Casey edges the Explorer over onto the shoulder of the road, where several other sand-encrusted vehicles line the pavement, most of them plastered with salty stickers for companies like Sex Wax, Roxy, Counter Culture. The list goes on. Of course, how counter culture can something really be, if it has to advertise the fact that it is?
Casey picks up the education course. “Just remember, those board fins are sharp, man.” He thrusts the vehicle into park, turning to face me. “Whatever you do, don’t let one catch you in the face or the arm. They’ll cut you right open. Buddy of mine went down to Baja last month and had to get a bunch of stitches in his leg.”
Just what I need: more bleeding, more surgery, more scars. “Maybe this isn’t for me,” I say, running my fingertips along my face. Feeling the bands of scar tissue. Why did I think this was a good idea again? Something to do with Keanu Reeves? Wait, or was it Alex Richardson?
Michael’s golden brown eyes narrow in concern, as he dangles his hand over the seatback, reaching for my own. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know,” I agree, feeling like this is my Big Chance to fit into a testosterone-driven club that was formed several decades ago. Like this is a rite of passage and I have to nail it perfectly or I’ll never live up to Alex’s memory. “But I really want to try,” I say, thinking of those surfers in Jacksonville. “I’ve always wanted to.”
“She’ll be fine,” Casey insists. And he’s the one who grew up surfing, after all, so he should know. This causes the rush of blood in my ears to quiet a bit. “I mean, hell, you aren’t even gonna get up on that board today,” he continues. “You may never get up.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I laugh, drawing my hair up into a haphazard ponytail.
“Nothing to do with confidence.” Casey opens his door. “Just the facts of the sport, Rebecca.”
I swallow hard, nodding, but for some unexpected reason it’s not even the surfing I’m afraid of. It’s the thought of stripping out of my long-sleeved Polo shirt, of Michael seeing the scars on my chest for the very first time. That’s much scarier than the thought of dancing with the sharks on a thin slice of board.
Michael drops his surfboard onto the sand, staring out into the waves like a mystic. “Lot of chop,” he observes stoically. “Rough for a first-timer.”
“Maybe I should just watch,” I volunteer, dropping my own board beside me. It was an ungainly and awkward journey down to the beach with the thing—I can’t even imagine trying to balance on it.
Casey snorts, shaking his head. “You can’t tell a newbie all that shit about not panicking,” he scolds Michael. “All it does is make them panic. You can’t do that—they just gotta get out there and go for it.”
“It’s fine,” I say, studying the slab of fiberglass that’s supposed to somehow support my hundred and nine pounds across roiling fists of sea. “I’ll be fine.” Or, alternatively, I’ll be dead. In that case, maybe Alex can teach me how to surf.
“It’s not a big deal.” Michael clasps my shoulders within his reassuring hands. “You can stay here.”
“That’s a great idea!” I bounce onto the balls of my feet, feeling relief wash over me. “I’ll sit here on the beach and watch you guys. Maybe tomorrow the waves will be calmer.”
“Okay,” Michael says, but he doesn’t seem convinced that it’s okay to leave me on shore. Reluctantly, he strips off his surf shop T-shirt, revealing a clingy wet suit. It’s more like a satiny second skin, and my breath hitches in my throat to see the way it outlines more muscles across his shoulders and chest than I ever imagined he possessed.
Casey grins a little wickedly, watching Michael draw his forearm over his chest to stretch his triceps. “Wet suit?” Casey snorts. “It’s July, for crap’s sake.”
“I’m cold natured,” he huffs, tossing me a self-conscious glance. I work to ignore the way his shoulder muscles ripple beneath the tight material of that short-sleeved suit.
“You’re showing off.” Casey drops to the sand and begins waxing his board, his hand moving in brisk circular motions.
“Shut up. I am not.”
“Uh, yeah, I think you are,” he says, then winks at me with a sly smile that catches me by surprise.
Well, if Michael Warner is showing off, he has good reason because that wet suit is absolutely delicious on his well-toned body. Broad shoulders, defined triceps—how could I have not fully realized the beautiful body he’s been hiding beneath those faded T-shirts and Armani suits?