The Red Bikini

by Lauren Christopher

  I see that. He threw Rabbit’s foam board in the water to give himself something else to focus on and attached it at his wrist with the leash.

  “So no dreams last night?” she asked.

  He smiled. He knew she’d ask right away. “I did,” he admitted. “But there was no kiss.”

  In fact there’d been more—much more. But she didn’t need to know that. And he’d taken the loophole of no actual kiss, because . . . Well, damn, he’d just wanted to see her again today.

  He’d admitted that to himself sometime in the middle of his morning session, right after paddling out at T Street and catching two glassy barrels. The surf was beautiful; the morning was perfect; he’d slept through three nights without any nightmares about Jennifer; and Giselle Underwood was constantly floating on his mind. . . . He hadn’t been this happy in a long time. He finally decided to stop fighting it. Though he didn’t exactly know what he was “fighting”—an obsession? A crush? A tantalizing tease of something he couldn’t have? He had no idea what was going on here, but he did know that right after those barrels—which normally would have kept him stoked all day—he’d found himself counting the hours until he could make it down here to see Giselle.

  When Fox had texted at ten to verify that Fin and Giselle would show tonight—apparently Mr. Makua had scored tickets for all of them to see Laguna’s Pageant of the Masters art show—he’d written back that yeah, they planned to be there. He hoped her offer still stood. But he knew it was just another excuse to see her again, even if it was going to be platonic.

  “Are you still up for going with me tonight to the art show?”

  Her eyes widened as she glanced up at him. “Of course.” The waves were lapping against their knees, and she held her hands out in a cute way to keep her balance when the tide went hissing back into the ocean, the way a four-year-old might.

  “Fox texted this morning. He seems pretty insistent that I bring you. Mr. Makua got us tickets for a show.”

  “A show?” The rush of water swallowed her words.

  “It’s a ‘living art’ show. It’s kind of famous around here. Mr. Makua wanted you to see it, being my fake fiancée and all.” He smirked. “Hard to get tickets, so it would be rude if I showed up without you.”

  “Of course!”

  “So you can move around that date with Dan?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He nodded. He was much too gratified about that. Maybe he was further from being a better man than he thought.

  “Conditions are great for learning today,” he said, rubbing his neck and keeping her breasts out of his peripheral vision. “You can wander all the way out there and still be at your waist. C’mon.” He tried to motion for her to move into the water, but he didn’t want to touch her, so he made a herding gesture.

  “I’m still nervous.”

  That was apparent, given the terror in her face and the way her hands were splayed like she was on a tightrope.

  “Does your fear come from something specific? Like an accident, or . . . ?”

  “I fell once in the ocean when I was a kid. I was with my mom, and my sister. And . . .” She squealed as another wave hit her thighs, and he lunged toward her, but she seemed more cold than scared. “. . . I just remember the next wave coming down on me, and being underwater for a long time.”

  He nodded. That could be terrifying. He had to hand it to her for at least trying.

  His hands hung on his hips as he watched her for another few minutes, letting her know it was okay, just being near in case she needed anyone. He was going to have to take this slowly. “Let’s work on just getting you in to your waist today.”

  The relief that crossed her face was palpable. That was what Giselle needed—she just needed a damned break.

  Her full breasts—even more tantalizingly visible now through the wet bathing suit—came into his peripheral vision again, and he sucked in his breath. He turned his body toward the ocean in case it decided to broadcast a little too obviously what she did to him. The cold would help—he needed to get in to his waist.

  “Let’s walk a bit.” He cocked his head south. The water rushed back against their legs and she held her arms out in her cute way again. When the tide relaxed, she gave him the sweetest smile—filled with a kind of trust he knew he didn’t deserve—and reached toward him.

  He stared at her extended fingers for a beat too long. Fuck it. He’d be strong. He reached out and pulled her hand into his.

  Still trying to avert his eyes, Fin led her. And not astray. He’d be good.

