Chapter 2
Two
T he scent of fresh coffee coaxes me awake. Blinking, I spy a bare-chested, tousled-haired Mick holding a steaming cup near my face.
“Rise and surf, sleepyhead.”
A yawn emerges as I stretch my limbs then sit up.
Mick hands me the mug. “Here’s a splash of coffee to go with your milk and sugar.”
“Hilarious.” I blow on the liquid and carefully sip. “Not too shabby, Mr. Callahan. Then again, you know what I like.”
He grins, that dimple creasing his cheek. “Don’t I?”
“God, don’t look at me like that or we’ll never leave the bed.”
“Hmm…” He cocks his head, as if contemplating the merits of that statement.
I smile and flip aside the covers. Apparently, surfing trumps sex. Besides, I know I’ll be getting that in spades later…with my two gorgeous men. This is going to be a day for the memory books.
After we inhale a quick breakfast of scrambled egg sandwiches, Mick outfits me in a navy neoprene wetsuit, which lays thick and heavy against my skin.
He carries his OP shortboard—airbrushed with a sun-rising-over-the-ocean scene—as we navigate the windy, foggy path to the beach.
The cool morning breeze blows across my exposed flesh and I’m grateful for the protective layer.
When we get to the bottom, our feet sink into the sand as we trudge toward the surf.
Mick places the board next to his longboard. “There’s a lot to learn, so we’ll take it at a slow pace and see how it goes. If you progress enough to get in the water, you’ll be on the big boy.”
Doubt twists in my gut about whether I’m equipped for this. That big-ass board and I won’t even register as a snack if the ocean swallows us whole. I’m forty-nine percent petrified and fifty-one percent stoked.
Now’s not the time for doomsday prophecies , quips my rational brain.
“Sounds good,” I lie.
He explains the benefits of the longboard before demonstrating pop-up form.
When it’s my turn, I stretch out on the fiberglass and attempt to rise, using my momentum.
I try landing my feet close to the outer edges like he showed me, but one slides off and I fall straight into the sand.
I go again. And again. And again. There’s so much to remember.
Feet flat. Knees bent. Chest forward. Arms out.
It takes several tries, but eventually, I get the hang of it, despite lacking grace.
We talk about surfing conditions, wind direction, wave breaks, and the channel, which is the ideal place to paddle out. There’s also a proper way to paddle—alternating arms vs. both at once.
It’s a lot of information to absorb, but Mick’s a good teacher, and a damn handsome one too. Our focus, after learning the pop-up, is paddling out. Then to try catching a wave—either prone, kneeling, or upright like a badass.
His gray eyes zero in on mine. “Most people don’t get up on their first day, or the second or third. It’s not about how fast it happens but mastering the different pieces of the puzzle and then practicing them. Eventually,” he promises, “it will all come together.”
There’s a twinge of wanting the glory of standing my first day, but my expectations stay low. It was hard enough getting it right on the sand. At the same time, Mick’s so gentle and clear with his explanations, I’m excited to try.
By midday, the fog has evaporated, and sunshine warms us from overhead against cloudless, azure skies. The small waves appear manageable for a rookie like me.
“Ready?” he asks.
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Want me to grab the longboard or?—?”
“I’ve got it.”
Mick gives me an approving gaze, grabs the shortboard, and heads for the surf. I heft the unwieldy surfboard, grappling for a few steps before gaining my bearings.
I wade in, my toes breaching the shockingly icy ocean, followed by the frigid sea slithering into my wetsuit. “Holy mother!”
Mick chuckles. “I should’ve warned you. It’s hella cold when you first get in before the water warms up under your wetsuit.”
My lips press into a sardonic smile that evaporates when my teeth chatter.
“Can you see the channel?” he asks.
Welcoming the diversion, I scan the incoming waves, assessing prior to taking a stab, and pointing to what I think is one.
“Right on, Jax. Great job.”
Pleased, I follow his lead and climb onto the longboard. As we paddle out together, I swallow any qualms. I’ve got my safe harbor by my side. His presence gives me a confidence boost.
If not for the adrenaline pumping through my veins, my limbs might quit propelling me. It’s work paddling out, the waves undulating beneath us and providing serious resistance.
When we stop, Mick pulls my surfboard next to his and kisses me. It doesn’t do much to calm my twitchy nerves, but I try and relax…again. We watch sets roll past, Mick pointing out the merits of each.
“Here comes a good one for you,” he says. “Ready?”
