“But I don’t want him to think I’m trying to impress him. This is just—”
“A painting lesson,” Jodie says, mocking me. “I know. You’ve told me ten times. Who are you trying to convince here—me or you?”
“I’m serious. I don’t want him getting the wrong idea.”
“I think he’s going to get all sorts of right ideas,” she says, winking as always. I shake my head. “Now get out of here and go to your painting lesson. You’re on the schedule at two, remember? I have to get my manuscript finished. My agent didn’t buy my excuse that new shoes were an absolute necessity yesterday.”
I gather up the canvases and supplies, heading out the door toward my spot.
I’d called J & J’s last night, feeling bold enough to set up a painting lesson. I felt like I owed him after the pickle scenario.
Okay, let’s be real. It’s not about fried pickles. It’s about me wanting to see him again, despite my best effort to deny it.
Jesse was up for the whole painting gig and promised to meet me here.
Sure enough, as I round the corner past the beach grasses to the spot we’ve picked, he’s standing there in a muscle shirt and board shorts, Ray Ban sunglasses completing the vibe.
“Hey,” I say as he rushes to help me carry all the painting equipment.
He just stares and smiles, taking some things out of my arms. “Your hair. It’s awesome. Wow,” he says, flashing those killer teeth.
“Oh, thanks. Just wanted a change.” I automatically run a hand through it. I need to stop it. I hate girls who are always flipping their hair.
“It looks amazing. Wow.” He keeps staring as if he literally can’t take his eyes off me. I feel awkward, not really used to this sort of attention. Back home, when I tried to do something different with my hair—which usually meant going one shade darker than usual—Chris never even noticed. In fairness, this is a bit more drastic, but still. It’s good to be noticed.
“So, are you ready to paint?” I ask.
“Yeah, let’s do it.”
I start standing up the easels and placing the canvases on them. I order Jesse to get the palettes ready to go.
“Beach scene?” I ask, and he nods. He’s still looking at me, and my stomach flutters under his gaze.
“Okay, I’ve already prepped the canvas, so here we go,” I say as I find the correct brushes we need first and show Jesse how to hold it properly. He copies my moves. I feel pressure now to do a good job.
I lead him through a few basic brush strokes. A compliant student, he listens to my every word, mimicking me when he can.
After a half hour, I appraise our progress.
Jesse’s looks nothing like mine, despite his best efforts. It’s muddy and murky. It looks more like a horror scene than a cheery beach scene.
I scratch my head, forgetting there is paint on my hands.
“Oh, man, you got blue in your hair.”
“Shit,” I say, holding my hands out, not sure what to do.
He laughs. “You’re really taking this edgy thing pretty far, huh? How about some green on this side,” he says, pretending to hold his brush near my hair.
I scream, slapping the brush away. He laughs as I dash away from him through the sand, inspired by the moment. He chases me across the beach, laughing like a five-year-old. Despite my initial annoyance, I give way to laughter too.
When he finally stops and puts his brush back in the brush holder, he sighs.
“I don’t think I have the knack for painting,” he says, studying his canvas. I approach him, cocking my head at his painting, trying to find anything positive to hang on to.
“I mean, it’s… different.”
“It sucks.”
I look at him to judge whether or not I can be honest. I decide he can take it. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad. Sorry.”
He shrugs. “I think it’s just the teacher. She’s a little strange, you know? And, between you and me, I think she just brought me here to show me up.”
I gasp in mock horror. “This was your idea,” I say, pointing at him.
“Please. After those pickles, you practically begged me to come here. You’re just hoping I buy you some more.”
“I have an in with the restaurant. Pretty sure I could snag some without you.”
“Yeah, but they’re not the same if you don’t eat them with a tattooed, hilarious guy like me.”
“Full of ourselves much?” I tease. I shake my head, looking off toward the surf. It’s early enough that the beachgoers aren’t quite filling the sand yet. A few rogue chairs line the water’s edge, and a few kids play in the water.
