“I just want to be your friend,” I say.
She straightens, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Wow, you are drunk. How did you survive college being such a lightweight?”
I catch her hand when she reaches to tidy a stack of cocktail napkins. “I’m serious. I like being around you.”
God, I’m realizing how much I suck at this. She was right, there’s no in-between for me, nothing in that no-man’s-land between sincere and slick.
She tries halfheartedly to pull away and then goes lax in my grip. “Luke—”
“Please.” I rub my thumb over the back of her hand. “Let me show you that I’m not the guy you think I am.”
“The problem is there’s no chance of that,” she says softly. “I like you, too. But not for me. You’re exactly the guy I think you are.”
I watch my finger move over her skin. Even after surfing in the harsh salt water every day, her hands are so much softer than mine. “I don’t want to be,” I say, surprising myself a little.
She gnaws her lip, looking away. “What we did was just for fun.” Finally, she frees her hand, and lowers her voice. “It wasn’t ever going to be something more than that. I’m surprised we did it twice.”
“Three times, Logan. Three separate times,” I add and she fights a smile. I duck, chasing her attention. “But I’m not even talking about that.” And, oddly, I’m not. “Just hang out with me.”
Finally, she looks back and meets my eyes. “Not dates? No sex?”
I feel my smile all the way to my chest. “Whatever you want.”
“No sex,” she repeats, and I don’t miss the way she wipes her hand on her shorts. “It won’t ever be romantic with us.”
My heart warps a little at the finality of her tone, but fuck. It really isn’t about that, not with her. “No, I mean . . . totally,” I stutter. “No worries. I just want to be your friend.”
She studies me, eyes flickering back and forth between mine, as if one of them would lie while the other told the truth. “Just hanging out?”
“Yes.”
Her nose wrinkles a little, like she might growl at me. “And you promise to be entertaining, not some sad-sack puppy like this?”
Laughing, I tell her, “I promise.”
She grabs a bar towel, wipes down the lip of the sink in front of her. “Fine,” she says, watching her hands. “Saturday afternoon.” With her head down, she lifts her eyes to me, and fuck, it’s the most amazing look I’ve ever seen on a woman. And here she just wants to be friends. “I pick what we do.”
I blanch when I look up at the devious grin she’s wearing.
Oh, fuck. We’re going surfing.
Chapter ELEVEN
London
THE PLAN IS to meet Luke at Tourmaline Surf Park at two. Any other day this would sound like a suicide mission, but knowing it’s going to be packed gives me a small measure of comfort: maybe with a crowd of people around I won’t do anything stupid.
I’ve gone so far as to make a list of goals for the day:
1. Don’t let Luke drown.
2. Don’t ogle Luke in his board shorts.
3. Don’t accidentally have sex with Luke.
I’m definitely going to focus on goals one and three.
The only way to get to Tourmaline is by a road that winds down from La Jolla Boulevard and empties into the parking lot. It’s almost always crowded and I’m about to give up and park on the street outside, when on my second pass I spot someone leaving. I put on my blinker to thwart off any would-be thieves, and pull in as soon as it’s open.
Even with the engine off, my old car still manages the occasional unsettling knock and ping from under the hood, and I sit, fiddling with my phone and looking around. Luke hasn’t texted that he’s here yet and I briefly wonder if it’s too late to call this whole thing off.
Cocky Luke I can handle, but sweet, earnest, tipsy Luke with puppy eyes asking to be friends? Apparently that’s my hard limit.
I can’t stall forever¸ and so I check the time before sending him a quick text.
There might not be any parking, so find a spot on the street, I type, before climbing out onto the hot pavement and making my way to the trunk.
My board barely fits in my small car and is wedged between the folded backseats so the hatchback needs an extra little shove to close all the way. It’s not an ideal situation and requires more maneuvering than I might like, but it works.
I’ve just managed to pull it free when I hear a familiar voice over my shoulder.
“Need some help?”
“I got it,” I say, leaning the board against the car and reaching for my bag before locking up. “But thanks.”
When I turn, I see he’s got his own board tucked under his arm and a towel rolled up next to it. He’s wearing a thin white T-shirt and blue board shorts that hang low—really low—on his hips. It takes my breath away how good he looks. Warning bells are already going off in my head—and possibly somewhere else. This was a bad idea.
I’m suddenly nervous we’ll see Not-Joe here, and he’ll mention to Oliver that he saw us. Then Oliver will tell Lola, and Lola will tell Harlow, and Harlow will get up in arms all over again about all the Girl Code breaking I’m doing by ogling Luke so thoroughly.
Just friends.
Friends is fine.
“You all set?” I ask, looking around. I can hear how tight my voice is. Hopefully he reads it as impatient rather than hard-core swooning.
He gives a small shake of his head and laughs when he admits, “Not even a little bit.”
“Nice board, though,” I tell him, and run my hand along the nose. “Not too long and a good width for your frame. I’m glad you went with a longboard. It’ll make it easier to pop up.”
“I like that you’re giving me credit, like I picked it out and not the guy at the shop.” He smiles tightly before looking past me, squinting into the sun.
“Just trying to boost your confidence.”
