Chapter 3
(Nova)
Did I really want to?
Hell no.
Should I, just in case someone, aka Pete, had fucked up the update even after I’d left everything gift-wrapped and tied with a little bow for him?
Unfortunately.
Fine, but I refused to look at any of the work-related messages that popped up until I had a chance to see my kitties.
I clicked on one of the messages from my best friend, Megan, who I’d left with the arduous task of checking in on my super affectionate trio of fuzz-butts who went by the rather uninspired names of Squit, Pesto, and Bobby.
Yes, yes, I had named them after the Goodfeathers from Animaniacs, which I still binged at least once a year.
One look at the trio of large tuxedo kitties—one black and white, one gray and white, and one with solid orange fur interspaced with white and not a single stripe on him—and it becomes pretty obvious why they had those names.
As I’d hoped, Megan had sent proof-of-life photos, including one of three massive heads in the food dish, ears nearly touching as they pigged out.
There were several others too, some of them sitting on and beside her, snuggling with her while she read a book.
She’d promised to spend at least three hours a day with them, which she’d already declared to be prime time to plunge into the books in her Tbr pile.
One photo showed Pesto on his back, snoozing with his slightly curled paws in the air.
Another was a snapshot of Squit perched on the back of the easy chair like he was reading over her shoulder.
The last photo was of Bobby, pouncing on a fuzzy toy mouse.
It didn’t seem like they missed me in the slightest, though I knew to expect extra demands for lap time and for me to hold the stick with their dangly toys for them to pounce when I got home.
They were the perfect mix of independent and needy, and I loved every last fluffy inch of them. Murder mittens included.
Since I was one of those once I'm up, I'm going to be up for a while, people, even if I didn't introduce caffeine into my system, I decided to scroll through the channels on the television, looking for a movie, since it had been years since I'd managed to keep up with a show.
When I did find a series I liked, I typically wound up waiting for the final episode to air before I found it on a streaming service and dove in to binge-watch, though sometimes the endings were so disappointing that I regretted investing so much time catching up on the episodes.
Movies were safer. If I fell asleep, oh well, that usually meant it wasn’t holding my attention anyway.
Or I was exhausted.
I should have been exhausted.
Only there was a nagging distraction wandering through my brain, wearing a wetsuit and carrying a surfboard with white foam swirling around his feet.
His departure from the beach had left me kicking myself for not having ordered extra when I’d picked up my meal.
I could have stuffed it in the hotel fridge if it hadn’t been eaten.
Who could have ever predicted an encounter like that?
It was the thing of romance novels or movies.
Was it any wonder that I chose to watch North Shore when I saw it scroll past?
It was a favorite of mine when I was a teenager, because Matt Adler playing a surfer boy was just fucking hot.
Only this time, I couldn’t take my eyes off Gregory Harrison.
Those wavy curls and beard scruff were hot.
Robbie’s beard had been neatly clipped when the sun slashed across his face, revealing deep tan and emerald eyes that seemed to shimmer whenever a glint of light hit them.
The best part of being on an island far away from anyone who knew me was that there was no one around to tell me that I was completely off my rocker for planning what to bring with me when I went back to the same spot on the beach I’d visited today, hoping for a second encounter.
Because that was exactly what I’d decided to do.
I dozed off beside the notepad and pen I’d snagged off the desk, grateful that hotels still provided pens and pads in this digital day and age.
List making was something I excelled at, as was planning things damn near to death, which I really needed to dial back, despite how many times the habit had saved me at work.
It had gotten to where it was transitioning into every aspect of my life.
Right down to pulling up the menu of the seaside bar and grill I’d frequented to comprise a list of items to share if Robbie Rogue Wave McKay happened to be around when I arrived this afternoon.
I could tell it surprised him that I knew who he was.
I doubt anyone would ever expect a Minnesota boy to know anything about surf competitions, but they’d been a staple of late-night programming on the sports network when I’d been growing up.
I’d been curious about the sport ever since Surf’s Up came out when I was eight.
After that it was surf everything, from my room decor to the surf-themed birthday party I’d begged my parents for the year I turned ten.
They’d shaken their heads but indulged me, even getting me a small, airbrushed board to hang on my wall and a subscription to several surfer magazines.
They were dog-eared as hell, and a few were missing pages and one staple away from falling apart completely, but I still had a giant stack of them.
The biggest problem with having a plan, and planning in general, was the waiting time before I could execute it. There was a strange sort of anxious energy that came with having your list broken down into steps and components.
I needed to pick up a cooler and make sure I filled it with ice before I left the hotel.
Meals needed drinks, but it would be damned difficult to carry a cooler and a couple cocktails without spilling them, so I’d need to find something both easily chilled and portable.
The appetizers list had provided so much variety that I wound up choosing several from it as well as one of each of the three desserts they offered.
I’d made a note about plates and cutlery and a candle or two that we could light if the winds were still.
Did I want them to be?
Didn’t higher winds equal better surf? I wanted to watch him on the waves again, but dining by candlelight would be super cool, especially out on the sand.
I wasn’t deluded enough to let my mind wander too far down the romance path though I had given into a few daydreams resembling scenes right out of the steamy books I loved, which was what led to me finally drifting off.
I woke up giddy and eager to tick off the first few phases of my plan, which involved gathering the supplies on my list and staging everything in my room so I’d be ready to go when it was time to head down to the beach.
Considering the menu items I intended to order, I’d need to head down to the restaurant an hour before I had last night.
I set an alarm on my phone and hoped I’d worked out a timeframe that would give me the best chance of encountering Robbie if he was there.
Please, universe, let him be there.
