Chapter 17 Summer
“Hey Dad, you’ll never guess what I did—I entered Surf’s Up!
Crazy, right? I always thought I was done competing for good, but…
the itch came back, I guess. So, listen, I know you’ve got lots going on, but maybe you could come out with me again, like you used to?
Not… not the daily surfs, obviously. I know you’re busy.
But maybe competition days? I always surfed better when you were there.
And bring Estelle and the twins, too! I’d love to have them there—friendly faces in the crowd and all that. Then maybe we could—”
Beeeeeeep.
The tone cuts me off.
I hang up, knowing that my words will likely collect digital cobwebs in Dad’s voicemail inbox, which he never seems to check.
Still, I couldn’t help a last-ditch effort to salvage whatever’s left of our relationship.
And what better way to do that than to reconnect over the thing that made us so close to begin with?
Dad had grown up in the ocean as a West Coast kid, and I fell in love with it just as deeply after he taught me to surf.
He registered me for my first junior surf competition at thirteen, but it wasn’t until a couple years later that I really started hitting my stride, placing in the top three of every single junior event I competed in.
Surfing was ours—mine and Dad’s. He’d train with me, never miss an event before our life fell apart.
I toss my phone into my bag, sitting in the sand next to my freshly waxed surfboard, legs outstretched toward the water.
Crystal Cove is quiet this morning, just a couple of surfers dotting the ocean.
It probably has something to do with the lackluster waves currently flowing toward shore.
And while I love the comradery of a busy ocean, I’m glad for the relative quiet.
It’s exactly the kind of practice I need—learning to embrace solitude, my own company, before hopefully embarking on a year’s worth of it.
Making the Champions Tour became the dream as soon as I learned of its existence. It was ultra cliché, really—I was a small-town girl with an appetite for the great big world. And the idea that I could see it while competing in a sport I loved…
The plan had always been to compete locally while fulfilling my promise to my dad to get a college degree. Then, I’d be free to qualify for the tour that would take me to the world’s dreamiest surf locations—from Hawaii to Portugal to Australia, and everywhere in between.
But then Dad announced he was moving out of town to live with his then-partner Estelle. He stopped showing up to watch my local events. And I could never again muster the desire to compete, let alone leave Oakwood.
It’s ironic that the loneliness that kept me rooted at home has set me right back on the path I’d given up on because of it.
Far down the shore, a row of bungalows with washed-out blue siding sits higher up the beach, their weathered picket fences lining the edge of the sand.
Years ago, there’d been a version of my future where I stepped out the front door of one of those bungalows every morning to surf.
It’d be my home base between tours, and then the place where I’d eventually teach my own kids to surf, the way Dad taught me. Now, though…
Not everyone’s wife material.
A thump to my left coaxes my attention off the bungalows. A navy surfboard now sits on the sand next to mine, along with a pair of familiar, athletic legs.
“There you are. Don’t you usually leave home at six?”
I drag my gaze up those legs to find Parker frowning at me. He’s wearing swim shorts and a T-shirt, hair so thoroughly disheveled it’s clear he hadn’t stopped to tidy it before leaving his apartment.
I snort a laugh at the sight of his Hawaiian shirt, the horrendous highlighter orange and murky brown pattern coaxing me out of my misery. “Nice shirt, Park. You look like a hot suburban dad trying his very darndest to let loose on vacation.”
“You mock, yet all I heard was hot.” His mouth tilts up at my flush. He jerks his chin toward the bungalows I’d been staring at. “Still pining over those houses, huh?”
I brush a dusting of sand off my thigh. “What are you doing here?”
“Surfing.”
“Parker, you’ve never surfed in your life.”
“You’re going to teach me. I’m your trainer, I need to get a feel for the body mechanics.”
“I’m working with a future NBA star and I’ve never sunk a free throw in my life. That’s what textbooks are for.”
“Fine.” Parker drops into the sand beside me, spreading his legs, bent at the knees. “Then you’ll teach me because I want to surf with you. Come here, let me do your hair.”
