They call out our number, and Dusty goes to the counter for our food.
“I assume you’re here to see your mom again,” I say when he sits back down, “but what were you doing on the beach today?”
He’s already taken a bite of his pulled pork sandwich, so he holds up a finger, telling me to wait a sec. I take a bite of Miz Mary’s “world famous” macaroni salad.
“Damn, this is good,” Dusty says. He wipes a napkin across his mouth. “I’m mainland to make a few publicity appearances for my sponsor.”
“Oh, so did I miss a performance or speech or something?”
He grins. “No. Today I was on your beach just hoping to run into you.”
I laugh before I notice he’s looking at me seriously—with eyes the color of the sky instead of the ocean—and suddenly I’m remembering how it felt to kiss Dusty, how I knew it would have melted me if we hadn’t just been kissing to make Jeremy jealous.
“Well,” I say, “lucky I showed up then.”
“Fer sure,” he says in a perfect stoner voice, and we laugh.
Actually, we laugh a lot during dinner and afterward as we stand by my car talking for thirty or so minutes. Just as we get to the awkward moment when it seems one of us should say we have to leave or suggest we go someplace to get a drink or something, Dusty takes the initiative.
“Tomorrow, I have to make an appearance at a San Diego surf shop,” he says. “Why don’t you go with me?”
“I could do that.” Immediately, I start to question whether I should do that, but then Dusty grabs me by the waist and pulls me close, and doubt flies right out of my head.
He tilts up my chin and focuses his sky eyes on mine. “I hope that means yes.”
“Uh-huh,” I breathe.
Then he kisses me, and it’s even more melty than I remembered. We don’t laugh this time because there’s no Jeremy watching. A hollow thud of my heart reminds me there’s no Jeremy in my life at all.
The sun has just set by the time I return home. Even before I see the note propped on the dining table, I know my mom’s been here because a lamp is turned on in the living room. I’m surprised to see the note is only one page. I’m even more surprised to see she only wrote a few words.
“I’ve spoken to Jeremy. Gabi’s spoken to Jeremy. YOU need to speak to Jeremy.”
“In other words, grow up, Chelsea.” Well, I am grown up. I’m handling things. I don’t need to talk to Jeremy to know what I have to do. I’ve already made my decision.
I turn my phone on to text my mom and Gabi. I have missed calls and texts from both of them, but none from Jeremy. I wish I could say that’s a relief, but the truth is, it makes me sad.
I send the texts, letting my mom and Gabi know I’m going to San Diego tomorrow “on business.” That’s not a lie—it’s just not my business. I also let them know I’m not ready to talk about Jeremy with either of them, but not to worry about me because I’m fine now—really, really fine. I mute my phone as soon as I hit send.
Maybe I didn’t lie about being fine either. I feel pretty great as I head to my closet to pick out a killer outfit to wear tomorrow. Dusty for damn sure won’t criticize my wearing flip-flops.
*
Dusty doesn’t pick me up until after lunch because his mother was a little pissed that he spent so little time with her yesterday. We head south. He cracks me up relaying the highlights of the conversation he just had with his mother and aunt.
As hard as I try not to, I keep comparing Dusty to Jeremy. One huge difference is that Dusty is a talker, and since he’s a celebrity, you might imagine he talks mostly about himself, but you’d be wrong. He loves talking about surfing, of course, but not about how good he is at it.
Also, as I learn, you’d be wrong if you took him for a dumb jock. Dusty has a degree in oceanography, and now he’s working toward a doctorate. So while we’re on the road to San Diego, I get an education in some scary changes taking place in the substance that covers seventy percent of this planet. He’s passionate about the ocean in more ways than one.
Another thing that makes conversation with Dusty rock is that we speak the same language. When he says “green room,” I know he means the tube created by a wave crest spilling over. I don’t have to puzzle out some bizarre British slang from the context. And I can speak all the “California Girlese” I want and not have to face a single scowl or arched eyebrow.
