She straightens, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Wow, you are drunk. How did you survive college being such a lightweight?”
I catch her hand when she reaches to tidy a stack of cocktail napkins. “I’m serious. I like being around you.”
God, I’m realizing how much I suck at this. She was right, there’s no in-between for me, nothing in that no-man’s-land between sincere and slick.
She tries halfheartedly to pull away and then goes lax in my grip. “Luke—”
“Please.” I rub my thumb over the back of her hand. “Let me show you that I’m not the guy you think I am.”
“The problem is there’s no chance of that,” she says softly. “I like you, too. But not for me. You’re exactly the guy I think you are.”
I watch my finger move over her skin. Even after surfing in the harsh salt water every day, her hands are so much softer than mine. “I don’t want to be,” I say, surprising myself a little.
She gnaws her lip, looking away. “What we did was just for fun.” Finally, she frees her hand, and lowers her voice. “It wasn’t ever going to be something more than that. I’m surprised we did it twice.”
“Three times, Logan. Three separate times,” I add and she fights a smile. I duck, chasing her attention. “But I’m not even talking about that.” And, oddly, I’m not. “Just hang out with me.”
Finally, she looks back and meets my eyes. “Not dates? No sex?”
I feel my smile all the way to my chest. “Whatever you want.”
“No sex,” she repeats, and I don’t miss the way she wipes her hand on her shorts. “It won’t ever be romantic with us.”
My heart warps a little at the finality of her tone, but fuck. It really isn’t about that, not with her. “No, I mean . . . totally,” I stutter. “No worries. I just want to be your friend.”
She studies me, eyes flickering back and forth between mine, as if one of them would lie while the other told the truth. “Just hanging out?”
“Yes.”
Her nose wrinkles a little, like she might growl at me. “And you promise to be entertaining, not some sad-sack puppy like this?”
Laughing, I tell her, “I promise.”
She grabs a bar towel, wipes down the lip of the sink in front of her. “Fine,” she says, watching her hands. “Saturday afternoon.” With her head down, she lifts her eyes to me, and fuck, it’s the most amazing look I’ve ever seen on a woman. And here she just wants to be friends. “I pick what we do.”
I blanch when I look up at the devious grin she’s wearing.
Oh, fuck. We’re going surfing.
Chapter ELEVEN
London
THE PLAN IS to meet Luke at Tourmaline Surf Park at two. Any other day this would sound like a suicide mission, but knowing it’s going to be packed gives me a small measure of comfort: maybe with a crowd of people around I won’t do anything stupid.
I’ve gone so far as to make a list of goals for the day:
1. Don’t let Luke drown.
2. Don’t ogle Luke in his board shorts.
3. Don’t accidentally have sex with Luke.
I’m definitely going to focus on goals one and three.
The only way to get to Tourmaline is by a road that winds down from La Jolla Boulevard and empties into the parking lot. It’s almost always crowded and I’m about to give up and park on the street outside, when on my second pass I spot someone leaving. I put on my blinker to thwart off any would-be thieves, and pull in as soon as it’s open.
Even with the engine off, my old car still manages the occasional unsettling knock and ping from under the hood, and I sit, fiddling with my phone and looking around. Luke hasn’t texted that he’s here yet and I briefly wonder if it’s too late to call this whole thing off.
Cocky Luke I can handle, but sweet, earnest, tipsy Luke with puppy eyes asking to be friends? Apparently that’s my hard limit.
I can’t stall forever¸ and so I check the time before sending him a quick text.
There might not be any parking, so find a spot on the street, I type, before climbing out onto the hot pavement and making my way to the trunk.
My board barely fits in my small car and is wedged between the folded backseats so the hatchback needs an extra little shove to close all the way. It’s not an ideal situation and requires more maneuvering than I might like, but it works.
I’ve just managed to pull it free when I hear a familiar voice over my shoulder.
“Need some help?”
“I got it,” I say, leaning the board against the car and reaching for my bag before locking up. “But thanks.”
When I turn, I see he’s got his own board tucked under his arm and a towel rolled up next to it. He’s wearing a thin white T-shirt and blue board shorts that hang low—really low—on his hips. It takes my breath away how good he looks. Warning bells are already going off in my head—and possibly somewhere else. This was a bad idea.
I’m suddenly nervous we’ll see Not-Joe here, and he’ll mention to Oliver that he saw us. Then Oliver will tell Lola, and Lola will tell Harlow, and Harlow will get up in arms all over again about all the Girl Code breaking I’m doing by ogling Luke so thoroughly.
Just friends.
Friends is fine.
“You all set?” I ask, looking around. I can hear how tight my voice is. Hopefully he reads it as impatient rather than hard-core swooning.
He gives a small shake of his head and laughs when he admits, “Not even a little bit.”
“Nice board, though,” I tell him, and run my hand along the nose. “Not too long and a good width for your frame. I’m glad you went with a longboard. It’ll make it easier to pop up.”
“I like that you’re giving me credit, like I picked it out and not the guy at the shop.” He smiles tightly before looking past me, squinting into the sun.
“Just trying to boost your confidence.”
God, this is awkward. We’re both flailing around this attempt at friendship. I make a final check of everything I need and then nod toward the water. “Let’s do this.”
The parking lot is perched high above our destination. Tourmaline is surrounded by sea cliffs that tower over the beach, some as tall as seventy-five feet. There’s a pretty steep hill we have to navigate to reach the bottom, and I can hear Luke’s footsteps as he follows the path behind me. It’s only as we near the sand that I realize he’s quieter than usual, and didn’t even crack a joke when I mentioned the length of his board.
I try to puzzle this out as I look out over the crystal-blue sky, where the ocean stretches until it melts into the horizon. The surf crashes below us and I can taste the salt in the air. It’s like Xanax to my nerves. I suppose everyone has a quiet day. I actually kind of like seeing a different side of Luke.
When we get to the beach, I find a spot with enough room to set down my board. Luke leans his against a large rock and turns to me.
“What’s all that?” he asks, watching me dump out my small bag.
“Sunscreen, fin screws, fin key.” I hold up the bottle, offering.
“I put some on already, thanks, though.”
I nod, unsure how to handle Quiet Luke, shaking the bottle to stall before undressing. But I might as well just get this over with; I’ve never liked wearing wetsuits, even in the icy Pacific Ocean, and instead surf in a swimsuit. Today’s selection is pretty modest—a one-piece—but we’re going to be wet and practically naked together for the next few hours; there’s no point in letting the moment grow heavy now.