Out of the Blue

by Kathryn Nolan

  “Is it… may I check the bedroom?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Go for it.”

  He double-checked the lock on the doors and peeked under the furniture for intruders. He grasped the edge of the bed, our bed, and left his hand there.

  I twisted my fingers together. “Are you okay? You promised to be chatty and overly familiar, and you’ve barely said a word.”

  I was giving him a conversational out. A pathway to a joke or some snarky observation. Not that I cared. Really.

  Cope sat back on his heels with a deep sigh. He looked like himself, like my husband and not my bodyguard. My heart pounded in my chest as I was unsure now if I wanted this intimacy. I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have—

  “This is fucking weird, isn’t it?” He gave me a lopsided grin that only sped up my heart rate. “Because I used to live here, you know.”

  I smiled back before I could help it. “Is it weird? I would have thought there was a section in that bodyguard handbook of yours. How to Handle Your Ex-Wife as a Client. Dos and don’ts. Tips and techniques.”

  “I wish,” he said, elbow resting on the bedspread. “There’s tips on how to handle when your client is acting like a real Bond villain. But because protection agents aren’t supposed to have emotions or personalities, the complication of an ex-wife isn’t addressed.”

  I sealed my lips together so I wouldn’t fall into the temptation of this conversation. I felt a tug behind my belly button, some primal emotion, driven by memory, urging me to drop to the floor beside him. To keep talking until the sun set and all through the night. It had been so much easier when he wasn’t inside my bedroom.

  There the words sat, on the tip of my tongue: I miss you so much I can’t stand it.

  “Can you, um, finish up?” I asked. “I need to get ready.”

  His grin, this time, was resigned. “Of course.”

  He stood up and then moved past me, avoiding eye contact. We’d made more memories in that bed than I could count.

  “Everything is good here,” he said, indicating the sitting area. “I’ll just check the bathroom and shower before you use it.”

  “The shower?” I asked. “Really?”

  He ducked past the low door frame. “It’ll only take a second.”

  I waited outside with my back to the wall, toes curling up and down into the rug. “Your dedication to my safety is admirable,” I called inside.

  He reappeared, standing much too close. “If you think I’m on thin ice with my boss now, letting my brand-new client get kidnapped through some secret portal in her shower would definitely get me written up. Maybe even a slap on the wrist.”

  I arched my eyebrow. “My imminent kidnapping barely warrants punishment, huh?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “You’d be so annoying to your kidnappers, I’d give it an hour, tops. They’d send you right back to me.”

  I strutted past him with a huff, hiding my amusement. I turned on the water then popped my head back out. “There’s no portal in here by the way.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Because I checked.”

  I closed the bathroom door before that crooked grin of his got us both into trouble. With shaking fingers, I tore off my sweaty running clothes and stepped under the perfectly hot water. Sighing, I tipped my head back, water sluicing through my hair.

  Cope’s presence was the opposite of what I needed. I needed to focus on this interview, organize my thoughts, prepare for tomorrow’s event. I squeezed shampoo into my palm, frustrated.

  Cope, pressing me against this glass as steam billowed. Cope, on his knees and spreading me roughly with his hands, fingers working magic, tongue licking through my folds as hot water cascaded down our naked bodies.

  The bottle clattered to the floor.

  I rested my forehead against the wall. Without realizing it, I was already accessing my apnea training—scanning my muscles, filling my lungs with air, quieting my mind. And it was working. Ease and calm spread through my body. I pictured myself on a record-breaking wave tomorrow, gliding through the barrel like I was born to be there.

  It wasn’t the weight of the ocean pressing down on me that triggered this response.

  It was Cope’s sudden return in my life. A return I was not in any way prepared for.

  10

  Cope

  I drove Serena to her interview with Heavy magazine at the Aerial headquarters in total and complete silence. Whatever ease had developed between the two of us while inside our house—her house—had evaporated just as quickly. She sat in the back seat of the town car, chewing on her lower lip while scanning documents and taking notes. At every stop light, I checked the rearview mirror, hoping to catch her eye.

  It never happened.

  I pulled into the parking lot slowly, since we had ten minutes to spare. My fingers throbbed from where I gripped the steering wheel. Probably had something to do with standing outside of her house for an hour, waiting for her to get ready, and clenching my fingers into tight fists of self-control. Staying calm and restrained while strolling through our house, our memories, had required a discipline I didn’t know I possessed. As had spending sixty straight minutes remembering what her skin tasted like, how her naked body looked with water droplets beading everywhere. Remembering all the filthy, filthy things I’d done to her in that shower.

  I’d used the bathroom on the first floor to clean up after our run and change back into my uniform before driving us over here. After double-checking my cufflinks, I glanced one more time into the rearview mirror.

  “Are you nervous?” I asked.

  She was shoving papers into her bag and messing with her phone. “Not at all. Should be a piece of cake. I’ve done interviews before.”

  If there was anything my wife hated, it was showing vulnerability in the face of a challenge.

  “This one’s pretty important though,” I said evenly. “I’m just saying, you know, it’s okay to be nervous. All the cool kids are doing it.”

  Her hands paused. “I’m fine. Can we go inside?”