We pretty much talk nonstop until we pass San Clemente. We both grow silent as the ocean comes in full view. Awesome doesn’t half describe it. I’ve missed spending time at the beach.
“You should visit me in Hawaii,” Dusty says as if he read my mind. “The beaches there are … magical. And I’ll take you out on my boat.”
“Yeah?” I laugh because I think he’s joking.
“I’m serious. I’m flying back in ten days, after Lower Trestles. Come with me. My treat.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Think hard,” he says, “or maybe you shouldn’t think at all. Just do it.”
I turn my gaze back to the ocean. Maybe I should do it. What’s keeping me here?
“Lower Trestles, two years ago, is where I saw you surf live,” I tell him.
“I scored high that year.”
“Yeah, you made it look easy.”
Dusty smiles.
Thirty minutes later we pull up to the surf shop, which is actually in Solano Beach. When we get out of the car, Dusty opens the trunk. Inside is a box of books.
“You’re an author?” I blurt.
He gives me a wry grin. “It’s mostly illustrated instructions, but I do sneak in some philosophy and a few admonitions to be environmentally responsible.”
Like most surf shops, this one’s packed with merchandise, so they’ve pulled up a stool at the end of the checkout counter for Dusty to hold court. I’d think, from a marketing standpoint, they would have done better to sit him in the back of the store so every surfer who comes to see Dusty would have to walk the length of the store and be tempted to buy something.
I’m just about to whisper this to him when I notice that behind the stool is a display of clothing and accessories marked with a stylized DH.
“You have a signature merchandise line too?”
He shrugs. “Get while the gettin’s good.”
He stacks the books on the end of the counter, and the owners are talking to him, so I move out of the way. While the getting’s good? Surely Dusty can’t be thinking of dropping out of competition already. I can’t remember exactly how old he is, but he can’t be more than a year or two past thirty, and surfers in their fifties still actively compete.
I wander through the store. A hot-pink and black wetsuit catches my eye, and I picture myself wearing it in Hawaii. I glance back toward Dusty. A few fans have already arrived. I move closer so I can listen to the conversation. Sounds like these are all the good kind of fans, none of them jerks.
Dusty takes time to talk to everyone who comes to see him today, showing the beginning surfers, male and female, the same respect he does the more accomplished ones. Some “bunnies” show up too, of course, offering their half-bared breasts for his autograph. He obliges, but each time he does he winks at me.
We stay forty minutes past the scheduled appearance time, and even then, outside the shop he takes ten minutes or more to talk to a couple of teens still hanging around. From the sound of it, they’re serious surfers, probably future champions of the sport, and I wonder if Dusty is flashing back to himself at their age.
“Thank you for being so patient,” he says as we get in the car to leave.
“I enjoyed it,” I tell him. “This wasn’t my first time at a Dusty Haines personal appearance.”
“Really?”
I run my finger above my right breast. “You signed your name here.”
He throws back his head and laughs. “Maybe that’s why you seemed familiar that night at Olive Garden.”
“You recognized my boobs?”
“I, uh … I didn’t, uh …”
I end his stammering with a laugh. “I’m pretty sure you never looked at my face that day at the surf shop.”
He gives me a sheepish grin and starts the engine. “Probably not. It’s a little distracting when a girl shoves her tits in your face.”
“That was all Kyle’s idea.”
He exaggerates a pout. “You weren’t impressed to meet me?”
“I was impressed with your surfing.”
“Was?” He slips on his shades, pulls out into the traffic, and heads for the freeway.
“Well, I’ve been out of that scene for a while. I’m sure I’d still be impressed. And you’re killer on a boogie board.”
He lays a hand on my knee and squeezes. “You’re fun to be with, Chels. It feels like we’ve known each other a long time, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, it does.” I smile at him before turning my head toward the window. Why does that feeling of familiarity make me uneasy?
“Do you mind if we take the long way home?” Dusty asks. “I know this restaurant with a primo ocean view, where we could have dinner and watch the sunset.”