God, this is awkward. We’re both flailing around this attempt at friendship. I make a final check of everything I need and then nod toward the water. “Let’s do this.”
The parking lot is perched high above our destination. Tourmaline is surrounded by sea cliffs that tower over the beach, some as tall as seventy-five feet. There’s a pretty steep hill we have to navigate to reach the bottom, and I can hear Luke’s footsteps as he follows the path behind me. It’s only as we near the sand that I realize he’s quieter than usual, and didn’t even crack a joke when I mentioned the length of his board.
I try to puzzle this out as I look out over the crystal-blue sky, where the ocean stretches until it melts into the horizon. The surf crashes below us and I can taste the salt in the air. It’s like Xanax to my nerves. I suppose everyone has a quiet day. I actually kind of like seeing a different side of Luke.
When we get to the beach, I find a spot with enough room to set down my board. Luke leans his against a large rock and turns to me.
“What’s all that?” he asks, watching me dump out my small bag.
“Sunscreen, fin screws, fin key.” I hold up the bottle, offering.
“I put some on already, thanks, though.”
I nod, unsure how to handle Quiet Luke, shaking the bottle to stall before undressing. But I might as well just get this over with; I’ve never liked wearing wetsuits, even in the icy Pacific Ocean, and instead surf in a swimsuit. Today’s selection is pretty modest—a one-piece—but we’re going to be wet and practically naked together for the next few hours; there’s no point in letting the moment grow heavy now.
I pull my T-shirt over my head and toss it to the sand before unbuttoning my shorts and stepping out of them.
“I like this place,” Luke says, hands on his hips as he looks around—pointedly not looking at me. “I’ve been here before but only for a campfire or something.”
“Never to surf?” I ask, smoothing sunblock over my arms and shoulders.
“Ha, no. I barely g
o in the water.”
I stop. “You’re kidding.”
He ruffles the back of his hair and looks a little sheepish. “Afraid not.”
“Wait, I mean . . . How could you have lived this close to the ocean for most of your life and not go in the water? You swim. You were on a national championship water polo team.”
“Yeah, that’s a pool. And nothing in there is trying to eat me.”
I cough out an incredulous laugh. “Luke, there’s something like—I don’t know—eight hundred thousand things that live in the ocean, and out of that only a microscopic percent of a fraction would want anything to do with you.”
He tilts his head and pins me with a serious look. “I’ve seen Jaws, Logan.”
“Do you play bridge?” I ask him.
Clearly confused, he says, “Sometimes, with Grams and some of her friends.”
“Statistically speaking, more people have died playing bridge in the last century than by shark attacks in the entire states of California, Oregon, and Washington combined.”
“You made that up.”
I might have made that up.
I toss my sunscreen to the sand and turn to face him. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t want to go in the water, then why on earth did you agree to come out here?”
“I already told you, I like you. And when you’re not handing me my balls, you’re a lot of fun.” The corner of his mouth tilts up into a smile before the other side joins it. “Even then.”
Honest Luke is really throwing me for a loop. “Do you want to do something else?” I say. “We could, I don’t know, see a movie?”
He’s thinking about it, looking out at the water with a considerable amount of apprehension in his eyes. “No. No, I think I want to do this,” he says, and then begins to nod, like it’s taking his body a moment to agree with his mouth.
“You’re sure,” I say, giving him the chance to back out. “I don’t want you to do something that makes you uncomfortable. I promise I’m not keeping score here.”
“No, I . . . I want to.” He reaches behind his neck and tugs his shirt up and over his head. I feel my lungs constrict at the sight of his bare chest in the bright sun, the definition of muscle cutting down his torso and bisected by sharp lines on his abdomen. I blink away.
“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.”
“Okay,” I say, voice steadier than I feel, and reach for Luke’s board. “Basics first.”
With a stick I find in a group of rocks, I trace the outline of his board in the sand and prop it back up again.
Luke watches me, confused. “Why don’t you just use the board itself?”
“Because boards are expensive and we don’t want to ruin it,” I say, and toss the stick back into the brush. “This is your board.” I grip his forearms and bring him over to stand in the shape I’ve drawn, and then point to the various parts. “This is the nose, the rails, the tail. This vertical line down the middle is called the stringer, and will keep you centered. Remember that,” I say. I point out the Velcro strap lying in the sand. “I’m assuming you already know this, but this is the board leash; never go in the water without this around your ankle, okay?”
“Got it.”
“We’ll go over paddling and everything when we’re actually in the water, but let’s start with the easy stuff.” I stand next to him, legs spread just wider than shoulder-width apart. “First, your stance. You need to make sure you’re in the center of the board, not too far forward or too far back. No, let me . . .” I say when he tries to mimic my stance, and bend, gripping his ankle, physically moving his feet into position. He’s so warm, bones strong and solid under my grip. “Don’t be too open; put the arch of whatever foot you lead with right there, on the stringer. The other behind it.”
“Like this?” he asks, demonstrating.
I straighten. “Perfect. Being in the center of the board means you’ll have more control. Always stay in the center.”
He nods and tests out the movement. “Okay, I can imagine what you mean.”
