Waves of Love (Surf’s Up Book 1) (2 page)

              Sage was up early the next morning, walking her beloved beach as always. She was a light sleeper, always had been, and often rose just after 5A.M., kicking around her little apartment above Sequels making coffee and letting the sun rise. Once it did, or was close enough, she walked down the back flight of steps down to Sunset Street below and, in a few minutes or less, was standing on the beach.

              She could go left, toward the high rises and condominiums at the north end of Seaside Heights, or right, to where the houses were actual houses. It didn’t really matter because only the hardcore surfers were up at that hour, and Sage mostly had the beach to herself.

              She walked and walked, letting her mind wander and, occasionally, reaching into the light cinch sack on her back to grab a small notepad and pen to scribble down notes, like how many cases of creamer she needed to order or who to call in town to let them know their book was in and behind the register.

              It was a fairly old school way of running a business – everyone always told her to use her cell phone instead – but Sage liked to think that Sequels was “old school” itself, so it never bothered her.

              She was scribbling down a note to herself about Derek’s book-signing – printing flyers, locking in the dates, etc. – when she heard someone calling her name from the surf.

              She turned, squinting against the rising sun, to see a hairless torso, dripping with water, one arm clutching a board as a young, ripe body emerged from the waves. Water beaded off his hairless skin, tanned and gleaming, and drizzled down his handsome, stubbly head.

              “Derek?” she asked, still clutching the little notepad.

              He rushed up to her, smelling of salt and board wax, wearing baggies with alternating brown and white stripes that hung off his narrow waist. “What are you, a detective?” he chuckled, sliding his board into the sand at his feet.

              She made a “huh?” face until he pointed to the little notepad. “I only see those on detective shows,” he explained.

              “Oh,” she chuckled, slightly embarrassed and putting her pad and pen back in the cinch sack. “Actually, it’s funny… I was just making a note to myself about your book signing.”

              “Yeah?” he asked, picking up his board and nodding for her to follow. She shrugged, nearly done with her walk for the morning anyway.

              “Yeah,” she said as he reached a spot midway up the beach where he’d laid down his towel and the backpack she’d seen him wearing the day before. “I’ve been thinking, and maybe, since you said you’d be in town for awhile, you could do something one night a week, you know. A reading from each different book, or maybe a writer’s series where you talk about writing and publishing—”

              He turned, toweling off his head. “That actually sounds kind of fun,” he said, running the towel along his tan, lithe body so that she felt like a voyeur just watching him. “Usually these things are so boring, but… folks always ask about how to get into writing, maybe…”

              He paused, peering over her shoulder. “Let’s say I commit to five weeks,” he said, making Sage’s stomach flutter slightly with anticipation. “And each week, I can talk about a different topic like query letters or working with editors or whatnot, right?”
              Sage was nodding energetically. “I love it,” she beamed. “So many of the folks who show up to these readings are wannabe writers themselves; I think they’d really eat you up.”

              She chuckled. “Eat ‘it’ up,” she corrected herself, shaking her head. “The information, I mean.”

              He laughed, too, sitting down on his towel and inviting her to do the same. It was a big towel and she sank onto the far edge, peering out at the waves.

              “Then it’s settled,” he said, extending a hand. She laughed, shaking it, feeling warm, tender skin between the ocean’s cold. His fingers were long and thin, like the rest of him, and as they parted she imagined how they might feel—

              “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he interrupted her salacious mind train, nodding toward the sea. The sun was nearly up now, coating the horizon in a cotton candy pink tinged with blue and orange.

              She nodded, admiring it as if for the first time. “It’s funny,” she marveled, “I walk this beach every morning and I’m so caught up in the lists I’m making or what I need to do when I get back, I never quite stop to just… look where I am. Take it all in, you know?”

              She turned from the waves to find him watching her, smirking. “You sound like a lot of surfers,” he said. “They’re out there, in the water, shredding it up, showing off, whatever, and then, when they’re done, they just… shower off and head home, never looking back.”

              “Pretty words,” she teased him. “You should be some kind of writer or something.”

              Just then his stomach rumbled and they laughed. She took the opportunity to stand. “Give me about ten minutes,” she said, watching him rise to his full height, “and I’ll have coffee and fresh scones on.”

