Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHLOE
I’m dead.
Okay, maybe I’m not dead, but I kind of want to be. Curse Lola and her heavy pour. I figured those gins were doubles—heck, knowing her, they might have even been triples—yet I drank them anyway. I had to, otherwise, my hands would’ve been all over a certain neighbor of mine.
Not that it mattered, in the end.
I press my fingers to my lips, still feeling the pressure of his hungry mouth. I was this close to ripping that man’s clothes off and letting his powerful body destroy mine.
How did he have the strength to pull away?
It’s a good thing he did, though.
Sex on the beach isn’t nearly as romantic as it sounds—we’re talking sand everywhere.
Whose idea was it for those tequila shots? I can actually feel my heartbeat in my temples.
Hangover aside, I can’t freaking wait to see Ethan again this morning. He’s probably going to regret promising to come surfing with me, but when I show him how rejuvenating it is out on the water, he’ll change his tune.
Although, there won’t be a lesson if I can’t find a way to pry my head from this pillow.
My door squeaks open, and my dad tiptoes into my room.
What the heck? He didn’t even knock. For all he knows, I could’ve had a guy in here. This may have been his house at one point, but it’s mine now, and if he doesn’t start respecting my privacy, then—
Quietly, he sets a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers on the nightstand. A waft of aftershave breezes over me, a welcome respite from the stale beer smell that he’s been wearing since he arrived.
When I prop myself up on my elbows, he lets out a startled yelp.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says with a sheepish smile. “Sounded like you had a good time last night, and I figured you’d need a little help this morning.”
My heart pinches. Of course he’d know how I feel. He probably feels like hot garbage every morning. “Thanks, Rick.”
“No problem, kiddo. If you’re hungry, I made scrambled eggs. They’re on a plate by the microwave.”
The thought of putting anything into my stomach right now makes me want to hug the toilet, but I thank him again, and he slips back out of my room. Before he shuts the door, he adds, “Oh, and I fixed the cabinets.”
The door closes with a quiet click.
Wow, Rick actually fixed something. Sounds too good to be true.
And he made me breakfast? Does this mean he’s finally going to get his life back on track? I really hope so. I hate seeing him struggle when I know the man he could be.
I swipe the bottle off the nightstand, the pills inside rattling like a maraca as I struggle with the dang lid. Who makes these things anyway? Sadists, probably. When I finally get the lid off, I take two pills, guzzle as much water as I can stand, and force myself out of the bed.
Those waves aren’t going to surf themselves, and I promised my neighbor a lesson.
The sound of Ethan lumbering toward the door makes me think of a video I once saw of a bear coming out of its cave after hibernation. When his door swings open, he’s wearing the same irritated expression as the bear—minus the leaves and twigs in his beautifully rumpled hair.
“Morning, sunshine,” I say. “You all set?”
He drags a hand down his face; the sound of his stubble against his palm is oddly erotic. “Set for what?”
Does he not see the wetsuit I’m wearing or the one I’m holding? What about the two surfboards waiting for us at the bottom of his staircase? “Our surfing lesson.”
“I’m not going surfing.”
“Yes, you are. You promised. And I take promises very seriously.”
He blanches. “The sun’s not even up yet.”
Yet being the key word.
“It will be by the time you get this on.” I shove the wetsuit against his chest and have to bite my lip to keep from bursting into laughter at his look of pure indignation when he holds the thing up to himself.
The other day, I told Boone down at the Windbreaker Surf Shop to give me the tallest one he had available for rent.
I am so, so happy to be alive this beautiful morning.
“You’re joking, right?” Ethan scoffs. “This looks like it wouldn’t even fit a toddler.”
Exaggerate much? “It’ll fit. I promise.” To my delight, he turns and makes his way toward the powder room with only a few muttered grumbles.
Lucky for him, I know exactly what will help with that: coffee.
I make two mugs with his Keurig, laughing to myself at the variety of curses coming from the powder room.
The door swings open, and my neighbor’s scowl is downright murderous.
Remember when I said Ethan could pull off a spandex superhero suit?
Boy, was I right. Hellooo.
“It’s too fucking tight.” He adjusts himself on his way over to the elixir of life I made just for him.
Wrong. So, so wrong. “It’s just right.” I should probably stop staring, but the hangover is making my brain sluggish, and my eyes are way too busy taking him in. Those thighs—they’re so thick and strong. He’s like a tree. A big, sexy, growly tree.
