged her until she groaned and complied, lying on her soft, overstaffed couch. “You’re going to be in a world of hurt. Come on, then.”

  She stretched out, loving the feel of the soft cushions beneath her. “Say... this wasn’t such a bad idea after all,” she said, relaxing ever so slightly and feeling drowsiness hit her in a wave. “You can just lock up when you’re done.”

  “I’ll do that.” She could hear the smile in his voice, and was just about to smile in response when he put his hands on her back and rubbed.

  “Yeeeeowch!” She winced away from his hands, taming enough to stare at him in horror. “What the hell?”

  He looked unrepentant. In fact, he was staring at her in disbelief. “Good grief. Is that what your muscles are like all the time?” He sounded horrified. “I’ve felt concrete that had more give than the knots between your shoulder blades! We should’ve stopped over an hour ago!”

  She shrugged. Rather, she tried to shrug, but the aforementioned knots prevented her from really doing more than a little wiggle. “It’s always like this. It wasn’t anything you did.” She turned over, sat up. “I also don’t think this is going to help, so maybe we should call it a night.”

  He sighed. “Do you at least have a heating pad or something?”

  “Somewhere,” she said, feeling tom between feeling disgruntled at his persistence, and being touched at his concern. “I’ll be fine,” she said, getting up and starting to usher him toward the door. “Really.”

  He stopped at the door. “If nothing else, get into a hot shower, okay?”

  She nodded. “Yes, Coach.”

  He stroked her cheek. She could really get used to that. “You need to learn to take care of yourself.”

  “Not if you stick around, apparently,” she said. Then, before she could stop herself, she added, “So, think you’ll keep teaching me?”

  He smiled, a l
opsided smile that warmed her more than a heating pad ever could, making her muscles ease out in a puddle. He leaned forward, his face perilously close to hers.

  “I always keep my word,” he said.

  She sighed, leaning forward, millimeters from his face.

  And then, to her everlasting humiliation, he pulled back.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow?” she said, hating the feeling of rejection… and hating more that she seemed to be asking for even more.

  “No.”

  She felt the sting of that like a welt. She didn’t look at him, not wanting to see the rejection.

  “But not because I don’t want to see you,” he said, and she finally looked up. “You’re going to be too tired, Allison. You worked too hard tonight. From now on, when you start to feel tired or sore, you have to tell me, or I can’t work with you every day. Got it?”

  “Got it,” she repeated, feeling relieved.

  “Take tomorrow off. I mean that,” he said, and she felt as if she’d agree to anything he said. “I’ll see you on Thursday. Six o’clock,” he said, and walked out the door.

  She forced herself not to watch him walk away out her window, trying hard not to focus on the fact that she was becoming dangerously attracted to her surf instructor, or the fact that her entire body was protesting that it would be two days before she’d get to see him again.

  What is wrong with you, Allison? she upbraided herself mentally. You've got way too much to do to get sidetracked by your surf instructor. Especially when odds were good he didn’t feel anything remotely similar about her at all. They were from completely different worlds.

  No, better for her to do what she always did: bury herself in work. Stay focused on the things she could control. And leave her heart completely out of it. She’d work all Wednesday, and not think about surfing, or Sean Gilroy, at all.

       

  SEAN GLANCED AT HIS WATCH. It was Thursday night, five forty- seven. . .two minutes later than the last time he’d looked at his watch, actually. The shop was going to close at six. Even though he was going to suggest holiday hours for the store, for those people who might be interested in Christmas shopping for a board or something, he was glad he hadn’t suggested it yet.

  Allison was going to meet him at six o’clock, or rather, as quickly after six o’clock as he could get to her town house. And while he was pretty sure she’d still be a little sore from Tuesday’s session, he really wanted to pick up where they’d left off.

  Especially where they’d left off just before he went home.

  He could still smell her perfume, still feel the soft smoothness of her skin beneath his fingertips. She was burned on his brain like he’d stared at the damn sun.

  Oh, yeah. He’d never looked forward to closing up the shop as much as he did tonight.

  His cell phone rang, and he jumped a little, startled out of his prurient daydream. He glanced at the incoming number... Gabe. “Hey there.”

  “Hey,” Gabe answered easily. “You know, I’ve been thinking about your problem.”

  Sean tried hard not to groan. “I was hoping you guys would’ve put that behind you,” he said.

  “Between my wife and my sister? Are you kidding?” Gabe sounded way too cheerful to really be unhappy about the idea. “Anyway, I figure nobody knows more about the trends of surf gear than you do, and you’re a surfer.”

  “Duh.” Sean glanced at his watch. Five forty-eight. Okay, he had a problem.

  “Well, Lone Shark does business with these guys...they wanted to license some stuff, actually. Anyway, it’s not important now. But we’re looking for a regional sales rep.”

  “Sales?” Sean winced. “Um, not that I’m not grateful, but I’d suck at sales.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Gabe’s voice sounded incredulous. “You work at a surf shop. You’re already in sales, bro.”

  “Yeah, but if I were better at it, I wouldn’t be in this jam, would I?” It was sort of depressing just thinking about it, actually.

  “That’s not entirely your fault. Yeah, sure, you could’ve hustled more, but I know for a fact you’ve had great ideas for how the store could sell more, and Oz just hasn’t been that interested.”