“Sounds great.” We’ll be adding an hour to our drive by taking the Coast Highway, but how can I resist? I just wish we were driving south so the ocean would be along my side of the car.
The restaurant is gorgeous, set high on a cliff, designed long and narrow, with plenty of tables along the wall of windows for the best ocean view. It’s a Tuesday, so we have no trouble getting one of those tables. A pianist plays softly. We order fish, of course, and then sip a delicious—and no doubt expensive—wine as we talk.
“Thank you for suggesting this, Dusty. It’s heavenly.” Heavenly? Geez, I’m channeling my mom.
“Beats another dinner with my mother and her friends all to hell,” he says. “No offense to your mother.”
“Dusty, what did you mean by ‘get while the gettin’s good’? I mean, I know the saying, but are you thinking of retiring?”
He pours more wine in our glasses and then looks out at the water. “I took my first surfing lesson when I was eight. I learned fast. In fact, my instructor was kind of freaked by my natural talent. And before I knew it, I entered my first junior competition. Twenty years ago.” He guzzles half his wine and turns his gaze back to me. “The rest, as they say is history. My history.”
“But … you’re not happy about that?”
The server brings our entrees. Dusty starts to eat, leaving me to wonder if my question was inappropriate in some way. A couple of bites later, he continues.
“I love the sport, of course, and I’m proud of my record. There’s a hell of a lot of hard work and dedication behind a World Tour Championship trophy. But surfing’s not all I want to do with my life. It never was. You know?”
I nod, but I can’t really imagine being that good at something and walking away from it. We eat for a few minutes, and then he continues with his thoughts.
“I mean, when I was in my teens and twenties, the competitions were enough. But now”—he huffs a laugh—“maybe I’m just getting old.”
“Nah,” I say. “I understand.” I look at my plate, silenced by the memory of Jeremy telling me I’d been looking in the wrong career direction. “I really do.”
Dusty taps my hand, and when I look up he points to the window. The sky is streaked with glowing shades of magenta and purple and gold. Nothing is more beautiful than the sun setting over the ocean. We raise our glasses to the sunset.
“To the future,” he says.
An hour later, Dusty takes the keys from me and opens my door. I barely have time to flip the light switch before he’s pulling me into his arms. Seconds later he’s melting me with his smoking-hot kisses. He’s unzipping my dress, unhooking my bra, and stripping me down to my panties. My girly parts suck all the blood from my brain.
Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod.
He lifts me off the floor, and I wrap my legs around him as he carries me to the bedroom. He lays us on the bed. I’m breathless, honest to God swooning, when Dusty rolls me on top of him, and I register his hard bulge beneath me. At the same moment, I open my eyes and see his face. My brain shocks back to life. I gasp. I freeze.
What the hell am I doing?
Dusty has stopped moving too. The moment draws out painfully before he lifts me off him. He sits up on the side of the bed. The room is silent except for his deep breathing. After a moment he exhales slowly.
“Too soon,” he says.
“I’m sorry—”
“No. It’s my fault for rushing you.” He twists around and taps the tip of my nose. “I’m going to leave now. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”
“Lock your door behind me,” Dusty calls back as he’s walking down the hall.
But it’s Jeremy’s voice my heart hears.
CHAPTER 23
Another morning alone.
I’ve gotten over my anxiety of being “disconnected” from the world when my phone’s turned off, but my mother has drummed into my head how dangerous it is to sleep alone without quick access to 911, so after Dusty left last night I powered up my phone. I sent texts to my mom and Gabi to let them know I was fine, but then I muted the ringer.
Now, I unmute and check what I’ve missed. No calls or messages from Jeremy. Yes, I know that shouldn’t bother me because I’m supposed to have let him go—but it hurts.
It also confuses me. If Dusty calls today—and he may not—what will I say? Being with him is so much fun, hassle-free, and yet something’s missing. No, something’s intruding. Be honest, Chelsea. Okay. It’s someone. Someone who has no right to be intruding. It’s just bad timing with Dusty. But how long will he wait for me to forget Jeremy?