              He smiled. “It’s a date,” he said, reaching for his board. 

              Derek showered at the beach access, washing the Atlantic Ocean off his copper skin and dousing his board before drying off and heading back across the street to his little cottage on Sawgrass Lane. It was furnished simply, and he didn’t require much: a couch, a coffee table, a chair or two for guests, some barstools at the kitchen counter, a bed… that’s about it.

              He hung his baggies and towel over the upstairs porch railing outside his bedroom, drifting back through the open French doors to tug on some underwear and cargo pants and a faded black T-shirt from some surf festival from years back.

              Flip flops stored by the front door completed his look and, as he opened the door, he grabbed his backpack and stepped down the steps onto the street. It was still quiet, Seaside Heights gently coming to life around him as Derek turned the corner off Sawgrass Lane onto the sidewalk, passing the hardware store and the art supply shop, both still closed, before Sequels appeared midway up Sunset Street, its display windows featuring a variety of books intended for summer reading.

              He could smell the coffee, strong with a hint of vanilla, before he opened the door. Sage stood, smiling, behind the counter, peering at something in the bakery case, momentarily distracted.

Derek admired her; the long ginger hair tied in a loose, almost carefree ponytail, the stray wisps of hair framing her pretty face, rectangular glasses low on her nose, frame wiry and slender in a pair of black jeans and a maroon baby doll T-shirt beneath her orange and brown “Sequels” apron.

              She stood, catching him scoping her out. “Oh,” she said, literally taking a step back.

              “Sorry,” he said, feeling the blush rise to his face. “Are you open yet?”

              “For a famous author like you,” she chuckled, sliding two mugs of coffee onto the countertop, “we’re always open.”

              He slid onto a stool, feeling that pleasant soreness in his limbs and torso that always followed a long, satisfying session in the surf. “Just what the doctor ordered,” he said, sipping the hot, heady brew.

“Mmmmmm,” he admired, savoring a tangy sweetness on his tongue, even before he added a dollop of cream and a single bag of natural sugar. “That’s great, what is it?”

              “I call it my ‘Beachside Blend,’” Sage explained, resting her hip against the counter across from him before sipping it herself. “You like?”

              “I love,” he said, grabbing a crumpled twenty dollar bill from his pocket. He slid it on the counter and said, “Keep ‘em coming.”

              “I’ve got fresh shortbread scones cooling,” she said, ignoring the money. “You interested?”

              He nodded, mouth full of Beachside Blend. “I forgot to eat last night, so… yeah, count me in for two. Maybe three.”

              She shook her head. “How do guys do that?” she marveled. “Forget to eat, I mean. I’ve never in my life forgotten to eat.”

              “I don’t normally,” he confessed. “It’s just, with the realtor and the move and the unpacking, I just… time gets away from me.”

              “Good thing you’re a surfer,” she said. “No time clock to punch.”

              “Hey,” he laughed, mock defensively. “I’ve got to stick to a deadline with my publisher every year, so… that’s kind of a time clock.”

              “My apologies,” she sighed, plating three scones and sliding them over. He arched one eyebrow at the over-order until she grabbed one and began nibbling it herself.

              He followed suit. The scone warm and buttery and rich on his tongue, and not just because he was starving. “And these?” he said between a few “mmmms” and “yummms.” “What are we calling these babies?”

              “Butter Nutters?!?!” she answered, with a questioning tone, as if they were brainstorming brand names at some big ad agency.

              “Love it!” he said, polishing off his second Butter Nutter in no time.

              He pushed the plate away and sat back, admiring Sage once more as she whisked his plate away and wiped off the countertop. He knew she was older, and normally he skewed in quite the opposite direction, but there was something so warm and tender about her, Derek just couldn’t look away.

              Maybe it was her curves, so rich and ripe, or the way she got lost in her work, ignoring him for a few moments before remembering he was there. Maybe it was just her red hair, or the warm green eyes that met his, nervously, from time to time.

              Or maybe it was just her hesitancy. The girls in Derek’s world all knew what they had, flaunted it, and expected to be rewarded simply for being a hot piece of ass. Sure, they looked great, but… talking to them about anything other than the latest reality TV gossip, selfie, cell phone app or what they ate – or didn’t eat – for breakfast was a nightmare.