  “Stop it, I’ll blush.” Sean’s voice was deliberately jovial, but he was starting to get uncomfortable with the whole line of conversation.

  “Anyway, I think you’d be a natural fit in this job,” Gabe said, moving ahead like a bulldozer. “You know the products, you know the market. And it’s not like you’d be schmoozing people or being sleazy. You’d just talk, and then people would buy stuff.”

  “Just that easy,” Sean said, shaking his head even though he knew Gabe couldn’t see it. “Man. Shoulda talked to you years ago.”

  “If I thought you’d listen, I would’ve brought this up years ago,” Gabe countered, missing the joke entirely. “Besides, you had other stuff on your mind. Taking care of Janie, stuff like that. And I know you feel loyal to Oz.”

  There was that. Sean sighed, then glanced at his watch. Five-fifty. At least a few minutes had gone by.

  The door opened. “Gotta go. Customer’s here,” Sean said.

  “Want to brainstorm a little after work? We could kick around your resume,” Gabe said.

  “Can’t. Teaching tonight.”

  There was a pause. “I’m definitely calling you tomorrow.”

  “Can’t wait,” Sean said, grinning, and hung up on him. “Hi, welcome to Tubes. Can I help you?” And could you please go away in the next five minutes?

  The customer looked like most of the residents of Manhattan Beach proper...moneyed and vaguely harried. “Hi. I’m trying to buy a surfboard for my girlfriend’s kid.”

  A surfboard. Sean groaned internally. “Well, do you know what sort of board he wants?”

  The man looked at Sean with just this side of a sneer. “Do I look like a surf guy?”

  It wasn’t in Sean’s nature to be rude—he generally felt it wasn’t worth the effort—but he was already trying to close as it was. “I get plenty of guys like you who surf.” And, yes, they’re jerks, too, he thought but didn’t verbalize.

  “Well, I’m not a surfer. But the kid is, or wants to be, and he said something about wanting a... potato chip? Is that something like a board?”

  Sean grinned. “The kid must be good, then. How old?”

  “I don’t know. Young teens, I think,” the guy said, scowling. “I’ve only been dating her for a couple of months, and I’ve only met him a few times.”

  “Kind of an expensive gift for somebody you’ve only met a few times,” Sean mused. He glanced at his watch. Five fifty-three. “I could point you to a few boards, but it’d really be more helpful if you could bring him in. Or maybe give him a smaller gift and a gift certificate?” That’d be quick, easy to ring up. He’d have the guy out of here and close up before the watch hand hit six.

  The guy thought about it, and Sean felt time stretch out painfully. “No, I want the kid to be impressed. Really blown away. I’m having Christmas at their house, and I want to make sure he remembers what he got when he goes over to his dad’s house.”

  Because nothing says “love” like big, expensive presents. Sean gritted his teeth. This guy was a piece of work, but that wasn’t Sean's problem.

  “Let’s start with a board, and then maybe work something else. What else could I get with that?”

  “Wet suit, boots...all kinds of stuff,” Sean said, “but it could take a while.”

  “I’m off work,” the guy said easily. “And it doesn’t look like you’re busy, so why don’t you help me pick this stuff out.”

  Sean didn’t even have to look at his watch to know how close it was. “Actually, we close at six o’clock,” he said. “But I’d be happy to walk you through it tomorrow.” Or I could just pick a bunch of stuff out at random, because you wouldn’t know the difference, anyway. That might actually be easier, all things considered. But it wasn’t Sean’s way.r />
  The guy instantly looked upset...or rather, the scowling had just been irritation, and now he was truly moving on to angry. Sean hated guys like this, but ordinarily, they still didn’t get to him this way. “Listen, unlike you, I generally work late. And it looks like you could use the business. I’m sure a board isn’t cheap,” he said. “A commission on the board, and whatever else you con me into buying, could go a long way toward buying Christmas presents, you know? So why the hell don’t you stay open a little later?”

  And as much as he disliked the guy, he’d made a valid point. Oz could use the money, and the whole purpose here to getting more sales was to convince Oz to keep the store open. Still, he didn’t have Allison’s home number, so he couldn’t tell her he’d be late. He hated the thought of disappointing her. He knew how much she needed his help.

  “It’s not that hard a decision,” the guy added derisively. “So. Show me the boards.”

  Something in Sean snapped. “Unfortunately, I have an appointment I have to go to,” he said tightly. “I honor my commitments.”

  “Well. Goody for you.” The guy’s mouth drew into a harsh line. “I’d hate for you to somehow make a profit by doing something that made you break your word. Are you kidding

  me?”

  “Like I said, I’d be happy to help you tomorrow,” Sean said tightly. “I could even throw in a discount, I could keep the store open late, I could come in early. But I promised I’d do something tonight, and I’m not going to break that.”

  “Fine.” The guy opened the door, turning to deliver his parting shot. “I’ll just go to a surf shop that’s open later, and give them my business!”

  “Have a nice day,” Sean drawled, just before the door slammed shut. “You Lexus-driving jerkoff.”

  He was still fuming about the incident a little as he locked up the store for the evening. It was 6:05...he hoped that Allison wasn’t waiting too long for him.

  He drove fast, or at least as fast as his poor decrepit pickup truck could manage, and then he pulled up to Allison’s town house. There was a light on in the front bedroom, he noticed, and immediately felt guilty. And, admittedly, a little turned on.