My adrenal glands spike. “Yup.”
“Paddle!”
My arms glide through the ocean as the wave lifts me. My stomach dips wildly and I cling to the board, gripping the sides like the white-knuckled chicken I am. I remain prone for a few minutes before turning out of it, as Mick suggested. Total fucking rush!
“How’d that go?” Mr. Gorgeous asks when I reach him.
“Good! I freaked out a little, so I didn’t even try to pop up, but it helped to ride it for a while, get the hang of it, you know?”
“Atta girl.”
We spend a couple of hours on the water. I ride waves flat, others kneeling, and some where I finally attempt to stand. I come close a few times but never fully land it, plunging into the ocean without an ounce of finesse.
Not that I care. I’m trying and improving, and that’s what counts. Being here with Mick, learning to surf…it’s one of the coolest days of my life. Then again, anytime I combine my two oceans—and Mick embodies everything ocean—it’s powerful.
And the day’s not over, not by a long shot. The best is yet to come. A laugh escapes at my own double entendre. I predict we’re all coming tonight—and that brings on a full-body shudder of glorious anticipation.
We hike back up the cliff, peel off our wetsuits, and lay them on the deck railing.
After showering off the sand and saltwater, we both don our usual, broken-in Levi’s on our lower halves.
Mick throws on a T-shirt, and I opt for something prettier—a white gauzy top—but I don’t bother with a bra, and with the gossamer-thin material, it leaves little to the imagination.
I blow-dry my hair and apply a touch of makeup, then rejoin my man, who’s loading albums on the turntable.
ZZ Top’s Tres Hombres plays first, those telltale guitar riffs filling the cottage, followed by their signature bluesy sound. My body responds, and I dance toward my boyfriend, slow and sultry. We both mouth, “Have mercy,” when the band sings it, and he grabs my hand and spins me around the floor.
We’re buoyant as we make dinner. Mick preps steaks for the grill and I make home fries the way Remy taught me—with fresh garlic and scallions sautéed in olive oil.
While those are cooking, I rinse off cherry tomatoes and slice cucumbers for a salad, anticipation pinballing through my system as my thoughts swirl.
Mick encircles me with one arm. “You seem a little keyed up, baby,” he murmurs, his breath warm in my ear.
He knows I am.
“Maybe a little,” I breathe.
“I was thinking we could try something new tonight,” he says, low, his beautiful eyes gleaming.
“What…what do you mean?”
He tsk s me. “All good things come to those who wait. Besides, I want to run it by Remy first.”
Now I’m dying of curiosity, my pulse leaping. “You think he won’t go for it?”
Mick scoffs. “Are you kidding? Remy’s game for anything. This is right up his alley—and I think yours. It’s downright…raunchy.”
The tension in my belly grows tighter and wetness seeps through my pink bikini underwear .
“ Fuck . Now I’ve got a raging hard-on. I’m going to start the steaks before I bend you over the table.”
My lips part, and my fingertips graze the bulge in his jeans. He shakes his head with a smile that says he can’t wait to finish what we’re starting.
An hour later, when Remy still hasn’t showed or called, we sit down and eat without him.
I sip my Cabernet, my irritation growing. “It’s not like him not to call. What do you think is going on?”
Mick slices off another hunk of steak. “I don’t know.”
I chew on my salad with more force than necessary, unable to stop stewing. “Maybe it’s his parents. Or just his bitch mother.”
“Maybe.”
“What if he’s in trouble? What if he’s in the hospital?”
“Jacqui,” he says, waiting until I meet his gaze. “We don’t know anything. All we can do is wait for more information. And you know Remy’s an irresponsible, reckless dipshit sometimes.” He tips his beer to his mouth and takes a long swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing the way I love.
I snort. “ Most of the time.” Sawing into my sirloin, I chew a piece, savoring the bite. “The steak’s delicious.”
His lips lift in agreement. “So are these potatoes, baby.”
As the turntable releases a new record, Mick steers our conversation elsewhere. “Fill me in on how your week went at school. What did you learn?”
I chuckle at the way he asks that last part, like I’m in kindergarten. “Journalism was good.”
It’s my most time-consuming class at three hours every day.
We’re more like staff than students. Our newsroom is huge, with a separate advertising department across the hall.
Together, we run The Spartan Daily school newspaper.
We have an advisor, but the entirety of every edition is created by students, then printed by the San Jose Mercury News.