Feeling spontaneous, I decide to abandon our painting station. “Come on,” I say, tugging on Jesse’s hand. After I do, I feel a little self-conscious. Don’t give him the wrong idea, I think to myself, yanking my hand out of his. I don’t want him to think I’m making a move.
I dash down the beach, and he follows. The July sun is already warming the sand—in a few hours, it’ll be scorching hot. The wind whips my paint-streaked hair every which way, and I’m sure it doesn’t quite look like one of the women on Baywatch. I feel like a five-year-old as I gleefully skip toward the waves.
When we reach the water, I plunk my feet in and scream. “Damn, it’s cold.”
“You haven’t been down to the water yet?” Jesse asks, standing beside me.
“Nope. Been too busy setting up my life.”
“You’re a terrible beach girl, you know? What, you’ve been here like a month and you haven’t been down here? What kind of person spontaneously picks up and moves here… but doesn’t go to the beach?”
I grin. “A boring one, I guess. I’m still new to this whole spontaneous thing.”
“Well, at least you’re getting better at it. God, when I moved here, the first thing I did was come down to the water. I didn’t even have a place to live yet, but here I was, feet in the water.”
“How old were you when you moved here?” I ask.
“Eighteen.”
“Did you come alone?” I ask, feeling like the freeing breeze and lapping water make a perfect, soothing backdrop for nosy questions.
“Yep. Just me.”
I take in the sight of the sun beaming over the water, not really sure where to go with this conversation next.
Jesse picks it up for me, perhaps the serene setting prompting him to open up a bit. “My dad loved this place. We didn’t have much money growing up. He was a mechanic, and his income wasn’t the highest. Still, he would save and save so he could bring me here for a week every other summer. I looked forward to that week for two full years. I would put every penny, every nickel I could find in our beach jar so we could come back. I guess his parents always brought him here, and he loved the place. I fell in love with it, too. There’s just something powerful about standing here, feeling so small. There’s something magical about the excitement and energy on the boardwalk, yet the peace you find here.”
A wave sends me slightly off-kilter, and I lean into Jesse’s shoulder. He keeps staring into the ocean, and I smile, happy he’s opening up.
“What about your mom?” I venture. “Did she like it here?”
I look up in time to see his jaw clench. I wish I could take the words back, wish I hadn’t usurped this peaceful moment for him. I get the sense that opening up isn’t his strong suit.
“I wouldn’t know. She abandoned us when I was just two. Left my dad for a man she met at work. Picked up and took off. She cleaned out my dad’s savings and checking accounts, left him high and dry with a two-year-old. Never heard from her again.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, gently touching his arm. He looks down at me, shrugging.
“It’s okay. Dad gave me a good life.”
“So when you came here, did you have favorite places? Did you have a routine?”
Jesse’s grin is back. I’ve asked a good question.
“Dad liked to spend as much time on the sand as possibl
e. We’d get up at six in the morning to come and claim our spot, always as close to the water as possible. We’d spend the day here, playing in the sand, building sand castles, boogie boarding when I got older. There’s a small sub shack a few blocks back from the boardwalk. Around noon, we’d head back and get sandwiches before coming back out for the afternoon.”
“Sounds amazing.”
“It was.” He pauses, and I turn to see a wistful look in his eyes as he rubs the stubble on his chin, looking out into the vast horizon. He turns to look at me, smiling. “We also loved Midsummer Nights, believe it or not. On Tuesday of the week we were here, Dad would take me there. It was when Lysander’s mom Janet was running the place. Dad would always get a Love-in-Idleness and let me have a sip.”
“You rebel,” I say, winking.
“That’s me all right.”
“Is that why you still come every Tuesday?”
“You bet. It’s the same booth Dad and I would sit at.”
I want to know more. I want to know more about Jesse’s life, about how he ended up here, about his dad. But I also don’t want to push too far. I don’t want to scare him away.