              Sage was beautiful, sleek and ripe in her own way – what he wouldn’t give to see that pale, tender flesh poured into a bikini, water dripping off her long, slender limbs – and yet talking to her felt as warm and inviting as her gentle green eyes.

              “So,” she asked, peering down at him as he relaxed in his counter stool. “When do you think you want to give your first talk?”

              He thought about the week ahead, so open and free. “Wednesday sound good?”
              “Can we make it Thursday?” she asked. “Only reason is the closer something is to the weekend, the more likely folks are to come out on a ‘school night,’ you know?”

              “Fair enough,” he reasoned. “What time were you thinking? Six, seven o’ clock?”

              “Six thirty would be perfect,” she beamed, reaching for an ever present notepad and scribbling it down. Derek loved the way her tongue poked out as she scribbled. “I’ll make up some posters and put them in the windows around town, update the website, pass out a few flyers, that sort of thing. I’m hoping it will go over real well.”

              “Can’t wait,” he said, their eyes meeting – and holding. “Normally these things are just a formality, Sage, but… I’m really looking forward to… this.”

              She nodded, not saying anything; Derek felt a kind of warmth grow, soft and familiar, between them. She smiled, about to say something, when the bell rang over the door.

              Derek turned, forgetting they were in an actual business and not alone in the universe, as he might have hoped. “Welcome to Sequels,” she beamed, sounding almost… relieved… as she slid away to greet a gaggle of school girls clustering at the register. “What can I help you ladies with this morning?”
             

              Sage circulated through the bookstore, offering up the last of her “Surfin’ Sweets” cupcakes to the dwindling crowd. “What a great event!” said Polly Pierce, grabbing a cupcake and napkin for the brisk walk home. “I can’t wait to hear what Derek will talk about next week.”

              “I hear it’s query letters,” Sage said proudly, as if perhaps she had published a book herself. But, after hearing Derek’s stirring talk that night, she almost felt as if she had.

              Clearly, she wasn’t alone. Twenty-seven people had shown up for Derek’s first talk, “Hangin’ Ten: 10 Tips for Would-be Writers.” It had started promptly at 6:45 and now, nearly two hours later, was just winding down. Only a few brave souls remained, the rest lugging their notepads and laptops and printouts home, armed with the valuable information Derek had shared with them.

              Sage spied him, handsome yet casual in his maroon colored corduroy pants and a wheat colored turtleneck, both hugging his young, lean frame. Sharon Estes was bending his ear, as she had for the last twenty minutes, about her long-gestating memoir,
The Life and Times of a Rural Mail Woman
.
              “Now Sharon,” Sage scolded good-naturedly, handing her a cupcake to go. “Let’s save some information for next week’s event.”

              Sharon, cumbersome in her loud pink house dress and matching ribbon in her hair, sighed dramatically and took the proffered cupcake. “I suppose you’re right,” she grumbled, giving Derek one last appraising leer before ambling off toward the door.

              “Phew,” Derek said under his breath, running a finger beneath his collar, “thanks for saving me.”

              “Sharon means well,” Sage explained, offering him the last cupcake. His eyes grew big, spying the blue frosting with green stripes like it was an ocean wave. “I get stuck at least three times a week hearing the same exact thing. You kind of have to put it on auto-pilot.”

              He slumped down in one of the folding chairs as the last of the guests left, Sage eagerly locking the door behind them and turning the “Open” sign to “Closed.”

“So, how do you think it went?” he asked.

“Are you kidding?” she asked, licking frosting off her thumb as she washed the tray off in the sink behind the counter. She’d been cleaning up as she went, tossing away plastic cups full of punch and crumb-covered paper plates, so there wasn’t much left to do now. “This is the most successful event I’ve had in Sequels history.”

He seemed both surprised and delighted. “For reals?”

“Let me put it this way,” she smirked, sliding the Sequels apron over her head and onto the rack by the swinging half-door that separated the café kitchen from the store front. “Five people attended the last event I had, and three came to the event before that.”

He nodded, watching her approach him. “So then we’re still on for next week, huh?”
              “Are you kidding?” she laughed, leaning against the display table full of his books she’d set up for the event. “I’d have a mutiny on my hands if I canceled now!”

He slapped his hands together, standing and smiling at her. “I’m starved,” he announced, patting his flat belly as if for emphasis. “Can I… is there someplace still open where we can eat?”