  • • •

  Giselle followed Fin through the shore break, gripping his hand as if her life depended on it. Although, thankfully, she was temporarily distracted from a potential watery grave right now because of Fin’s body. She glanced at his muscled chest and tried to concentrate on pulling her legs through the rushing water.

  He told her to wait a second, then jogged up to toss the board onshore next to her tote bag. When he came hustling down again, he frowned at her outstretched hand.

  Hurt, she began to drop it. Maybe he truly didn’t want to touch her anymore. Maybe he was being uberstrict about this “just friends” thing.

  Before her hand hit her thigh, though, Fin snatched it up again. His hand was large and warm—more callused than she’d guessed, maybe from the boards? The sand? The wax? But its roughness was sexy—so different from Roy’s surgeon hands. It engulfed hers in a way that made her feel safe. She knew he wouldn’t let her go under, or let her get swept away.

  They headed down the coast, toward the pier, but also angled deeper into the water, splashing through the glittery ocean. The waves splashed to her thighs, but maybe this wasn’t quite so scary after all. When you were holding Fin Hensen’s hand, anyway. She liked moving her feet and not feeling so stuck in the sand.

  And did he just ask her to his event tonight?

  She tried to shift her thoughts from the terror of the water toward the brief conversation they’d just had. He did ask her, didn’t he? She, of course, was thrilled to go. She’d hoped he would change his mind. But she also knew he wanted to keep things light—there’d be no intimate touching, certainly no more of that kissing. He’d made himself clear last night. She might get as far as gripping his hand like this, and she’d even settle for wrapping her fingertips around that biceps ball, which she was itching to do right now. But she’d behave. He’d said this was Fox’s idea, not his. And his reticent behavior said enough.

  As their suits got more drenched, though, she couldn’t help but notice she was at least scoring furtive glances from him. A feeling like warm carbonation filled her chest at the idea of him looking at her like that. At the idea of any man looking at her like that, actually, but especially this guy. . . . Holy Toledo.

  She couldn’t remember Roy offering that kind of attention in a long, long time—perhaps ever. And she was shocked at the tingling it left throughout her extremities. She didn’t know where all this new, awakening sexuality was coming from, but there it was, and it was freeing her in a way that all of Lia’s blind dates, hair appointments, and red bikinis never could.

  “Are you okay?” He glanced over his shoulder at her.

  With her breath still gone at the cold, not to mention her new wayward thoughts, she simply bobbed her head.

  He stopped and took her other hand as if this was where he meant to bring her. She couldn’t believe she was holding on to this guy. She couldn’t believe she was all the way in, or . . . well, almost . . . to her waist, anyway. She followed him another four or five steps into the ocean, and a low wave hit him from behind. He blocked some of it from her, but the white sea foam wrapped all the way around her, reaching around her bottom. She sucked in some air through her teeth.

  “You’re here,” he said, grinning.

  The water rushed back to sea, pummeling the backs of her
legs with sand and power. She let it push her—Fin was right there, after all. He grabbed her waist, as if he were catching her, but as the water pushed, she let the ocean press her all the way against him. She folded against the length of him, her bathing suit against his flat abdomen, her breasts pressed against his hard chest, her fingertips on his biceps. He was warm and sinewy, a rock-solid wall in this chaotic ocean, his muscles taut, body warm. Her legs entangled with his as the water rushed. He squinted over the top of her head as the water finished receding, his hands on her waist, waiting it out. Then he pressed his mouth into her part. “Giselle,” he groaned against her hair. It was an admonishment.

  When the tide relaxed, he set her back from him. “Stay there,” he said hoarsely. With three large strides, he was in the ocean, diving under a very shallow wave that was coming their way.

  He was at her side before the same wave was even ripping back into the sea, slicking the water back out of his hair, standing near enough that she could grab him if she needed to, but letting her balance herself.

  “You’re like a regular wahine here now.” He smiled ruefully.

  “Wahine?”