“Well, I guess I should head back and check on Henry,” I say, sad to end this moment between us. I glance at the water one last time before stepping back, my toes back in the dry sand instead of the cold, salty water.
“Do you work today?” Jesse asks.
“At two. I get done at nine, though.”
Jesse kicks up some water, hands in his pockets. Finally, he looks at me, those green eyes piercing into mine. “So, Jake’s been a little lonely lately because I’ve been working more hours at the shop. What do you think about going for a walk tonight on the beach, after you’re done with work? You could bring Henry so Jake would have a new friend.”
“Are dogs allowed on the beach?”
Jesse smiles. “I’m a rebel, remember? Of course not. But it’ll be dark. No one will say anything, especially not to a lady walking a mastiff.”
“I’ll warn you, Henry is pretty lazy, so I’m not sure how long the walk will be.”
“Jake’s ten pounds overweight. Pretty sure he’ll be okay with a short walk.”
“Sounds like they might be a perfect pair. I mean as friends, of course.”
“Of course,” Jesse says, grinning. “So how about 10:00 p.m.? Does that work for you?”
“Sounds great. I’ll meet you outside Midsummer Nights?”
“Perfect,” he says, and we head back to clean up the painting lesson gone wrong. As we trash the canvases and clean up my easel, though, I can’t help but think that in some ways, the painting lesson might have gone terribly right.
Chapter Nine
“This seems like an absolutely horrible idea,” I say, nursing my cup of coffee as I force my feet through the sand. The beach is still hazy, the sun not even up yet. Jodie, of course, is practically skipping through the sand, her neon yellow workout tank way too loud for this time.
“It’s going to be great! New day, new you. You’ll thank me.”
“It’s way too early.”
“Not my fault you had a steamy, late-night date.”
I brush my bangs out of my eyes as I grin. I can’t even deny it.
Last night with Jesse was wonderful.
Okay, let’s back up. It’s not like anything crazy wonderful happened—there was no wild time on the sand, which is perfectly okay with me. Sex on the beach never did seem appealing.
Not that I would want that anyway, I remind myself, wiping the smirk off my face. It’s just my drowsiness and the early hour that has me thinking crazy, has me reminiscing about last night like a love-drunk teenager.
There was simply a moonlight walk, the tide lapping against our toes as Henry and Jake met for the first time. As our dogs greeted each other in the typical ways, Jesse and I ambled down the beach, talking about the basics, covering all of the favorite color and favorite holiday and favorite everything kind of talk.
As friends, of course.
“It wasn’t a date,” I argue, still clinging to my cup of coffee like it’s my life source.
“Yeah, okay. Because Jesse meets with tons of girls with Jake on the beach. You know, hanging by the sea late at night, languidly strolling down the beach… nope, nothing romantic there.” Jodie rolls her eyes, smiling in her endearing way. I scowl back at her.
“Our dogs were sniffing each other’s butts. So no, not quite romantic. Plus, Jake tried to hump Henry.”
Jodie squeals with laughter. “How did that even work? Never mind, I don’t need the visual. Anyway, maybe you two could take a hint.” She makes a terrifying gesture, one suggesting lewd activities, and I scoff at her craziness.
“We’re just friends,” I remind her, the tone of my voice reminiscent of a whiny teenager. We’ve been through this so many times.
“Well, that’s stupid if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask you. Plus, I’ve been burned before.”
“Not by a sexy tattoo man, though. Come on. He’s different.”
“I don’t even know him, Jodie. Besides, I didn’t come here to fall in love.”
“Well, dearie, I hate to break it to you, but sometimes you can’t choose when you fall in love. Sometimes it just comes for you. Ask Henry. He apparently knows a thing or two about that.”
I roll my eyes, laughing at the thought of Jake and Henry, at Jesse’s embarrassment, and at the memory of falling into the sand laughing at his dog trying to violate mine.