  “As you wish, Ms. Swift.” I stepped into the balmy, late morning heat and walked around to her side, scanning the parking lot for anything suspicious. Satisfied, I opened her door, and she stepped out of the car directly in front of me.

  Her hair was unusually tamed in a low bun, and she wore a long dress with pink and white flowers that tied at the neck. The sun glittered off her gold earrings.

  She was unbelievably beautiful.

  My hands clutched the door as I drank her in. I was going to have joint damage by the time this assignment was up.

  “You look very nice,” I blurted out.

  Her brows raised in surprise. “Thank you?”

  I slammed the door shut, a little embarrassed, and buttoned my jacket. She breezed right past me and towards the offices. “Is it in your bodyguard handbook to compliment your clients on their appearances?”

  I hid a relieved smirk. “I started each morning by telling Mr. Sheffield he was a walking thirst trap, which he appreciated.”

  Her full lips curved into a real smile, a Serena smile, which had my naive heart spinning like an ice skater in my chest. She didn’t laugh, but I still considered it a win.

  And why are you trying to win right now?

  I slid my sunglasses into my pocket and grabbed the front door. Being with Dora this morning, seeing our home, seeing that dress, was creating irrational feelings of lust and longing that crowded out the reminder I needed to slam on the brakes. Hard. And then slam on them again.

  There was no denying the electrifying pull that existed between the two of us.

  There was also no denying that we broke up because of our insurmountable differences, evidenced by our fight outside the gym just this morning. If there had been any way past it, both of us would have crawled towards reconciliation on hands and knees if we had to.

  Once inside Aerial, we walked across the front lobby, and I tracked the stares she garnere
d from the various surfer-looking dudes hanging out in hoodies and flip-flops. I’d seen that specific look when it came to Serena a thousand times when we were together. It was attraction, of course, but an ugly kind—a kind that was deeply jealous and angry.

  Their eyes stalked her movement toward the elevator, but the moment they saw me, I gave them my best hey and fuck you too glare.

  They stopped staring immediately.

  I stood three feet behind Serena as the elevator lights blinked slowly down to lobby level. She stood in her usual ocean goddess stance—chin lifted, spine straight—but I caught her tell. Her fingers, decorated with silver rings, were twisting back and forth in front of her. So slowly her arms didn’t seem like they were moving.

  The elevator still hovered on the fourth floor. Once we were alone, I dipped my head down, close to her ear. “Remember when we drove all the way to Venice Beach that one weekend so you could meet that group of high school girls with their own surf club?”

  She smiled immediately, then turned to me like she used to, like the gesture was only for me. “I forgot all about that. They were so badass, and they were only fifteen.”

  “They said you were their hero. They said women like you were an inspiration.”

  She touched her fingertips to her lips. “Oh, yeah. We went out on the waves later, and I showed them my gnarliest tricks.”

  “And they loved you for it,” I said.

  They’d gazed at Serena like she was the glowing god they worshiped. Later, in the car, she’d turned her face to the window and cried, and I’d given her as much privacy as she needed. Her parents were totally fucked up and had really done a number on her and her brother, so crying in front of people wasn’t easy for her. But it wasn’t the girls’ worshiping that had made her emotional. It was meeting young women just like her—bold and unafraid to take up space, strong and dedicated. Fearless on the water.

  I think it made her feel less alone.

  “Anyway,” I said as the elevator slid to the lobby. “I’m not saying that you’re nervous, but if you were and needed a reminder that you’re a motherfucking badass…” I shrugged. “Could work.”

  The doors opened as Serena stared at me with pure gratitude. Her fingers were still. I nodded towards the empty elevator, arm outstretched, and followed her inside.

  “Cope,” she started to say. “That was really nice of you—”

  A veritable army of Aerial staff appeared, dressed for a picnic or a hike or both. They were talking, staring at their phones, balancing reusable water bottles and earbuds. A few acknowledged Serena, but then the doors shut, squishing us tight. There was a big shuffle of bodies at the front, and we were forced into the back corner, boxed in on all sides. A protective instinct that was more husband and less hired security had me tugging Serena against me.

  “You okay?” I whispered.

  “Yep.” Her attention darted to the numbers as we climbed to the fifth floor. The elevator shook. The perfect curve of her ass fell against my cock. My hands flew to her hips to keep her steady, but I let them drop. This close I could smell her mango shampoo, her sunscreen, the saltwater scent imprinted on her freckled skin.

  Right after our spontaneous wedding, we’d stumbled into an elevator happy-tipsy and flushed with love. I had my hand beneath the skirt of her thrift store wedding dress the second the doors closed.

  “You’re going to come for your new husband, aren’t you?”

  “Here’s our floor,” Serena said with a shaky voice. The Aerial employees spilled out and let us leave, where we stood awkwardly for a moment, avoiding eye contact. Glancing over her shoulder, she whispered, “I was nervous. I am nervous. Thank you for the story.”

  “You’ll kick ass in there,” I said, indicating the closed office. “You always do. And I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

  An older white man with sandy-blond hair suddenly stepped out into the hallway. “Serena Swift, what a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Chase Riley.” The guy shook her hand. He wore board shorts and a blue, linen shirt and had a sunglass tan around his eyes.