  “It means ‘woman’ in Hawaiian, but we use it here for a female surfer. Usually gorgeous. Let’s head back.”

  She followed the direction he’d nodded, relishing in the fact he’d just called her gorgeous, that he’d just maybe been turned on by her, that he’d just helped her get into the ocean all the way to her waist.

  But they took it slow, keeping a distance all the way back—close enough in case she stumbled, but far enough that she felt empowered.

  As they stood in front of her tote, dripping into the dry sand, Fin’s gaze swept her body appreciatively. He still cut his eyes away, but this time he let her see the heat there. She grabbed for her towel.

  “Don’t you have a towel?” she asked, snapping hers around her body.

  “Nah.”

  “Do you want one of mine? I have an extra.” She rummaged through her tote for the other towel she always brought for Coco. “It’s Polly Pocket, but . . .”

  “I’m fine, Giselle.”

  “I know I have it here. . . .”

  “Giselle.”

  She glanced up at the harshness of his tone. When she met his eyes, he was frowning.

  “I’m fine.”

  A warmth rose around her ears. She needed to stop behaving so maternally around him. That heat in his eyes wasn’t going to last long if she started throwing the words “you need a towel” and “you need a jacket” around. What was the matter with her? Next thing she knew she’d be cutting his food. She wondered whether Dan Manfield had children. Maybe that was where Lia’s logic was going. . . .

  “So we’re okay for tonight?” he asked.

  “Of course. I was wondering if you might—or if we might—I’m glad we’re—” She cut herself off. Quit while you’re ahead, girl. . . . “How can I help?”

  Droplets danced along his hairline, dripped off his eyelashes. He hung his hands low on his hips, and Giselle watched the rivulets of water that curved down his chest and raced toward the waistband of his shorts, which seemed to be sitting even lower now, if that were possible, revealing those lowest, sexiest abdominal muscles that shouldn’t legally be shown in public. Children’s voices laughed behind her in the far distance.

  “Just . . .” He shook his head. “Be you. You don’t have to be anyone different. And . . . let’s not complicate things, okay?”

  She didn’t know where to rest her gaze. “I, uh—of course.” She swiped at her face with her towel. She must seem like a crazed—possibly horny—drowned rat.

  “And, Giselle?”

  She tended to her towel, tugging it tighter around her.

  “Sorry about that, back there.” He nodded his head toward the pier.

  She realized he was referencing his hard, warm body, pressed against hers. Or her body pressed against his. Whatever.

  She closed her eyes. Guilt swept through her. She was going to have to behave. He was trying to be noble.

  She opened her mouth, but he spoke first.

  “No complications,” he reiterated gently.

  She bobbed her head in an embarrassed gesture but swiped the Polly Pocket towel out of her bag and shoved it into his waist. “Then use this.”

  Snatching her tote, she trudged up the dune, sidestepping the patchwork of beach towels that now stretched as far as the eye could see.

  Fin followed behind her, chuckling lightly. By the time they got back to the sidewalk, he had the Polly Pocket towel spread over his shoulders, billowing in the breeze down his stomach.

  CHAPTER

  Fifteen

  The art festival was tucked away, nestled in the chaparral canyons of Laguna Beach. The earthy scent of California sage hung in the air, mixed with the aroma of wine. Fin had been here once before—also with Fox and Mr. Makua, for a company-sponsored work event on the grounds—but he’d never been here on a triple date, being treated almost like one of the board members. He adjusted his dress shirtsleeve at the wrist and swept his hand for Giselle to enter first, beneath the entry arches designed to resemble a Roman ruin.

  Apparently she’d spent the afternoon at some beauty salon and had her hair done back to the way it was, pretty much—more of the blond Grace Kelly thing. He didn’t care either way what color her hair was—he was more obsessed with the tendrils that moved along the back of her neck, directing his attention to exactly where he wanted to kiss her.