Letting go of the “not a date” date with Jesse for the time being, Jodie and I stroll toward the group in the sand, the only other people insane enough to be up at this time. A few elderly ladies wearing way too tight yoga pants bend over, stretching their mats on the sand.
“Did I need a yoga mat for this?”
“No, it’s fine. We can go all natural. A little sand never killed anyone, right?” Jodie says, shrugging. I feel pretty doubtful as I eye the group.
Beside the elderly ladies, a few fit twentysomethings are already warming up, contorting into crazy poses that look painful. They make it look easy.
Suddenly, I realize Jodie dragging me to beach yoga was more than just a mistake. It’s going to be an epic failure, a true disaster.
“Jodie, I’m not flexible. I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.” Nerves creep in, and I start thinking about the million ways this will end in my utter embarrassment.
Jodie stands calmly beside me. “Because you’re trying new things. Come on, it’s fun. It’s rejuvenating. The sound of the ocean, the feel of the sand, your body getting stronger.”
“Oh trust me, it’s electrifying,” a wheezy voice whispers from my left.
I jump a little, not realizing someone else was listening in.
Beside me, a middle-aged man stands closer than feels comfortable. Apparently, he never learned about personal space. He, like the elderly women, is also wearing rather tight yoga pants—except his are leopard print. To go with his leopard print pants, he’s picked out a black muscle tank that is leaving very little to the imagination—not that I would have really wanted to imagine his hairy chest anyway. I try not to stare at his pecs, nipples out and all, as I offer a polite grin.
I don’t say anything, not really sure how to respond to a man twice my age who has just used the word “electrifying.” Jodie exhales with a little snort.
“I’m George, by the way,” the man says, extending his hand. I remind myself to be polite as I extend my hand to shake his.
He doesn’t want a handshake though. Instead, he hunches slightly, kissing my hand as his eyes stare into mine.
I fight the urge the shake off the feel of his chapped lips on my hand and simultaneously to kick him in the crotch of his leopard print pants.
“So how old are you?” he asks, winking.
You’ve got to be kidding me. Yoga is not only an epic disaster. It’s going to be epically disturbing.
I try not to think ab
out the amount of sweat on his hands or the fact he’s standing way too close.
“In my twenties,” I say, snapping my hand back from his grasp. This will hopefully be enough to dissuade him. God, this guy must be over twice my age. My new haircut isn’t doing its job if he thinks hitting on me is a good idea—or in the realm of possibility.
“Oh, a young one at yoga. Nice. I bet you’ll be all kinds of flexible.”
I’m pretty sure I make an audible vomiting noise. I turn to Jodie for assistance, but she is just giggling into her hand, trying to stifle down the sound.
“Oh, George, she is all kinds of something.” She winks at him, and then yanks me to the other side of the elderly ladies, beside the fit yoga attendants.
“Oh my God. Where have you brought me?” I whisper harshly, watching George like a hawk to see if he’s heading our way.
“George is pretty harmless,” Jodie says. “Creepy as hell, but harmless. However, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him give such a suave kiss upon meeting someone. You are lucky, I guess.”
I elbow her in the ribs as our instructor comes up to the group.
I shrug off the thought of George, although he’s still making eyes at me from across the group, offering me a sad little wave as he jogs in place. I’m not sure if the waving or jogging is more ridiculous looking at this beach yoga class. Of course, the leopard print pants make everything he does seem ridiculous. Still, with class starting, I let go of the fact creepy George is still staring. Jodie comes to attention, and once I get a look at the instructor, it all makes sense now.
The early wake-up. The sand in her toes. The dealing with creepers like George.
The yoga instructor is a man, but that seems like too ordinary of a word for the being before us.
Shirtless, tanned, and toned in all the right places, the gorgeous hunk doesn’t look anything like the yogi I imagined teaching the class. His crystal-blue eyes seem to sparkle as he takes inventory of his group. I turn to Jodie to see her ogling him quite obviously, a huge smile painted on her face.
“So you’re purely a yoga fan, huh?” I ask, grinning.
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