Sage blushed, unable to resist his youthful enthusiasm. “Well, there’s Razmatazz across the street. It’s a little jazz club and they serve a pretty good bar menu until midnight.”

“Perfect!” he said, bounding toward the door. She sighed, looking at the rows of chairs. She liked to clean up good and proper after an event, but what the hell? It wasn’t every night she got invited to dinner by a famous author and, besides, it wasn’t like she didn’t show up for work an hour early every morning, anyway.

He opened the door and let them both out, shutting the lights off before triple-locking the door. The air was cool but still thick, heavy with the salt spray from the nearby ocean as they lingered in the street.

The storefronts were dark and silent now along Sunset Street, the main drag through town. Only Razmatazz remained open, a blinking neon light from the roof blaring the name next to a tiny cocktail piano that blinked on and off.

Four little tables lined the street, still set up for the night. They could hear the music from inside, tinny and brassy, the usual trio of local fogies banging out old standards like “My Funny Valentine” and “The Girl from Ipanema.”

She saw the look on his face and said, “Grab a seat and I’ll let someone know we’re here, okay?” His relief was palpable as she inched inside.

“Sage!” cried Regina, the club’s owner, her ebony skin glowing with excitement. “You haven’t been in in ages, girl. What’s up?”

“Not much,” Sage said, grabbing a few menus and silverware rolls from the end of the bar. “I was going to grab a little late-night something with a friend out front, that okay?”

“Always, always,” Regina said, shooing her back out the door. “I’ll let someone know you’re here.”

Sage paused to nod at the band – most of them loyal customers as well as local musicians – before slipping back outside. Derek was smiling, sitting and waiting for her, but stood when she approached.

She blushed, a little flustered as she set the menus and silverware down. “You thirsty?” she asked as they both sat in wicker chairs.

“You bet,” he said. “Starved, too.”

She chuckled. “Let me guess: you forgot to eat again today?”
              He grinned at her, running a hand along his stubbly head. “That cupcake was the first thing I’ve had in hours.”

“What are we going to do with you?” she asked, hating the motherly tone in her voice.

An older woman appeared in a black skirt and matching blouse, salt and pepper hair piled high atop her head and a waitress pad in her hand. “You kids know what you feel like yet?”

“Wine?” he suggested, looking to Sage. When she nodded, he pressed, “Red? Dry?”

The waitress chuckled. “Let me guess: first date?”

While Sage blushed, speechless – it had been years since her last official “date” – Derek chuckled. “The jury’s still out… but, ‘yes’ to a bottle of dry red wine, please.”

“Anything to eat?”

“The sampler for now,” Sage said, watching the woman nod.

Derek leaned back in his chair, regarding her curiously. “Did you have fun tonight?” he asked.

She chuckled, leaning back in her chair as well. Suddenly, she felt as tired – and relieved – as Derek looked. All week long she’d been hustling to make the event a success and, now that it was, she couldn’t have been happier – or more relaxed. “Absolutely!”

The waitress reappeared, bringing a bottle of wine and two glasses. She poured, silently, smiling but quiet, then left. “What was your favorite part?” he asked, reaching for his wine.

She looked down at her fingers on the stem of her glass. “Knowing there’s going to be another one next week.”

He laughed, and was still laughing when the waitress brought out a tray of olives, toasted pita points and rolled meats and cheeses. “Holy hell,” he blurted when she left, “this is exactly what I felt like.”

She nodded, sliding it across the little ceramic tile topped table toward him before grabbing her glass and curling up in the chair. “It’s just heavy enough to be dinner,” she said, “but not too heavy if you feel like something more.”

He nodded, nibbling contentedly as she tried not to stare at his lush, full lips and long, thin fingers. Sage was becoming infatuated, and she knew she couldn’t. Or shouldn’t. Or both, or one, or the other or… dammit! She told herself not to do this and here she was, doing that very thing.

And yet, sitting with Derek – harmlessly, they were just sitting – out in front of a jazz club sipping wine and eating pita points was so much more appealing than zapping another microwave dinner alone in her loft-style apartment above Sequels.

So what if he was charming, handsome, well-spoken and ten frickin’ years younger than she was? It was just a glass of wine and rolled salami and olives, right?