I couldn’t help but feel like he’d been honest when he’d said he’d stick around if he hadn’t been starving. Was that naive of me? Maybe. Meeting people outside of the workplace was something I hadn’t gotten much practice in over the past few years. I’d been far too busy logging overtime hours.
All my dinner plans must have left my stomach feeling a bit envious, because it started growling almost as soon as I headed to the collection of shops I’d intended to visit.
The moment the tantalizingly sweet scent of coconut reached my nose, I pivoted and decided shopping would have to wait until I’d grabbed a carton of mini pineapple pancakes from a nearby food truck and a small container of warm coconut syrup to dip them in.
There were even candied coconut bits sprinkled over the pancakes, and holy shit, they were good.
The kind of good that had me grabbing a second batch and making a bit of a sticky pig out of myself, but oh well, that’s what showers are for.
I was proud of the fact that I was able to gather everything in short order and get the hard plastic cups, plates, cutlery, and napkins tucked away in my backpack and the drinks stuffed in the hotel fridge to get cold before they went in the cooler.
Of course, that left me with several hours of downtime and a nagging feeling that I really should check those work messages, though I knew they were going to piss me off.
Okay. If I was going to fuck up my afternoon, I might as well do it over some cocktails and maybe a crab salad with lump crab meat and a beautifully creamy mango dressing with just a hint of spice.
Light and palate cleansing after the sticky heaviness of all the pancakes I’d consumed for breakfast sounded delightful.
Order placed, I waited until I’d slurped down my first Lava Flow, loving the way the rum, strawberries, pineapple juice, and coconut cream flowed together. It was the kind of drink that went down smooth while still providing the right amount of buzz to dull the sting of whatever was in those texts.
I hoped.
Otherwise I was about to press the ultimate buzzkill button and torpedo my whole day.
Or not.
What the fuck was I thinking? This was my vacation.
One I’d put in for six months ago and made damn sure everyone knew about it too.
I’d left lists, charts, workbooks, presentation notes, and packets for every member of my crew.
All they had to do was read them and follow the step-by-step checklists included.
None of them needed me to hold their hands for that, and if they did, then they didn’t deserve to be a member of my team.
Thus far, every incoming message seemed to be from Pete.
If nothing else, not responding to him would, hopefully, drive home the point I’d been trying to make for months.
He didn’t have the training or the experience to have been placed in the position he’d been given, and he was not up to the task of executing it.
If Jason refused to listen to me about it, then maybe he’d listen to the clients Pete managed to piss off in my absence, and he would piss someone off; I was certain of it.
As certain of the fact that I’d be unruffling feathers once I got back.
Until then, Pete was going to have to handle things by his lonesome or pester someone else into taking pity on him.
I wasn’t answering.
With the warm breeze caressing my cheek and that second long slurp off the Lava Flow going down just as smoothly as the first one, I decided not to answer anyone from work, unless it was my boss's boss’s boss.
No way could I afford to ignore Mr. Funaki and still have a job to come back to when I got home.
I’d worked my ass off to earn my vacation time, goddammit. I was going to enjoy it.
Mind made up, I downed the rest of the Lava Flow and ordered a second when my salad arrived, hoping it would help keep my nagging worries about work at bay.
Ever since I’d gotten promoted to chair of the campaign division within our department, I’d devoted the bulk of my waking hours to the job, which had pushed me closer to the point of burnout than I was willing to admit, even to myself, most days.
I needed to unplug from it for a little while, reconnect with myself, and maybe tap back into a few of the dreams I’d had while I was still an optimistic student dreaming of nine-to-five workdays and weekends spent with friends, taste-testing our way through the offerings at a local microbrewery, working out which beers would go best with which menu items while discussing the rest of our weekend plans.
I’d pictured outdoor concerts and bookstores with wine and cheese tastings and rows of shelves to browse, along with time to read everything I’d picked up.
Like Megan, I had a hell of a Tbr pile and hadn’t cracked a book open in months.
When I wasn’t too tired, I was brainstorming for a project, making notes and more of my infamous lists, and getting a jump on the day ahead to the detriment of my own downtime and connection with my social circle, though honestly, we were all textbook examples of workaholic junior professionals desperate to cement our place in our chosen industry.
Just snap a few photos of us, heads bent over our phones and notebooks, completely oblivious to the meals that had been set down in front of us, and you’d have the perfect image to slap on a college brochure for either the business, communications, or marketing departments, as my peers and I were well versed in all three.
Being well-rounded had been just as important as the focused courses we’d taken that had been geared towards different specialties.
We'd definitely been a noses-to-the-grindstone group, with the only exception being Wednesday nights, which were game nights in our dorm.
The lounges on each floor had been filled with a colorful array of sleep pants and t-shirts as we’d gathered to break out classic board games, cards, and even a table or two of dice-wielding roleplay game aficionados who cut loose by slipping into the mindsets of their mages, paladins, thieves, knights, rogues, and wizards.
I’d tried my hand at it a couple of times and thoroughly enjoyed myself but never had the time to commit to learning more about the game and how to truly use my character’s abilities in a way that didn’t get me killed off and forced to make a new character so often that I’d lost interest in playing.
Megan still played, though, and constantly issued invitations for me to join her when she headed to the game shop.
One of these Saturday afternoons I really needed to take her up on it and learn how to actually have fun again, rather than putting all my focus on the next project and how we could make it stand out from the other presentations we were working on.
This vacation would be my step one.
And in less than two hours, I’d move into phase two of Operation Candlelight Supper.
I just hoped I didn’t wind up out there on the beach dining on all that delicious food alone.