“Now, arms up—” I reach forward, trailing my hands down along his forearms until my fingers wrap around his wrists. I can feel the steady beat of his pulse under my fingertips, the heat of his skin. It reminds me of when he held my hands down, above my head, and my mouth suddenly feels dry. I’ve been trying to avoid looking at his torso and his arms ever since he took off his shirt—knowing I’ll only be able to remember what they looked like over me—but realize that’s only going to work for so long.
Luke’s silhouette is the definition of a swimmer’s body. His shoulders are broad, lats bulky like all strong swimmers, biceps clearly defined. His torso is long and lean and I count an eight-pack on his flat stomach. It’s a body designed for power and hours of cutting through the water with little resistance. It’s a body built for endurance.
And Lord, does it endure. He could take me all night and only come at sunrise.
I really didn’t need that reminder right now.
“You okay there, Logan?” he says, and I snap my attention back to where my fingers are still wrapped around his wrists.
“This is for balance,” I tell him, pushing on as if my every thought isn’t written on my blazing-hot face. “Point your leading arm wherever you want to go, rear arm at shoulder height and flexed with the elbow back.” I show him and he mimics the action.
“Good, just like that. Let your body move back and forth, wherever the board takes you. Hips loose, like you’re doing the hula hoop.”
He laughs. “Tell me I look amazing doing this, okay? And not as ridiculous as I’m guessing.”
“Very manly.” I make a few adjustments to his posture and stand back to see. “So with your arms, people think they need to keep them at their side, parallel with the rails, but that’s wrong. Keep them squared with your hips—” I step forward again, bracing a hand on either side of his ribs. Luke curls inward, away from my touch, and giggles.
“Sorry,” he says quietly. “Ticklish.”
“Uh, sorry,” I mumble, and have to mentally count down from ten before I can remember what I was doing. I’ve had sex with Luke, seen his naked body over and under me, from behind, and somehow this feels . . . more intimate than any of that.
My cheeks are hot as I reach for him again, and I bring my hands
down
down
down—how long is his torso?—to rest on his hips.
I never fully appreciated how low boys wear their trunks until this very moment, now that I can feel the bony ridges and hollows of Luke’s hip bones under my fingertips. There are so many shadows on his body, so many places where bone and muscle meet, and for a moment I’m back on his couch, watching these same parts of his body move and flex while he fucks me.
When I blink up, I find him watching, mouth open and hair falling gently forward across his forehead. His cheeks are flushed, too, visible even out in the sun, as if he’s thinking of exactly the same thing I am.
I clear my throat and blink away, hoping he doesn’t realize I’m not quite as unaffected as I’d like to be, and every one of his smiles is another chink in my armor.
“Stay low,” I say, voice rough as I try to get my thoughts back in order. “You want to adapt to the waves and the way the water moves under your feet. You’ll never be able to do that if you’re all tall and”—I wave in the direction of his body—“stiff.”
Luke chuckles and I roll my eyes. “Bend at your knees, not at your waist—this is the heaviest part of your body,” I tell him, and pat his chest. “You need it centered. Too far forward and you’re over the rail, see? You’ll lose your balance.” He bends forward as if to test the theory. Unfortunately this brings his face directly in line with my crotch.
He looks up at me from beneath his hair with a cheeky grin. “Like this?”
The top of his head is literally inches away from my lady parts, and I give him a gentle shove, effectively knocking him into the sand. “Just like that,”
I say, and step over him. “Aren’t you glad that didn’t happen in the water?”
He jumps up, knocking sand off his shorts before getting back into position. “I might have deserved that,” he says.
I adjust his stance, hands sliding over his skin to angle him this way or that, to bring attention to the parts of his body he needs to tighten. There was clearly a flaw in my plan because I failed to anticipate there’d be this much touching in a surfing lesson.
“So a few more things before we get you in the water—”
“Do I have to go in the water?” he asks.
“You have to go in the water.”
He looks out over the ocean, worry etched in every feature. Turning back to me he says, “Tell me something you hate.”
“Like people who take too long in the shower and don’t separate their recycling, or—?”
“Something that scares you.”
There are a lot of things that scare me—Luke scares me if I’m being honest, the fact that he’s nice and funny and he makes my stomach do strange things. The idea of ever reliving what I went through with Justin . . . that definitely scares me.
“I don’t like roller coasters,” I say.
“Really?” he asks, and I nod. A tiny disbelieving smile pulls up the corner of his mouth. “Roller coasters are designed to give you the illusion of danger without any of the actual danger of death. But surfing”—he motions to the water—“out there you might as well be a tasty morsel in an all-you-can-eat buffet.”
“Doesn’t make the fear any less real, though, does it?”
“No, I guess not.” He looks at the water again before turning back to me. “Let’s make a deal. I do this and you go to Six Flags and ride Goliath with me.”
I actually snort. “Fuck that.”
He reaches for my forearm, thumb brushing over my wrist. “I’m trusting you, you trust me.”
I could be wrong, but it feels like he’s talking about a lot more than roller coasters. I look into his brown eyes and there’s nothing but absolute sincerity there.
He bends at the knee to meet my gaze. “Okay?”
Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4) Page 17