Waves of Love (Surf’s Up Book 1) (3 page)

Derek watched Sage drink her wine and wondered how he might spend more time with her. She was so aloof. Not cold or distant, just… unavailable. Most girls he interacted with were pretty blunt about their intentions. Either they were into him and available – in more ways than one – or they weren’t. If they weren’t, he didn’t bother. 

              And neither did they.

              It wasn’t just him; the girls were that way, too. His generation didn’t “date” so much as hook up. Girls and guys didn’t necessarily talk to each other, not like Derek and Sage were now, unless they intended to do a lot of talking with their bodies later. It was just accepted as the new norm and Derek wasn’t normally one to buck the system.

              But Sage was so different. She was legitimately sexy – that auburn hair and crooked smile, those sea green eyes and small, firm breasts, her endless legs and ripe, firm hips – and yet she showed little more than a professional interest in him.

              Maybe that’s what was making Derek so hot for her – the fact that she wasn’t hot for him. It wasn’t just that; she was just plain sexy, dammit! But her being flat-lined when it came to his sexiness definitely had Derek on his toes and eager to find out why.

              The wine didn’t hurt. They were halfway through the bottle, the live jazz sounding like background music through the club doors and then, louder, every time the waitress popped her head out to wink at him – Sage’s back was to her – when she saw they were still “sipping and nibbling,” as she called it.

              Sage had her knees up against her chest in the oversized wicker chairs that lined the patio section and, suddenly inspired, Derek blurted, “We should totally do dawn patrol tomorrow.”

              “Do what now?” she chuckled, nibbling on a piece of cheese.

              “You know,” he said, almost desperate to see her in a bikini now that he’d hit on the idea. “Get up early and go out there in the waves, before work and everything gets in the way.”

              “Oh,” she hemmed, waving her free hand as she finished her wine. “I couldn’t.”

              “Why not?” He was leaning forward now, topping off their half-empty glasses with the last of the wine.

              She shrugged. “Derek, I’ve got… stuff… in the morning.”
              “Like what?” he challenged, sitting back with the last of his wine.

              “I’ve got to put all the chairs back,” she whined playfully as he laughed openly at her.

              “Good lord,” he said, literally waving away her concerns. “That will take us five minutes, tops.”
              “And brew the coffee and start the scones and…”

              “I’m talking about showing up at Crescent Street one hour early and having the time of our lives before you do all that,” he urged her. “And, I live so close, I can help you so it won’t be a biggie.”

              She sighed, looking out into the empty street. He followed her gaze. Sunset Street was a perfect name for this two-lane strip, smack dab between two rows of store fronts and bistros and cafes and surf shops. Deserted now, it was never much busier during daylight hours. Lazy, slow and charming, just like a warm Florida sunset itself.

              “Don’t laugh,” she finally said, looking up at him with those alluring eyes.

              “Never,” he lied, flashing his trademark grin.

              “Liar,” she said, knowing him too well.

              “Okay, but… no one will hear it…” He waved a hand at the empty sidewalk and matching street. “So it’s like not laughing.”

              “I can’t surf,” she blurted. And he laughed, and laughed and laughed and laughed. “Stop,” she giggled, joining in on the fun. “This is serious business.”

              “Sage,” he said, polishing off his wine. “You run a café one block from the Atlantic Ocean. Every other item on your menu is ‘surf’ this or ‘sea’ that or ‘beach’ this or ‘wave’ that. You’re sponsoring my surf camp and you can’t even surf yourself?”

              She shrugged those soft shoulders, peering back at him curiously. “I’m just always so busy, you know?”

              “Sure, now,” he agreed, “but… always? In school? As a kid?”

              “I’ve always been busy,” she explained. “And none of my friends surfed, and then they were off to college, and now I’ve got the store…”

              He wagged a finger. “Tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Two P.M. My surf camp meets for the first time. All beginners, young, old, everyone in between. You be there, and I will teach you to surf.”

              “Who will watch the store?” she whined.

              “Who watches the store if you get a cold?” he prodded. “Or have to go to the bank or have surgery, for Pete’s sake?”

              She peered back into the street, thinking. “I suppose I could get Fiona to cover for me,” she murmured.

