Making Waves

by Laura Moore

  Luckily, he’d closed the memory down before it could turn acrid and before Dakota could glimpse the impenetrable darkness inside him.

  By all that was rational, he should resent Dakota for triggering these memories of his broken family. And maybe he did, but not enough to make him do the smart thing and stay the hell away from her.

  He wanted to kiss her again and discover whether she tasted as good as he remembered.

  There was a memory he was happy to replay in his head.

  He was going to have to work for that next kiss. She was doing her utmost to fight their mutual attraction and keep her distance. If her tire hadn’t obligingly gone flat that afternoon, it was possible she would have flitted in and out of Windhaven sylph-like, and he wouldn’t have caught her to wrest a surfing lesson from her and give him a morning of her company.

  Lacking any real experience with women intent on ignoring him, Max thought it wise to be ready and waiting when Dakota arrived. No point in aggravating his reluctant surfing instructor.

  She was her prompt self. She must have spotted his new eight-foot board propped against the garage door and the nylon duffel bag lying next to it, for she pulled up next to the garage and hopped out to unlatch the roof rack. He lifted the board overhead and slid it into place.

  “Morning,” he said.

  Her fleece jacket was zipped to her chin and the dark strands of her hair lifted in the breeze and landed on her cheeks and lips. An impatient hand dragged them back behind her ear.

  “Morning.” She refastened the rack with grim determination.

  “The spare tire okay?” he asked, to remind her of his usefulness yesterday and that his presence wasn’t a total imposition.

  “Yeah.” She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket.

  “You’re going to the garage, right? You shouldn’t drive on the spare for too long.” The advice came out a little more sharply than he’d intended.

  “I’m going later this morning.”

  “Good. That’s good.” Telling himself to calm down before she decided he was certifiable, he grabbed his duffel and tossed it in the backseat, next to her own gear bag, and then got in beside her.

  She turned on the ignition and shifted into drive. “The coffee in front’s yours. Muffins are in the bag.”

  He glanced down at the cup holders and the paper bag. “Thanks.”

  “It’s important to fuel up,” she said, as if worried he might interpret the gesture as anything but practical. “Between paddling, sitting out on the lineup, and trying to catch a wave, you’ll be expending a lot of energy.”

  Figuring he’d appease her and that any muffin bought by Dakota Hale would taste damn good, he took it out of the paper bag and bit into pear, cinnamon, walnut, and brown sugar. “Damn, this is really good. Where’d you get it?”

  “I made it.”

  West End Road was deserted, but she kept her gaze fixed ahead of her. He wondered how long she aimed to pretend he wasn’t sitting next to her.

  They’d reached East Hampton. Main Street’s glittery luxury shops were shuttered. They cruised through the traffic lights, Dakota driving with a competence that put him as much at ease as he could be since the night Rosie—

  She cleared her throat, interrupting his thoughts. “Since it’s cold this morning and we won’t want to hang out on the beach too long, I thought I’d go over basic surf etiquette now. Ditch Plains, where we’re going this morning, has a sign posted with essential surfing etiquette, but it’s amazing how many people don’t bother to read it.”

  Ah. Now he had a clue about what was partially responsible for her aloofness. She was worried he’d act like a jerk out on the water.

  He picked up the cup and drank. The coffee was strong and hot, so he decided not to be too pissed off at her assumption. “Luckily I have you to enlighten me.”

  That got her. She slanted a look at him. “Right. So the first and most important rule is, don’t drop in on another surfer. At Ditch Plains, the waves there break to the left. If you see someone on your left who’s closer to the peak than you, that person has priority. If you try to go for that wave and get in the way of his or her ride, that’s known as ‘dropping in.’ It’s a major no-no.”

  “And then I’d be worse than a kook. I’d be an asshole.”

  “Pretty much.” She glanced at him again. “So, you’ve been reading up?”

  He shrugged. “I do my research like I do my due diligence. I read about snaking, too.”