I reply to texts from my mom and Gabi and tell them I’ll be out for the day again and promise to hit them up when I get home. I’m hoping that will keep them from showing up at my door. I doubt I’m going anywhere. I’m not even sure I can force myself out of bed and into the shower.
But I could and did. Then drinking a pot of coffee and eating a little breakfast gives me a lift. By noon, I’ve decluttered my apartment, paid some bills, and grocery shopped. I’ve also noticed that Dusty hasn’t called. While I’m having a glass of wine with my lunch, I decide to take a nap because I didn’t sleep well last night, so I have two more glasses of the Riesling to knock me out.
It works. When I wake the second time, it’s after two. I dreamed about Jeremy, and I was crying. Now the sting of real tears in my eyes angers me. No more crying. I jump out of bed.
Whamo.
I grab my head and sit back down. Three glasses of sweet white wine before a nap is a perfect recipe for a colossal headache. And hallucinations. I could have sworn I just heard a thump coming from Jeremy’s bedroom above. Moving carefully, I head to the bathroom.
I’m in the kitchen chasing ibuprofen with water, when someone beats on my door. Dusty wouldn’t just show up, would he? But it’s too early for Gabi to be off work, so it must be my mother. Stupid me. I should have moved my car to the parking lot in the back of the complex. Now, she knows I’m here.
I start to open the door but then stop. My mom has a key. I glance through the peephole.
Jeremy!
I freeze with my face pressed to the door, so when he knocks again it’s like he’s taking a hammer to my already pounding head. I can’t deal with this—with him—right now. If I’m quiet, even if he’s seen my car in the lot, he’ll think I’m out with someone else, which I could have been if Dusty had called.
I tiptoe away from the door. Then I scream.
Jeremy’s vaulting over my patio wall. With his longs legs, a four-foot high wall is nothing. He tries to open the locked door and then glares straight at me through the glass.
I don’t have to unlock the door. This is my apartment. I don’t have to talk to him if I don’t want to. I can walk to my bedroom and pretend he’s not there.
Don’t be a wimp, Chelsea. Give
him hell. I unlock the door and back up.
He steps inside, still glaring, holds up his phone and taps the screen. I’m spitting mad and ready for a fight, but he gets the first word.
“Do you see this?” he says, pointing to his phone. A second later, my phone rings. “Do you hear that? It’s called a ringtone, and when it sounds you are meant to respond and engage in conversation.”
I reject the call. “Hello to you too, Jeremy.”
His eyes flash fire. “I can’t believe you have the audacity to infer I’m rude.”
“I thought you weren’t coming back until Thursday.”
“I wasn’t. I had important business to take care of in London, but instead I took the first damned flight back here because you wouldn’t answer your fucking mobile.”
Wow. He’s mad.
“I haven’t a clue what happened to the first text I sent you,” he continues. “It’s not my fault that some bastard nicked my mobile in the airport. It’s not my fault that you didn’t receive the dozen emails I sent to the Gmail account, which was the only one I could remember. I’ve endeavored to explain all this to you in a barrage of texts and voicemails, but you’ve become the most infuriatingly obstinate woman on earth.”
Anger fires up in my chest. No. No. No. He’s not going to switch this around so I’m the bad guy here. All I did was fall in love. I lift my chin and look him straight in the eye.
“Seriously? In any of those messages did you happen to explain why you forgot to tell me you have a fiancée?”
“As a matter of fact, since yesterday morning, every damned call, voicemail, and text message has been exactly about that. Which you would know if you had been courteous enough to communicate with me.”
My flame of anger dims just a teeny bit, but I don’t let that show. “Oh, right. Since yesterday morning? You mean, ever since you found out from Gabi that your cover was blown?”
“My cover? Seriously?” He takes a step toward me and leans into my face. “I. Do. Not. Have. A. Fiancée. Got it?”
I back up two steps. “Does she know that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then why did she tell me—”
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