              “It’s two hours,” he said. “This is ‘bucket list’ stuff here, Sage. And I promise: you’ll have the time of your life.”

              The waitress appeared just then and, before Derek knew what happened, Sage had polished off her wine and paid the bill. She stood, wishing him goodnight.

              “What the hell?” he asked, draining the last of his wine and grabbing a pita point to go. “We’re done?”

              She strutted up the street, playfully, forcing him to catch up and follow. “I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow,” she said, pausing at the foot of the stairs at the back of her bookstore, making it clear he wasn’t invited up. “If I’m going to play hooky with you from two to four.”

              With that she disappeared, firm rear wriggling her way up the metal stairs to her apartment above the store. He watched her until she reached the top, turned and waved before disappearing inside.

              Then he walked to his cottage around the corner, kicking himself the whole way. He wouldn’t have suggested going surfing tomorrow if he’d known it meant cutting tonight short!

              Sage stood in front of the full-size mirror in her closet, cringing at her latest attempt at a casual kind of “let’s go surfing for the first time with a hunk” bikini combo.

              Behind her, on the papasan chair with the comfy blue cushion and peacock colored green and blue throw pillows, lay the entirety of her bathing suit collection, some dozen or more tops and bottoms in varying sizes, shapes and models. There were longish boy baggies and “trunk-inis,” Brazilian cuts and one-pieces and mismatched two pieces and even a “what was I thinking?” thong or two.

              At the moment she wore a simple brown bikini bottom with cute little white ties on each side and a matching white top with a brown circle between the breast cups. It was cute, Sage knew. Youngish, but not too young.

Sexy, but not too sexy.

              It wasn’t the suit that was all wrong, it was… Sage herself. She felt way old standing there in her thirty-something skin, trying to outthink a hot young stud and figure out what
he’d
think was sexy. She knew the approach was all wrong. Two or three dozen self-help books lining the shelves in her cozy guest room could tell her that much, and yet here, with less than twenty minutes to “go time,” Sage was in full on bikini weather meltdown mode.

              Though she lived but a block or two from the beach, and walked dozens of miles a week on its sandy shores, Sage couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually slipped into a bikini, grabbed a towel and strolled on down to lie near the ocean.

It had been a daily, and certainly weekly, ritual all through high school, but of course in her teens she’d been long and lanky and her busy schedule hadn’t given her much time to accumulate any body fat. Even now, she knew her weight wasn’t necessarily an issue, but… her confidence surely was.

              She bit her lip and glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand; she was running late. She sighed and shut the closet door, knowing there’d be no more changing for the day. She’d already laid out her sandals and the cinch sack she’d wear, and now she slipped into the khaki Capri pants and sleeveless tank top she’d picked out an hour earlier.

              She sighed, no longer needing – or wanting – to glance into anything that even remotely resembled a mirror. Instead, she slid her flip-flops on and grabbed the sack and rushed out the door. The sun was bright as she peered down from the top of the stairs, looking out over the street and, beyond, to the ocean.

              Her stomach had been in knots ever since Derek asked her to attend his surf camp. Now, the sun bright on her face, the smell of the salt air in her nose, and the distant sound of waves crashing, Sage felt something different: the soft fluttering of anticipation.

              She hurried down the steps and along the street, toward the beach access at Crescent Street. It was a popular beach access, wide and paved until you hit the boardwalk, and located between two ocean front restaurants on either side.

              Both were mostly deserted at this hour, but Sage could hear the live reggae on the back deck of Spoonaker’s competing with the Jimmy Buffet style tunes being played on the back deck of Shucker’s Raw Bar.

              Sage smiled, spotting the magnetic sign she’d made for the cart Derek used to drag a dozen surfboards onto the beach each day. It featured the cover of his book to the left and, to the right, the words “Sequels Surf Camp” over the words “All Ages and Experience Levels Welcome,” and above Derek’s cell phone number, website and email addresses.

              She saw Derek, too, long and lean in the sun, body a warm, smooth copper color; his hair wet and face smiling as he stood in front of a small group of kids, butts sandy, faces happy, soaking wet.