With a burst of pleasure and a touch of confusion, I settle between Parker’s open legs, letting his fingers run through my hair. I missed this ritual more than anything.
Except, much like everything since our reunion, it’s just different enough to unsteady me.
The way his fingers move, stroke through the short lengths of hair.
There’s no efficiency. It’s slow, like we’ve got hours ahead of us, and he plans to spend every second of them tangled in my hair.
It’s gentle, like each strand is some precious length of the rarest silk.
Indulgent, like he’s gone years forced to rush the job, and he’s finally letting himself take his time.
He skims the back of my neck for no other apparent reason than to make my breath hitch. Brushes my shoulder just to make my heart gallop.
I should stop him. There’s no friendly to be found in any part of this. But it’s feeding the parts of me that crave attention. I like it too much to stop him.
“I miss your nose ring. Have I said that yet?” Parker ties off the second braid with the hair ties he keeps around his wrist. The uncalled-for proclamation has me laughing uncertainly.
I feel him shrug, like it was perfectly placed commentary.
“It’s part of you. It’d be the same as if this freckle disappeared.
” The tip of Parker’s finger lands by my hairline, on the tiniest freckle that blends with the baby hairs along my forehead.
“I have tons of freckles.”
“That one’s my favorite. It’s your secret freckle. You can only see it close up.” I don’t know what to say to that, but Parker saves me the trouble when he gives one of my braids a tug that elicits a strange, giddy flash inside me. “So, will you teach me to surf?”
“You’re really serious about it?” I don’t know why I’m fighting it so hard—the idea of having Parker out there with me has my stomach twinging pleasantly.
“Definitely. Just show me enough not to end up at the bottom of the ocean. And if that fails, just promise me you’ll give my collection of Hawaiian shirts to Brooks if I die. I need him to have it.”
I turn a frown over my shoulder. “You’re leaving it to Brooks? I thought I was inheriting them.”
Parker’s collection is embarrassingly large.
He’d bought his first Hawaiian shirt on an out-of-town shopping trip we’d taken in the weeks following my parents’ split—a ridiculous yellow-and-hot-pink combination that had me cackling when he tried it on.
Every pattern since has been increasingly ridiculous.
It always guarantees a good laugh whenever I see him in one.
“Nah, you’d just keep them in the back of your closet. They’d never see the light of day.”
“But Brooks hates your Hawaiian shirts.” Honestly, I’m a little miffed about this. Why does Brooks get Parker’s prized collection? I was there from its inception.
“He does hate them. But he has such a guilty conscience that he’d force himself to wear them just to honor me. Prime afterlife entertainment.” I stay quiet as the tip of his finger traces the length of my shoulder. “Summer, are you mad you’re not getting my Hawaiian shirts?”
I know that he’s teasing me. But damn him, I’m mad I’m not getting the Hawaiian shirts. It’s a matter of principle. “I’m not mad. I’m disappointed.”
“You can inherit my shirts if you want them,” I grumble. Parker tugs at a braid again. It makes me feel strange—all fluttery and hot, even worse when he starts quietly laughing and I picture the dimples in his cheeks. “Summer, if I sink to the bottom of the ocean, I want you to inherit my shirts.”
I grin. “Thank you.”
With another laugh, his arm drapes across my chest, drawing me back into his body. It’s comfortable. Familiar, the way it feels to be hugged by Zac or Brooks.
But it’s also not. There’s tingling over my skin. A maddening uncertainty. Between the braiding and the favorite freckle and the tugging, he’s making my head spin. Acting like himself, but just out of character enough to make it impossible to predict his next move.
And I can’t stop thinking about it—the way he moaned my name in his sleep yesterday.
He’s gone and put that damn idea in my head, worse than that town rumor ever had. Made all the more frustrating knowing that it’ll never, ever happen.
Aside from the fact that I’ve never considered anything more with him—our friendship has always been such a perfect fit, it’s hard to imagine it differently—he’s going through a tough time.
Saying and doing things that aren’t him.
And when he’s feeling like himself again, all this staring and dreaming about me will dissipate.
It’s up to me to make sure we stay the course of this friendship.
