“Huh.” He spun lazily in his chair, contemplating me like a story he was about to pitch to an editor. “Maybe I’m talking right out of my ass, but after everything is done with Serena, you could always move on. Try your hat at something new.”
“Like another security firm, you mean?”
“No, siree,” he said. “I mean a whole other career.”
I resisted the urge to wince. Marilyn thought I was unhappy. Quentin thought I was unhappy.
And Serena? Her concerns about the hazards of my job—and what she called my reckless behavior—had been at the very core of why we broke up.
“I have a calling,” I said. “It’s my job to protect those around me. I’m like a dog with a bone, I won’t let it go.”
My father died because he was rescuing a swimmer. He was surfing with friends on a sunny San Diego day when he spotted someone drowning near a well-known riptide area. They all went to help, sliding off their boards and racing toward the arms waving in the air. They hadn’t hesitated to do the right thing when a person was in danger.
A couple years after his death, I realized what I needed to do: Be the one who kept my family and friends safe. And I went into a career like security where I was literally paid to protect people.
“Besides,” I continued, “being around her might be confusing, but there isn’t a chance in hell we’d do something as irresponsible as get back together. We were arguing about the same old shit minutes after seeing each other again. What I do isn’t that dangerous, and I’m not going to quit just because she thinks I don’t take it seriously enough.”
I swallowed roughly. My part in our ending was an uncomfortable truth that I despised confronting. “And I hate being the kind of person who asks an athlete to abandon their career because of what happened to my father. She shouldn’t have to quit a dream she was honest about from our first date. But I wanted her to, asked her to more days than not.” I grinned at my best friend, trying to ease the tension. “Listen, it’s my fault anyway. Falling in love with a professional surfer was my mistake. Just seems like my heart never gets the memo. Or, when it does get it, lights it on fire. We’ve already talked about getting the divorce proceedings out of the way as soon as this is done.”
Quentin’s nod was slow and full of understanding. “You’ve gotta do what’s right for you. I trust y’all to figure it out, I really do. But as the person who was there for most of your relationship, I’ll just say that you two were the most passionate and impulsive couple I have ever seen. Heck, you got married in Vegas on a whim because you’d had one too many margaritas.”
“In my defense, they were stronger than usual.”
He smiled, but it was a little sad. “Too much tequila or not, I think it’s easy to forget how young you were. How much you’d both overcome in such a short period of time. It never surprised me that a couple with so much love wouldn’t handle the threat of loss very well. Yes, you both made mistakes, but it was out of a desire to save one another. That’s pretty understandable, don’t you think?”
Quentin had been with me through so much.
“Our passion comes with a hardheaded stubbornness, on both sides,” I said. “We don’t budge. She’s not going to stop surfing. And I won’t stop living life the way that I do. I’ve learned that some people can accept loving someone with a job like Serena’s. Living with it. I can’t.”
He sighed with a sheepish smile, then joined me on the couch, handing me the bowl of candy. “Well, I can’t say I didn’t try. You know I’ve been Team Get Back Together for years.”
I chuckled. “You have not hidden that from me.”
He popped a pretzel into his mouth. “But to be clear, the situation sucks.”
“It’ll be fine,” I said firmly. “It’s only a little bit of confusion, a little bit of temptation, a few annoying arguments, and possibly stumbling onto a massive corporate cover up. I told Marilyn I was bored with my last assignment, and this sure ain’t boring.”
“You’re right about that.” He turned on the TV. “You want to watch some of the Twilight Zone marathon with me?”
“Fuck yeah,” I said.
But for the next few hours, even as I tried to lose myself in TV and good food with Quentin, my confident words tumbled around in my brain like a cruel taunt. I knew I couldn’t live with Serena’s surfing.
What I wasn’t convinced of was my ability to live without her.
17
Serena
The next morning, I was on my porch as the sun rose above the horizon, barefoot and waxing my board. Falco stood off to the side, silent as ever, and I realized it was possible to have a protection agent who really did blend into the background.
Not like the giant, broad-shouldered, easy-going man arriving any second now—the one I couldn’t stop picking fights with even as I secretly wished he would kiss me.
I sat back on my heels and tuned in to the surf report playing softly from the open front door. “Good news for everyone competing at the ISC’s Big Wave event at Trestles Beach today. Absolutely gorgeous swell already, heights over twenty-five feet just before dawn. I think we’re going to see a real bitchin’ show.”
Inhaling, I closed my eyes and settled into my body, into my mind. Dora had taught me a visualization years ago that I used before every competition. I imagined the size of each wave, the crystal blue of the water, the crowds on the beach cheering. I pictured the lip, the drop, the curl of the barrel, the cold spray.
I pictured myself winning like I’d promised.
You got lucky at Jaws, and the whole world is going to know it at Trestles.
My fingers flexed against my thighs, but I inhaled again. Exhaled. In the visualization, my arms sliced through the water before I pushed myself up to stand. I felt the board, rough against my feet. The stretch of my arms as they balanced me.
My gut is telling me I’m holding a drive full of bad fucking news.