“I’m not leaving the house in this,” he mutters over the rim of his mug, his eyes sinking closed as he inhales deeply before taking a drink.
“You absolutely are.” The world can be a dark and depressing place sometimes, and Ethan in a wetsuit makes it all better. “Drink up and let’s go.”
“You said the same thing last night, and look how that turned out.”
He wants to talk about last night, huh? I figured he’d want to avoid the topic like a building violation. “From where I was standing, last night turned out pretty damn good.”
Just like last night, his gaze drops to my lips before returning to my eyes. What I would give to feel that stiff stubble and that angry growl rumbling against my mouth this morning.
“Chloe, that… it can’t happen again,” he says, like his word is law and I have no say either way.
I reply, “Okay,” but what I mean is “Yeah, okay” in the most sarcastic tone ever.
Sparks like this don’t come around every day. Surely, he’s not stubborn enough to deny that there’s something more between us.
Knowing better than to push this early in the morning, though, I swallow my desire with another sip of meh coffee, then dump the rest down the sink. “Let’s go. Wouldn’t want to keep the waves waiting.”
Ethan takes another gulp before setting his cup beside mine. He insists on locking up, and then glances down at his wetsuit like he’s trying to figure out where the heck to put his key.
And he wonders why I never lock my door.
“Just put it under here.” I kick his sad, brown doormat that doesn’t even have the word “WELCOME” printed on it. Maybe I should give him back the yellow one he bought me. It would certainly brighten up the place.
“That’s the first spot a burglar would look,” he says.
Burglars. The thought is laughable. We haven’t had a burglary on this street since, well, ever.
I drag down my zipper and motion for the keys. “Give them here.”
His gaze darts to the seashell necklace I’m still wearing. What can I say? I’m sentimental like that. I reach behind my neck to unhook the clasp and add his keys to the chain. Now I zippity-zip my wetsuit back up and boom. Problem solved. “There. Happy now?”
A flush washes over his cheeks, and he clears his throat a bunch of times before responding. “What if it falls off in the water?”
This guy is all doom and gloom. That has to get exhausting. I turn and start for the stairs, gripping the smooth railing on my way down. “Then I guess we’ll have to break a window and open the door that way. I assume you know how to replace glass?” I throw over my shoulder with a grin.
Ethan doesn’t look very impressed, but he thankfully lets the issue drop there.
“Where’d you get this stuff?” he asks, lifting the seafoam-green board from the sandy grass and tucking it under his arm like he’s done this his entire life.
He might be uncomfortable in the wetsuit, but he sure as heck looks the part.
Even the way the crisp breeze tousles his unkempt hair is perfect.
“From the rental shop down by Grandma’s Crabs.”
“How much did it cost?”
“Please. I don’t pay for anything there.” The same way Boone never pays for the vanilla latte he gets every morning.
“Why is that?”
“Because the guy who owns it went to school with us.” Plus, he’s had a crush on me since the eighth grade.
The dunes give way to gritty sand, and the steady crash of waves soothes what remains of my hangover.
I go over a few general rules about safety in the water, talk briefly about riptides, and Ethan listens intently to every word, nodding and asking intelligent questions.
I’m not surprised he’s taking this seriously—he seems to take everything seriously—but I appreciate it all the same.
When I explain that all he has to do is paddle out for now, he looks relieved.
That is, until he steps into the foamy waves. “Fuck! It’s too cold.” He shirks back to the shell-strewn sand.
Too cold? I’d love to see him out here in January.
Leaving my board on the shore, I wade to my waist and dive headfirst beneath a wave. The slap of the cold water steals my breath, but when I come back up, it’s like the world is sharper, the aquamarine water bluer. The streaked sky above the sunrise appears even more vibrant.
I push back the bits of hair that have escaped my ponytail and give Ethan a smile where he’s standing calf-deep, frowning at the water. “The longer you take to get in, the harder it’s going to be.” I bet he walks into pools too. Weirdo.
Mumbling, he fastens the surfboard’s velcro strap around his ankle and takes another step, puffing out harsh breaths like a steam train until he reaches my side.
The waves crest a good bit out, but they’re still pretty strong when they crash into us. I turn sideways so I don’t get bowled over, but Ethan is like a brick wall, the waves slamming against him, spraying his face.
“What now?” he asks, swiping a hand to clear the droplets on his cheeks.
“Now, you paddle out there, and I’ll hold the board for you while you try to stand up.”