by Regina Wade
Quarantine and Chill
Love in the Time of Quarantine Series
Regina Wade
Contents
End of the World Playlist, Vol. 1
1. Sebastian
2. Aster
3. Sebastian
4. Aster
5. Sebastian
6. Aster
7. Epilogue One:
8. Epilogue Two
Thanks for reading, but before you go…
Coming Soon:
Coming Soon:
Also by Regina Wade
Rising Star
Crowning Glory
Getting Lucky
About the Author
End of the World Playlist, Vol. 1
God Only Knows, The Beach Boys
California Girls, The Beach Boys
Wouldn’t It Be Nice, The Beach Boys
Good Vibrations, The Beach Boys
Kokomo, The Beach Boys
And Then I Kissed Her, The Beach Boys
1
Sebastian
I bet I know what she’s like, and I can feel how right she’d be for me. — The Beach Boys, God Only Knows
When in doubt, paddle out.
It’s been my life’s motto for as far back as I remember. It’s never steered me wrong yet.
Everyone’s got a favorite place. That one spot that makes them feel at home, settles their soul. My happy place just happens to be afloat in the middle of the ocean.
A surfboard between my thighs, the gentle sway of the waves the only thing between me and land in every direction. No matter where I am, I can’t think of a better start to my morning. It’s been this way most of my life; the familiar nudge of water lapping at my legs, the gentle reassurance of the board’s leash around my ankle.
There’s already saltwater dripping off my hair and face as the first rays of light kiss the horizon over the Pacific.
I’ve missed this.
Despite being back for over six months now, I’m still shocked by how much I’ve missed being able to surf every single day. How much I’ve wanted to be able to watch the sun rise each morning, make my own schedule again.
Not that I didn’t sneak off at every opportunity while stationed in San Diego and Kuai, board in hand. Hell, even a year of training in North Carolina didn’t keep me away from the waves. But it wasn’t the same as being here.
Being home.
A sharp pain shoots through my shoulder, reminding me that coming back wasn’t without cost.
The waves are fantastic today. Early spring in Southern California can be a crapshoot. Not this week, though. In an almost ironic twist of fate, every day seems to be dawning more picture-perfect than the last.
Nature is taunting us, showing off her spring best just when everyone has to stay inside.
The early morning haze is burning off, revealing another gorgeous beach day. Normally, I’d already have a full class of eager surf students lined up on the sand by this time. An eclectic mix of bikini-clad girls, the fraternity guys eager to show off for them, and cheerful middle-aged couples enjoying a break from their kids. Last week, I taught a seventy-three-year-old grandmother to ride her first wave.
Not today, though.
The sand is barren. The waves have washed away most of last night’s footprints, leaving a smooth pressed canvas for the gulls to plop along gleefully. A mile or so down the beach, a dog is chasing foam-capped waves as they loll along the shore. His owner is nowhere to be seen.
I start to paddle, heading towards the shore and the empty stretch of beach that leads to my front door.
Even the last of the diehard Spring Break partiers have disappeared.
This time of year, the beach is usually clogged with college kids and sun-worshippers day and night. When I went to bed last night, there were still a few clusters of people on the sand beyond my bedroom window. Their music and laughter drifted up from campfires and Bluetooth speakers.
The state-wide quarantine went into effect just after midnight, and the music stopped not long after.
“Hey, buddy.”
The dog is waiting for me when I emerge from the water with my board under my arm, running wet, happy circles around my legs.
A yellow lab, maybe. Or a fat golden retriever, I’ve never been very good at telling them apart. Either way, the big furball is far too pleased with the long string of seaweed it managed to drag out of the ocean and tangle between his legs in spectacular fashion. Before I can stoop to provide him with a hearty head scratch, there’s a long whistle from one of the porches up the beach. My new friend takes off like a shot.
“Morning!”
I wave back at the wayward dog’s owner before heading back up towards my own tiny front porch.
Quaint. Cozy. Intimate.
The real estate listing used every colorful adjective imaginable to describe the minuscule one bedroom beach-front bungalow in Venice. I grin to myself now as I round up on the steps leading up to my sliding door. All I care about is that it’s less than a hundred steps from the waves.
