Mai Tai'd Up(33)

“Sharks! Is that what you’re worried about?” he laughed, taking my bag and throwing it into the bed of the truck. “You grew up in California. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of sharks.”

“I have a healthy fear, yes. Not to mention the bottom of those paddleboards look just like a tasty seal.”

“These boards are over ten feet long,” he said, pulling me toward the passenger side.

“So?”

“So how many seals are over ten feet long?”

“The sharks will think they’ve hit the mother lode,” I muttered as he packed me in and shut the door. Peering through the side mirror, I looked at the boards and paddles behind me. I caught sight of him running around to his side, shaking his head and grinning.

“Besides, won’t the water be freezing?” I asked as he jumped in next to me.

“I’ve got that covered, chickie baby,” he said, giving me two thumbs-ups. “Wet suits.”

“Oh. Great,” I replied weakly, and settled against the passenger-side window. He just laughed, and we were off. It wasn’t that I was deathly afraid of sharks. Most of the guys I grew up with surfed. They all seen a fin or two, maybe even had a bump once in a while. And I loved going to the beach, loved going in the ocean. But I tended to stay pretty close to shore, and by tended, I mean I rarely went in past my waist. Paddleboarding? Definitely past my waist. Where sharks might be. Shudder.

But as we drove toward his favorite beach, I watched him tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel, glancing over and smiling every so often, relaxed and happy as a clam.

I decided nothing ventured, nothing gained, and when we pulled into Lovers Point Park in neighboring Pacific Grove, and saw that gorgeous beach, punctuated by wind-shaped cypress trees and rippling with craggy rocks and peaks, I realized that trying something new could be a very good thing. I took a moment to breathe in all that good salty air. Lucas climbed out of the truck and came around to my side while I hung out the open window like a Great Dane, just sniffing and smelling.

Leaning on my window, he looked at me carefully. “If you don’t want to do this, that’s totally okay with me. We’ll hang on the beach, maybe take a drive—we can do whatever you want to do.”

I looked past him at the beautiful water and the beautiful day, and said, “I want to do this.”

“Great! Let’s get suited up,” he said, helping me out.

“But if we see one mother-fudging fin, you’re the sacrificial seal.” I pointed at him, then grabbed the wet suit. “Now, how do I get into this thing?”


Turns out wet suits are not easy to get into. There’s a fair amount of jiggling and jumping, especially if you’re not used to putting one on. And while I didn’t wear my skimpiest bikini, I did spend more than a few minutes picking it out. Black and white polka dots, tied tight in the back. Semiskimpy. Did I notice how his eyes bugged when I took off my shirt? Yes. Did I notice how he bit his lip when I took off my shorts? Yes. Did I notice how he tried so very hard, but failed so very miserably, to not look directly at my breasts when I jumped and jiggled my way into a second skin of rubber? Oh, yes.

The real question is, did he notice how I whimpered the tiniest bit when he took off his shirt? No idea—because when he did, I couldn’t look anywhere but his torso. Lean, tan, lightly freckled, especially on the tops of his shoulders from a lifetime spent on the beach. He was in his wet suit in a flash, zipping up the back with practiced ease. And when I struggled to zip my own suit, he offered to help, taking his time.

He held me steady with one hand on my shoulder, while I looked over at him with a hairy eyeball. “You okay back there?”

“Oh, yeah,” he teased, his eyes nowhere near my own hairy eyeball, which earned him a slap on the butt from me as he went to grab the first paddleboard.

He went easy and slow, giving me a mini lesson on the beach first. To distribute your weight on a paddleboard, you want to make sure you keep your feet about shoulder width apart and in line with your body, rather than in a surfing stance, where one leg is in front of the other. Because I grew up with surfers, it didn’t seem natural to me, but I was going to give it a go.

The water was bracing but the day was warm and sunny, so it was a good mix. It was calm, hardly any waves, which was great for paddling. Once we were up to midthigh, he showed me how to sit comfortably on my knees and how to hold the paddle.

“Hold it about midshaft now. Once you’re standing up, you’ll want to grip the end.”

“Midshaft. Grip the end. I see what you’re doing there,” I muttered, struggling to keep my balance when what looked like a tiny wave actually made the board move quite a lot.