I opened my eyes, rolled out my neck in irritation, then went back to waxing my board. Even irritated with my ex-husband, I’d still fallen asleep easily, lulled into slumber by the emotionally taxing day.
My dreams, however, woke me often. I couldn’t remember what they were about, but the pounding heart, sweaty palms, and dry mouth were signs of anxiety I recognized. I was expected to take pictures and give interviews today for Aerial, but instead of exhilaration I just felt… conflicted. Between the flash drive and the infuriating interview with Chase, representing this company didn’t feel like a top priority today when, given my contract, it needed to be.
“Ms. Swift?” Falco said. “Mr. McDaniels will be here any second. Is there anything you need before I go?”
I looked up from my board and bit my lip. “I don’t think so. Unless you want to tell me any dangers you noticed creeping around my house last night?”
He shook his head. “Quiet as a mouse. No problems. You should be fine for your event.”
I didn’t really feel fine, but then again, I wasn’t sure if Cope had told Falco what was really going on.
“Thank you,” I said, standing up and propping my board against the wall. “Will you go home and sleep immediately?”
“Always the plan, ma’am.”
Cope’s company car turned down my driveway. Instead of acknowledging the butterflies in my stomach, I walked back into the house in search of flip-flops and the bag I’d packed last night. I checked through everything one more time while pretending I wasn’t thinking about my ex-husband. Snacks, water, sunscreen, wet suit, life vest, helmet—it was all there, like I’d planned.
The only thing left to do was win.
Bag in hand, I slid on my sandals, stepped out the front door, and froze at the sight of Cope. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, sunglasses off, peering up at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher. He wore dark work pants, but his short-sleeved, button-up shirt was linen, and there was already too much bicep on display.
“Good morning, Ms. Swift,” he said. The pro
fessional edge to his tone subdued those butterflies.
“Hey,” I managed.
An awkward tension stretched between us as last night’s argument stomped into my brain.
Of course, we’re ending our first day working together by re-hashing the same fight we had outside the gym.
Cope and I had stubborn streaks so similar that apologizing wasn’t something either of us did well. But I was older now, and we couldn’t change the fact that we’d been thrown back together even if we didn’t like it.
“Listen,” I started to say just as he said, “About last night.”
We both stopped talking. Cope raked a hand through his hair then leaned against the railing. “Before we pick up where we left off last, can I suggest a truce? Between your competition today and discussing scandalous corporate secrets, it feels like we need to focus.”
I pursed my lips. “I didn’t hear an apology in there, right?”
“Didn’t hear one from you either.”
Our stare-down continued, and I already knew this was a lost cause, just like every other circular argument we had in the months before we broke up.
“Given our urgent and bizarre circumstances,” I said, “I accept the truce. Maybe we can keep our fights to when you’re off the clock.”
I despised how disappointed I felt at my own suggestion, knew that I was really craving intimacy between the two of us, even if it came in the form of pushing each other’s buttons.
It was a craving I couldn’t indulge.
His lips twitched, but then he said, “I accept the terms and conditions.”
I made the mistake of catching his gaze and the full force of yearning blazing there. I would have offered to shake on our reprieve but couldn’t trust my hands not to seek more of him when I needed to seek less.
I carried my surfboard under my arm and made my way to Cope’s car, giving him a wide berth. He’d installed a rack on top, and it was obvious by the minor dents and scratches it was the same rack we used four years ago. For most of our relationship, we’d driven around in my old pink van, which took us on camping trips and road trips and to competitions up and down the coast.
About a month in, he’d picked me up for dinner in his car, and the surfboard rack had gleamed brand-new. It had been a small gesture, yet his acceptance of who I was in the face of his own loss had meant the world to me.
He had apparently never given it away.
“Thanks for the rack,” I said.
“It’s really no big deal. I had a few things lying around,” he said with a nonchalance that sounded forced.
Pressed onto my tiptoes, I slid my board on top and strapped the front end down while Cope took care of the back.
I couldn’t linger on the ease of our movements here or the way the nostalgia thawed our awkwardness. As I began pulling the final strap down, I sensed his nearness just as my hand slipped and dropped the strap. The board shifted fast toward my head. Cope’s arms bracketed my shoulders as he caught the board and yanked the strap taut.
I blew out a startled gasp but managed not to fall back against his broad chest. His breath stirred the strands of my hair, and his body heat was sultry on my bare skin.
“Here I am, saving your face from a surfboard again,” he said mildly. But I could hear the smile in his voice, and the relief I felt was as confusing as it was annoying.
“I had the situation under control,” I said. His palms rested on the car, boxing me in. The tip of his nose passed through my hair almost imperceptibly. My body was responding in ways that had lain dormant without him. I didn’t dare turn around, didn’t dare shatter this different kind of truce, the one born from our wild and passionate attraction.
“You feel ready for today, right?” he asked. The consideration in his voice was almost too much.
“Absolutely,” I said. “More than ready. Ready to win.”
I studied his hands, splayed on the car in front of me. The size of his palms, the strength in his fingers.
“Did you do all of your pre-competition rituals?”
A rush of arousal had me light-headed. “Not all of them.”