  But he wasn’t going to kiss her tonight. Not her neck, not her lips. Nothing. He was going to show her a nice time while she was in Sandy Cove, because she was the sister of one of his closest friends. And he was going to attend this event tonight with his sponsor company because they were good to him and he wanted to continue.

  And that was the extent of tonight.

  They followed a paved, winding path past angled booths displaying oils, photography, mosaics, sculptures, and jewelry.

  They were early, so he didn’t search for Tamara or Fox yet. He wanted to give Giselle a chance to really take in the art here, which was all local. He knew she’d love it.

  The sky was turning a deep gold, and mini-lights sparked to life in the sycamore branches. He glanced around for Fox and Tamara and Mr. Makua around six. Live jazz struck up from the center of the grounds, offered by two guitarists who stood on a grassy hill amid wrought-iron café tables.

  He wished, now, that they weren’t meeting anyone. Watching her face light up with passion at each booth was strangely edifying to him. It reminded him of how he felt when a perfect wave was rolling his way—that joy that comes from your gut. But Giselle’s joy seemed as if it were awakening from a long-dormant sleep. He felt honored being the one to watch it stir.

  “There they are.” Giselle nodded toward one of the tables, where Fox and Tamara were pulling up a few chairs. If he’d heard it right, her voice held a whisper of disappointment, too.

  Next to Fox and Tamara were Mr. Makua and another woman Fin didn’t know. Behind them were Mr. Makua’s Samoan bodyguards, trying to blend in at a nearby table, although they were each about 280 pounds and shoved into wrought-iron chairs.

  At their approach, Tamara pushed out a chair with her foot. “Hi, you two! We just got here.”

  Fin self-consciously touched Giselle’s back and gave her the chair. They should have gone over some ground rules again—how much touching, how much they were going to extend this farce. He’d asked her to wear the turquoise ring again when they’d left the apartment, but mostly to cover up her white band. Beyond that, he didn’t want to continue lying. He wasn’t sure what Tamara knew, or whether Fox had come clean with Mr. Makua.

  “Mr. Hensen, this is my friend Charlene.”

  Charlene was a beautiful Hawaiian woman, about Mr. Makua’s age, who wore expensive-looking clothes tha
t teetered on the edge between business and pleasure.

  Fin leaned over. “Nice to meet you. This is my . . . friend Giselle.”

  “Oh, I think she’s more than a friend,” Tamara guffawed. She’d taken only a few sips of wine, but her voice was already up an octave.

  Fin had spent many an event with Tamara, most of which involved Tamara getting tipsy and moaning about how Fox always abandoned her for work colleagues. But, despite all her drama, he got a kick out of her.

  “Once a woman is sleeping with a man, she’s more than a friend,” Tamara admonished with a finger pointed at his chest. “He becomes a boyfriend. And note the ‘a.’”

  Fin glanced at Fox, who raised his eyebrows in a you’re-on-your-own-buddy note.

  “What would you two like to drink?” Mr. Makua interrupted.

  Thankful for the reprieve, Fin turned to Giselle. He didn’t know what she drank, which seemed to sum everything up in one quick realization.

  “I’ll take a Moscato,” she said.

  Ah, Fox would like that.

  As predicted, Fox lit up. He drew Giselle into a conversation about local vintners and how many of them produced Moscato, and how it was all the rage lately. Fin bit back a grin and congratulated himself again on picking Giselle.

  The beer and wine garden was about ten tables away, so Fin started ambling. On his way, Fox caught up with him.

  “Your lady has good taste.”

  “You didn’t tell Tamara?” Fin mumbled as they took their place in line.

  “Tell Tamara what?”

  “About me and Giselle.”

  “What did you want me to tell her?”

  “That we’re not really dating.”

  Fox frowned. “What are you talking about? You asked Giselle to come?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “You’re not paying her?”

  “Of course not.”

  “That, my friend, is a date.”

  Fin started to respond, but then thought better of it. He absentmindedly flipped through his wallet to make sure he’d brought his card. “She’s the sister of a friend.”