Nah, we were definitely fucking.
He’ll thank me in the end. We’ll have a nice, friendly laugh about all the morning wood and staring, and settle back into our normal.
With a squeeze of his forearm, I extricate myself and shuffle around to face him. His expression is unreadable. “What do you know about how surf competitions work?”
“I watched you compete for years, at this exact beach.” Parker lifts an eyebrow and he’s not so unreadable anymore. “You’ll be in the water for thirty-minute heats, leading up to a two-way final round between the top scorers.”
I nod. “Assuming I make it to the final round.”
“You will.”
I wish I had half of Parker’s confidence. Waves are scored by judges based on their level of difficulty and on the maneuvers a surfer performs. I’ll be able to catch as many waves as I can during a heat, but only my two best will count toward my ability to move to the next round.
Scores from each of the three events are tallied to decide the final series standings.
And each event is weighed more heavily as the series progresses, and the surf spots become more challenging.
Rocky Ridge is weighed lowest, as the easiest spot—if you can even call it easy—then Crystal Cove, and Pine Point as the hardest.
Pulling the wax out of my bag, I kneel by Parker’s board and ready it for our lesson. It’s brand-new, clearly purchased just for me—just for this. Training together.
His fingers dust over a strip of skin below my shorts, brushing away the sand sticking to me. Again, I’m infuriatingly aware of him. He’s not even that close, isn’t even looking at me, and all I feel is him.
And then the man loses all mercy when he reaches behind him and pulls off his shirt.
We were definitely fucking.
“We’ll head to Brooks’s gym right after this, get a session in before you go to work,” Parker says, meeting me at his board. “I brought a waterproof camera to record you while you do your thing out there. We can study the footage after, see what needs improving before your first event.”
“Good idea.” I avert my eyes from the solid plains of his upper body and sweep his board’s leash off the sand, strapping it to his right ankle.
As I walk Parker through the basics of reading waves, I manage to stay decidedly focused on the lesson, my board, the sand around us, anything and everything but the shirtless man beside me. Until I’m walking him through the mechanics of a pop-up.
I’ve been surfing for decades, surrounded by highly experienced men and women performing this exact move out in the water. And yet, I’ve never seen something as simple as the prone position look as pretty as Parker’s.
Parker pushes his upper body off his board, revealing six perfect abs bunching to help carry his weight. Tanned biceps flex, the muscles over his shoulder blades ripple. He’s staring down at himself checking his form, so his hair falls over his face in thick, messy waves, damp from humidity.
I’ve never had a hair fixation. Then again, I’ve never met another man with a head of hair as inviting as Parker’s.
Despite the perpetual mess, the pale brown strands always look soft enough to bury your face in.
Long enough to get a good handful, twist around your fingers. Use it to pull him in, and—
I don’t have a real sense of what he’s like in bed, but I do know Parker. He might not be a big-picture guy, but no one is as attentive and dedicated as him when he’s got a job in front of him, something to achieve. All he needs is a little direction, and he takes off running.
I can easily imagine that intense focus translating to the bedroom.
Can see his gaze raking up my body, assessing, teasing me in that way he loves to do, drawing it out until I’m an aching mess below him.
The way his hands would move over me, the cocky grin he’d wear when he discovered exactly the right tempo and pressure to make me squirm.
The way his cock would fight against the front of his jeans as he toys with me until I’m begging for him.
Parker executes another pop-up, ass flexing against his blue swim shorts. “That one felt better. Did it look good to you?”
“So good,” I whisper without thinking. Parker whips his hair out of his eyes to get a look at me, quite possibly catching me in the act of admiring his backside, but I can’t tell from the quiet, contemplative way he stares back.
I don’t want him to know I’ve been looking and thinking about him in wildly inappropriate ways. I don’t want to encourage the new possessive touches, or the quiet stares, or the way his blue eyes spark with something teasing the longer he looks at me now.
Don’t I?
With just a hint of a dimple, Parker takes pity on me and steps off his board. “I think that’s good enough for a lesson. Let’s get you in the water.”