  She nodded. “Another jerk move. I’ve been surfing for a while at Ditch Plains and Turtle Cove. Both spots have some really good surfers who are going to be able to anticipate where the waves are breaking and position themselves accordingly.”

  They’d reached Amagansett, the next town to the east, and she eased off the accelerator. He’d driven through the town once. From what he could tell, it was more low-key—if anything in the Hamptons could truly be counted as low-key—than Bridgehampton, East Hampton, or Southampton. It had a yoga center and a number of funky little shops. And with the Stephen Talkhouse, which had good live music, the town had a cool vibe. Half a dozen cars were parked outside Jack’s Stir Brew. New Yorkers getting their morning caffeine fix.

  He picked up Dakota’s coffee. “Here,” he said, taking shameless advantage of the fact that she was driving to place his fingers over hers until she had a sure grip. The rush he got from touching her was becoming irresistible.

  “Thanks, I’ve got it.” Her husky voice had the tiniest and most gratifying tremor to it.

  “So it sounds like there’s serious potential for scumbag moves in surfing,” he said.

  “As in life. As on Wall Street.”

  Max had a hunch the deal he’d closed yesterday, buying out Mark Kauffman and handing Chiron over to Chris Steffens, might be condemned as “dropping in” by Dakota. Being the first to nab a potentially profitable company was the name of the game he played. But he was on her turf—or surf—now, so he’d abide by her rules. Inclining his head, he said, “Point taken.”

  “Surfing shouldn’t be like that, though. But when the lineup gets crowded with everyone wanting to catch a ride, things can get ugly. Who needs that?”

  Dakota flicked her indicator light and turned right onto a road that was called, surprise, surprise, Ditch Plain Road. She ignored the entrance to the town parking area and continued east, only then turning onto a narrow, rutted lane that led to the dunes. She parked between a Jeep with stickers plastered all over the cargo door and a beat-up Volvo wagon.

  “Looks like we lucked out,” she said as she turned off the engine. “It’s not too crowded. Let’s change into our suits and head down.”

  —

  Dakota had been dreading this moment. She’d even considered putting on her wetsuit, at least the bottom half, before picking up Max at Windhaven. But the weather wasn’t cold enough to justify donning a wetsuit so far ahead of time, and the thought of sitting behind the wheel with neoprene bunched and rolled about her middle while her face grew redder and redder and sweat ran down her temples, with Max there as a witness, was just as embarrassing.

  Instead she was presented with the prospect of him watching her wriggle and jiggle her way into her wetsuit. Ordinarily Dakota had no problem stripping down and pulling on neoprene. The guys on the beach were buddies. Dudes.

  By no stretch of the imagination would she ever think of Max as a “dude.” He was too vital and intense. And unlike the guys she hung out with in the lineup or went with to grab a breakfast burrito and coffee from the Ditch Witch post-surf, Max made Dakota aware of every inch of her body. Worse still, he made her wonder what he’d think about it.

  What was almost as disconcerting as being exposed to Max’s gaze was how much she wanted to catch a glimpse of him stripped down to his briefs. A sudden thought occurred to her: what if he chose to go commando? She’d heard a lot of guys claim it was the only comfortable way to surf in a wetsuit.

  Dear Lord. With a flush
warming her from head to toe, she shucked her sweatpants. The morning air nipped her skin as she grabbed her wetsuit, shook it briskly, and shoved her feet into it.

  Pulling on a wetsuit was usually no big thing. Now, though, the neoprene felt like a pair of Spanx two sizes too small as she tugged it over her thighs and bikini-covered bottom.

  The suit at last over her hips, she put on her booties. Only then did she peel off her fleece and her sweatshirt, sucking in a breath at the cold. She dragged the wetsuit up over her bikini top—achingly aware of all that jiggling—and stuck one arm after the other through the armholes, adjusting and wriggling until the material covered her shoulders. Reaching behind, she pulled the headflap forward and shoved her head through the neck seal.