I watched his fingers flex against the door, heard the hitch in his breathing, its slight increase. I didn’t want to know if he was reliving the memories of our favorite ritual, the one where I’d wake up at dawn and have him bring me to the slowest, tenderest orgasm to soothe my nerves and clear my head. I’d wrap my hands around our headboard as a sleepy-eyed, rough-voiced Cope kissed his way to my pussy and lavished my clit with his tongue. I’d gaze down to see my hips rolling, his head between my legs, those fingers gripping my thighs.
There was no better way to remember that I was born to conquer those waves like a queen.
It was only later, after the competition, that I’d drag him back into our bedroom and let the surge of addicting adrenaline seduce us into the filthy, sweaty, hair-pulling sex that was our specialty.
His mouth brushed once through my hair before he whispered, “That’s a shame.”
And then he stepped away, rounding the car before I could do something stupid and beg him to take me right here, just like this, consequences be damned.
I did climb into the front seat, which was definitely not a smart idea. We needed additional space between us, but I was much too concerned with Quentin’s thoughts on the flash drive. Cope slid behind the steering wheel slowly, brow lifted. “The protocol is that the client sits in the back so they can ignore me and yell at their assistants on the phone.”
“I’m going to guess you don’t potentially uncover corporate secrets with all of your clients, right?”
He twisted around in his seat, arm leveraged against my chair as he navigated backwards out of my driveway. “Was it naive of me to assume a respect of the client-agent relationship would be included under the umbrella of this truce?”
I turned toward the window to avoid his face, drifting so close to mine. His mouth curved up slightly—not a full Cope smile, but I still had to hide my own at the sight of it.
“There’s a thermos there for you,” he said. “If you want it.”
My stomach roiled. “I don’t do coffee before competitions. Makes me too nervous.”
“It’s not coffee,” he said. “It’s hot water with honey and lemon.”
“Oh.” I opened the top and inhaled the steam. “You remembered.” I curled my fingers around the thermos and pressed the heated cup to my chest, soothing some of my jangling energy. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
Cope took the freeway ramp, heading to Trestles Beach, which was forty miles away.
“So what happened last night with Quentin?” I asked. “Did he have any idea of what’s actually going on?”
He glanced at me sideways. “I know the kind of headspace you prefer to be in before a competition. Do you want to talk about this now, or will it only be a distraction?”
“Now,” I said firmly. “Not knowing is the distraction.” My stomach jumped again. “Besides, no matter what happens on the water today, I have to smile and nod and be their ambassador. I need to know what’s going on.”
His eyes moved to the rearview mirror before he merged one lane over. “Okay. I went to Quentin’s last night with the drive and let him examine what was on it. Right away, he—”
My phone beeped three times. I dug around in my bag until I found it.
“This could be about the competition,” I said. “Let me check it.”
My words trailed off to a whisper as I read the message on the screen. My already-jumpy stomach twisted again, and goosebumps shivered across my skin.
“Serena, what is it?” Cope asked sharply, sensing my fear.
I stared down at the white message box, positive I was dreaming. “It’s… it’s from a blocked number. The message says we know you have it.”
I dropped my phone like it was on fire. Cope cursed beneath his breath.
“What’s going on?” I asked in a shaky voice. “And why th
e hell am I getting messages like that?”
Based on body language alone, my ex-husband seemed on the verge of some great action—either he wanted to reach for me with tenderness or hunt down who sent that text with violence.
“Can you read it to me again?” The veins in his forearms stood out as he gripped the steering wheel.
I leaned over the console and tapped my screen. “We know you have it. Nothing else.”
“Goddammit,” he said forcefully. “That message just confirmed my worst fears about this.”
“Tell me about last night,” I demanded.
The distress on Cope’s normally cheerful face was freaking me the hell out.
“Quentin has the drive now and is working on figuring out exactly what it holds or what messages those files were meant to tell someone. He’s got a law enforcement contact he’s reaching out to today to try and find Catalina, make sure she’s safe. And to see if there’s any more secret dirt on Aerial the general public doesn’t know about. He’s taking this very seriously, and whatever it is, we will find out, and we will take the proper steps to do the right thing.”
I clutched the thermos and waited for him to continue.
“Quentin and I have good reason to believe that Catalina is a whistleblower. That she either purposefully or accidentally stumbled onto something shady or unethical and was brave enough to steal it and get it out into the public. Or, in this case, into the purse of a professional surfer.”
I thought about the dark-eyed woman who’d bumped into me. She’d seemed unusually nervous yet picked up my purse so fast I envied her reflexes.
Maybe meeting me wasn’t what she was nervous about.
“A whistleblower,” I repeated cautiously. “Like… like the woman who brought down Enron?”
“Exactly like that,” he said.
He flicked on his turn signal and merged easily into the far-right lane. We drove down the exit and onto the road that led to the beach. A long line of cars was parked haphazardly on the side of the street—spectators and fans here for the event. I spotted surfboards and coolers being carried along with lawn chairs and blankets. Cope didn’t need directions to pull into the parking lot.
Out of the Blue Page 12