  “It’s nice to meet you too. Thank you so much for talking to me today,” she said. “And for doing it at Aerial. I’ve loved your magazine for years. It’s an honor.”

  “Well, we’ve been big fans of yours for years, so the feeling’s mutual. And I’ll be chatting with Marty and Dave after this for another piece, so it worked out perfectly.” He held open the door with a welcoming smile. “I’m assuming your security guard will stay out in the hallway?”

  My dude Chase hadn’t even acknowledged me yet, which I was used to. For a lot of clients, I was like a nicely dressed piece of furniture with knowledge of hand-to-hand combat.

  You’re unhappy with this job, and it shows.

  I dodged that unpleasant thought but noticed Serena’s body language was still jumpy.

  “He goes where I go actually,” she replied.

  A frisson of connection ran up my spine.

  “My client is correct,” I said to Chase. I didn’t miss the disappointment in his eyes, so I was even happier to stand like the Hulk in a corner and intimidate him a bit.

  “Everyone seems to need security these days, huh?” he said evenly.

  “They sure do, Chase,” I grinned, sliding right past him. They followed me inside, and as the interviewer got busy setting things up, Serena shot me another grateful look.

  I got comfy in the corner and tossed her a wink. Her cheeks flushed before she turned toward Chase.

  Chin lifted, spine straight. Fingers still. She was transformed back into the woman who conquered the ocean with courage in her heart.

  I, on the other hand, had been back in her life for less than twenty-four hours and was the hottest fucking mess about it.

  11

  Serena

  I faced the reporter and felt ready for the first time all day.

  Cope, standing behind me in that corner, caused a prickle of welcome awareness on the back of my neck.

  If you needed the reminder that you’re a motherfucking badass…

  “Let me give you a rundown of what we’re doing today,” Chase said. He had the typical surfer’s build and was maybe twenty-five years older than me. “At Heavy, we always work with Aerial when they have a new brand ambassador. It’s no secret that they’re one of our biggest ad clients. And let’s face it—everyone at Heavy buys their products almost exclusively. To us, this is a really great partnership. And a great way to profile a surfer like you.”

  My nerves settled even more. Just because this was a bigger opportunity than I was used to didn’t mean I couldn’t handle it.

  “Right on,” I said, crossing my legs beneath my skirt. “I’ve been buying Aerial surfboards and your magazine from the time I had my own money to spend.”

  He took out his notebook and pen and pressed play on his recorder. “I know you’ve been on the circuits and the tours for a long time, and you’ve always had the talent. When did you start pursuing pro surfing as a career?”

  “I was fourteen, although I started surfing at twelve. My first real win was at fifteen. I was hooked after that first trophy. It was the Oceanside High School Champs event, and the waves that day were sharky as hell.”

  He was scribbling with his pen. “You still remember that?”

  “Oh, yeah. You definitely don’t forget your first time being on your board and knowing there are sharks beneath you.”

  “You weren’t scared?” he asked.

  “Oh, I was scared out of my mind.” Chase laughed to himself as he wrote something down. “But I wanted to win more.”

  “What’d you do about the sharks?”

  “Avoided them.” I grinned at the memory. “Stayed out of their space, and they stayed out of mine.”

  “You ever see sharks again?”

  “Sometimes,” I said. “And it does make you think twice when something brushes against your leg in the water. The worst was when I was training at Hou
t Bay in South Africa. Those are great whites sharing the water with you. Getting out of their way isn’t really an option.”

  He was nodding, checking a pile of notes. “You were out training on big waves, right?”

  “I was, yeah.” I leaned forward, excited. “I’ve spent time at Torquay in Australia. Nazaré in Portugal. Bundoran in Ireland. I’ve trained with Kalei Peleke in Oahu, where she’s from. I really focused on skill and technique the past few years, and I think it’s why I won at Jaws.”

  “Wait, you surfed at Nazaré?”

  “Not at the competitive level, but I spent a few months there with my trainer, Dora.”

  Those waves in Portugal had chiseled themselves into my very bones. They were large as skyscrapers, frothy black and cold, unpredictable, and mean.

  “I didn’t realize,” he said. “And sorry for my surprise; you don’t see a lot of women out in Nazaré given how dangerous it is.”

  I frowned. “I was there for three months surfing with other women every day. And it is dangerous, but we worked with a highly trained safety crew. Prioritizing some of the newer safety guidelines in big wave surfing is a passion of mine.”

  “Like what?”

  “Mandatory life vests. Helmets. Continuing to use a jet ski to tow you out instead of paddling. Making sure there are trained medical crews on the beach and rescue volunteers in the water.”

  There was a long pause while he finished writing. “You don’t think that’s cheating a little bit?”

  “How so?”

  His tone was just shy of patronizing. “You don’t think towing out, wearing all that gear, is cheating? Before this stuff was invented, people were riding big waves without any kind of assistance.”

  My pleasant, polite smile froze on my face. Because when he said people, he meant men. “To be clear, and you can make sure this goes in your article, proper safety precautions are not cheating, and I will always utilize them.”