  With a sigh of relief, she zipped the front flap closed. It had taken her less than five minutes to don the suit. It might as well have been an hour.

  Casually she glanced across the front seats and through the open passenger door. Max must have practiced putting on the wetsuit last night because he was already pulling the neck seal over his head.

  The second his dark auburn head appeared through the neoprene’s opening, she directed her attention to their boards, opening the rack.

  He’d bought an eight-foot foam board. A smart choice for a beginner. And he’d even done some homework, reading about surfing’s cardinal sins. So far, she couldn’t help but be impressed with his attitude.

  “Here, I’ll get that,” he said.

  She turned and her eyes nearly popped out. Encased in body-molding black, Max looked like a freakin’ superhero.

  “Oh, sure. Here.” She took a big step backward, as if that might lessen his potency. Mutely she watched him lift the board and tuck it under his arm, his biceps bulging against the neoprene.

  What had she gotten herself into?

  “So do we hit the water now?”

  Though she longed for the distraction of the waves, she shook her head. “The beach is the best place to practice pop-ups.”

  The beach had the typical number of hardy walkers and beachcombers, some with dogs running and chasing waves or chomping on seaweed and crab legs. One golden retriever noted their arrival and came over to sniff Dakota’s board, then raced back to its owner, barking madly.

  Their surfboards lay parallel, the fins buried in the sand, separated by a few feet. Feeling as self-conscious as if she were onstage at Madison Square Garden, she lowered herself onto hers to demonstrate how to move from a prone position to a standing one—otherwise known as a pop-up.

  “I’ve never tried to teach anyone how to surf, so it’s best if I just show you. Watch closely,” she said foolishly, unnecessarily, since she could feel the weight of Max’s gaze traveling the length of her body.

  It was silly to be self-conscious. Max had undoubtedly seen plenty of women moving far more provocatively. And when they stuck their butts out, it wasn’t to demonstrate proper surfing technique.

  She took a calming breath. “A pop-up is kind of like doing a push-up into a squat. The difference is that when you land, you want to make sure your feet are angled sideways on the board. You, um, look pretty strong and coordinated to me”—and wow, wasn’t that a massive understatement—“so you’re probably going to catch on quickly.”

  She cleared her throat. “When you see the wave, you’ll turn your board to catch it.” She pretended to paddle by digging her closed fingers through the sand. “Once the wave reaches you, you’ll feel its push. As soon as you do, take a couple of extra strokes so you’re moving along with it. Then you’ll do like so—” Rocking her body a little for momentum, she pressed up against the board with her arms and jumped forward to land in a sideways squat.

  Holding her stance, she said, “See my left foot, how it’s up where my hands were when I pushed up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s how far you’ll need to jump forward. And look at how my right foot’s on the other side of the board, a little farther down, and also angled. And when I pop up, I extend one arm out and bend the other like so in front of my chest. It helps my balance. Once I’m steady, I can straighten and start riding my wave.” She hopped off the board. “Have you got it, or should I show you again?”

  —

  Max would have liked nothing better than for Dakota to repeat the move for the rest of the morning. In her formfitting wetsuit, she resembled a modern-day mermaid, all long, sinuous lines. Performing that pop-up, going from a horizontal position to a balanced crouch in one fluid snap of her body, she displayed grace and strength that were as sexy as anything he’d seen in a long time.

  So hell yeah, he could have watched her a couple of hundred times over.

  He already knew a few things about Dakota. She was smart and resourceful, and she loved running her business. This morning he was seeing a different side to her, a private side. For all his fierce attraction, he found himself strangely moved by her willingness to share this part of her life.

  He didn’t want to blow it, and he might if she caught him staring at her like some horny teenager while she demonstrated the surfing technique.

  “I think I’ve got the basic idea,” he said, and dropped down onto his board. The push-up part would be easy, but he’d never tried to move quickly and hold a squat in a full wetsuit. He supposed there was no time like the present to find out if he could.