              Wait, was she late? Sage glanced at the cell phone in her purse to find that she was, in fact, six minutes early. So why was everybody all wet? “Okay, kids,” said Derek, rubbing one little tyke’s head as they all raced past Sage to, she was sure, parents eager to hear how their first session went.

              “You made it!” Derek said, sliding a few remaining surfboards onto the racks on either side of his cart. “I was afraid you’d chicken out.”

              She shrugged. “Don’t think I didn’t think about it,” she grumbled. “What’s… where are all the kids going?”

              “Back to the loving arms of their parents, I hope,” he said, leaning against the surfboard rack knowingly. “I’m tuckered out!”

              “But I thought the class was from two to four?”

              He made an overly-dramatic face. “Did I say two to four?” he asked, long finger digging into his wet chin. “Why, I must have confused the times.”

              She slapped his bare arm, playfully, and slid her cinch sack on one of the surfboard rack handles. “So this was all an elaborate ruse to get me out here alone?” she asked. When he nodded, playfully, she sighed. “Well, I suppose I should be grateful.”

              “You’re not mad?” he asked.

              She shrugged. “No, I mean, this way I won’t be quite as humiliated as looking foolish in front of a dozen third graders.”

              He frowned. “First lesson of surf school,” he warned, “is having a positive attitude.”

              She did a mock-salute before muttering, “Yes sir. What’s the second lesson?”

              He looked her up and down, frowning playfully. “Second lesson is don’t wear so many clothes. You know you’re going in the water, right?”

              She sighed and kicked off her sandals. “I know, I know,” she muttered, shrugging out of her tank top. “Don’t remind me.”

              Despite the fact that she was standing there in little more than a string bikini, Derek’s eyes met hers. Softly, he said, “Hey, listen, if you’re really hung up about this, we don’t have to do it.”

              She shook her head. “I want to do it, Derek, it’s just… any chance of me wearing a wetsuit?”

              “Why would you want to cover up a body like that?” he asked and they both glanced up, eyes wide, at the same time. “Did I just say that out loud?” he said, cringing.

              She chuckled, anxious and uncertain and confused. She didn’t get Derek. The kid was surfer magazine pretty, long and lean and chiseled. He could have his pick of any surf bunny on the beach, tan and tiny and young, so… why was he flirting with her?

              She shrugged, assuming he was like that with all older women who donated money to sponsor his surf camp and gave him the opportunity to put on a weekly workshop for the summer.

              “So?” she asked, eager to change the subject and stop his relentless teasing. “What first?”
              “Ah,” he clapped his hands together, standing in front of her, an inch or two taller. “An eager beaver, are we? Okay, Sage, well, before we get wet… I just want to show you a few, simple moves to warm up…”

              He approached the boards in the sand and, kneeling between them, motioned for Sage to follow. The sand was warm beneath her knees and the sun hot on her back as they both began to sweat beneath the sweltering summer heat.

              “Before we wax the board,” he said, “before we get in the water, I just want you to feel comfortable with the size and shape of the stick.”

              She nodded, watching his hands caress his board. “See how it’s wider in the middle,” he said as her hand crept onto the board. “That’s where we’ll want to focus our energy…”

              Derek continued with his lesson, his voice taking on a soft, lilting tone. His love for the sand and the sea, and his obvious passion for the board and all its many properties amazed her.

              The late afternoon sun illuminated his youthful skin, his full lips, and his hazel eyes as Sage fell under his spell, completely. She supposed it was only natural, as long as nothing ever happened.

She could admire him, desire him, want him, taunt him, but clearly never have him. How could she? What could a boy like Derek want in a girl – a woman – like Sage?

              She smiled, making her decision. She could have a secret crush and, as long as it was secret, indulge in her every whim and fantasy. “Hey,” Derek was snapping his fingers playfully near her face. “Where’d you go on me, Sage?”

              “Oh, sorry,” she said, batting her eyes and biting down on a crooked smile. “Just nervous, I guess?”

              He held up a chunk of pink wax and said, “Of waxing your board?”

              “Exactly,” Sage gushed, but Derek was no fool, and the understanding she saw in his soft eyes made her lips curl into a crooked grin.