  “Hold your head a bit higher when you paddle,” she told him. “Too many people lower their head and their gaze.”

  He did as instructed and pretended to paddle through the sand, feeling more than a little foolish. Then he reminded himself of what his best coach, Stan Walker, had always told their high school team: Perfect practice, perfect game.

  “Okay, here’s your wave,” she prompted.

  He remembered to give a couple of extra strokes, making the cold, wet sand fly toward his feet, then moved his hands beneath his chest, flattened his palms, and pushed up as he contracted his core muscles and jumped forward. He made sure his left foot landed in the space where his hands had been and that his right foot was behind and also angled. He rose into a crouch, extending his left arm and keeping his right arm in front of his chest.

  “Good.”

  The reluctant admiration in her voice made him feel like he’d just completed a thirty-four-yard pass for a winning touchdown.

  “Better do it again, to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”

  Damn straight it wasn’t a fluke. Now that he’d performed one, he realized a pop-up wasn’t too different from a burpee, only with a sideways landing, and he’d done hundreds of those. Still, he nodded and dropped back down on the board. After positioning himself, he pretended to paddle, and then repeated the push-up and jump.

  Nailing the pop-up, he straightened, and flashed her a cocky smile.

  In response she lifted a single brow. But she was fighting a smile of her own. “Okay, then. Let’s see how you fare on the water.”

  —

  They put on their mitts and hoods and headed out. Max was surprised by how warm the wetsuit was, how buoyant he felt as he followed Dakota into the waist-high surf. At her signal, he pulled himself onto his board and paddled in her wake.

  The breeze was coming off the shore. As wind met wave, the spray flew up, stinging his cheeks. He must outweigh her by a good sixty pounds, yet he was working to keep up with her. She reached the lineup and sat up. He did the same, careful to control his breathing so she didn’t catch him gasping.

  Straddling her board, she waved to the two other surfers.

  “That’s Rick and Kris over there,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the chop of the water and through the thickness of their hoods. “They’re cool, and both of them are really good surfers. Rick’s going to take off now. He’s a good guy to watch. He’s got a fast action and decent form.”

  “The other guy’s going, too.”

  “Yeah.” She watched them for a second. “That rule about never dropping in on another surfer? Well, this
is the exception.”

  “Good to know there are exceptions to your rules.” He planned to be one of them, remembering how she’d said she didn’t get involved with clients.

  “They’re sharing the wave because they’re buddies and they know what they’re doing. Plus it’s a total blast to work a wave together. Watch how smoothly they transition from lying on their boards to standing for the takeoff. See how they’re moving their feet and shifting their weight? They’ll slice and cut back and work the wave until it dies.” She looked over at him. “Today’s sets are nice and regular. Want to try to catch your first ride?”

  “Yeah, I do.” Anticipation built inside him.

  “Okay, then. See the set after this one?” She pointed. “It looks promising. Long boards aren’t as easy to maneuver as short boards, so you’ll want to start turning now. Scoot back a bit. There, now you’re in your sweet spot. Here it comes. Paddle hard. Go, go!”

  Her shout of encouragement faded as he pulled his forearms through the water once, twice. Then he felt it: the water propelling his board and lifting it. What a rush. Remembering Dakota’s lesson, he brought his hands beneath his chest, pressed up, and jumped his booted feet forward, landing with them splayed and angled.

  Fucking hell, the board was really moving. He tried to find his balance. For a fleeting second he had it, then he teetered wildly and, in the next breath, flew ass backward off the board.

  The water was a cold, humiliating slap to the face. He surfaced, bobbing in the swell like a black cork. Following another of Dakota’s rules—never ditch your board—he’d attached the leash to his ankle. He tugged it, pulling the surfboard back to him. Grabbing hold of the sides, he heaved himself up, and then looked around to orient himself.

  Dakota was about twenty feet away. Even with the water stinging his eyes and embarrassment blurring his vision, he could see her shoulders shaking.