I’m nearly inside the house again when movement catches my eye from between the slats in the stairs. I pause, waiting. There’s a faint sound, and then another flash of motion. Just a blur of red among the endless sand around my tiny porch.
“Excuse me?” I clear my throat first, in case the hangover is particularly bad.
It isn’t the first time I’ve found a lingering college couple or wayward spring breaker beneath the house come first light.
At least this one didn’t puke on my rashguard.
I wrinkle my nose at the memory. Serves me right for leaving my gear out overnight.
There’s another sound from the stowaway. More of a sniffle this time, and I freeze, worried she might be sick. There’s another sniffle a second later, followed by a distinct hiccuping sound.
Whoever is hiding under there isn’t ill, they’re crying.
“Hey,” I turn and head back down in two steps, circling to crouch under the small wooden stairs.
It isn’t an easy feat. Folding my six and a half foot frame enough to peer under my own house is an act of human origami.
“Hey,” I say again, softer this time. “Is everything ok? Are you hurt? You can come on out, it’s alright.”
I feel her hesitation more than hear it.
“My name’s Sebastian. Seb.” I try again, offering a hand. “This is my place.”
“Oh god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to trespass—” Despite the strangled mortification in her voice, I’m pleasantly surprised by the sweetness of the southern accent. Something about it sneaks beneath my defenses, takes hold of me even before I’ve so much as gotten a look at her face.
Maybe it’s just a holdover from the 24 weeks I spent in Elizabeth City at Rescue School, but this is easily the cutest sounding hobo I’ve ever heard.
There’s a moment of silence, followed by the sound of sand being shifted around. She finally crawls out and pulls herself up to her feet in front of me.
If the sound of her voice caught me off guard, the rest of her nearly knocks me on my ass in the cool sand at my feet. My heart slams in my chest at the sight in front of me.
Early morning sun is sifting through the slats on my porch, casting a halo of light around the copper ringlets framing her face and shoulders. Even rimmed red and swollen with tears, her eyes are a brilliant shade of green. There’s a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her button nose, and I’m suddenly struck with the insane desire to pull her close and brush my lips across each one individually.
“I really am sorry—” she starts again the second she’s on her feet.
She’s covered in a fine dusting of sand. It falls from her like icing sugar as she
stands, sprinkling from her hair and settling along the scoop of her tank top. I make an effort not to stare as she straightens, but fail miserably.
“Hey, don’t apologize.” I cut her off instead. “Are you alright?”
She nods, tears threatening to spill back down her cheeks in a way that says she is totally not alright.
Her full bottom lip is quivering, and it takes everything in me not to scoop this complete stranger in my arms and carry her inside. The sight of her tears is breaking my heart. The sight of her generous curves and the swell of her breasts packed into that tank top is having the complete opposite reaction on my cock.
“Do you have someplace to go? The city is on lockdown. Nobody is supposed to be out, right—”
“No!” I’m startled by the sudden bite of venom in her reply. “I don’t have a place to go. I can’t go back to school, the fucking airport’s closed. I can’t find a hotel, because there aren’t any. I don’t have my clothes, because they’re with Laura and the rest of my so-called friends—”
The way she suddenly runs out of steam and looks up at me in abject horror says her frustration clearly isn’t aimed at me. She seems embarrassed all over again.
I have no idea who this fiery redhead is, but I clearly owe Lauren a thank you card for dropping her into my life.
And a piece of my mind for abandoning someone in the middle of a national crisis.
A bright pink blush creeps under her pale skin and makes my cock throb in my wetsuit all over again.
“Well, the movie got one thing wrong.” I grin down at my mystery woman. “You definitely did not wash up mute.”
It takes her a second. I see the moment she makes the connection, though, and the way it lights up behind her sparkling green gaze.
She makes a point of rolling her eyes as dramatically as possible. It’s adorable. I’ll take it over seeing her cry any time.
“Ha ha. You’re totally the first person in my life to make a Little Mermaid joke.” The way she crosses her arms at the chest does wonderful things for her tits.
“So,” I pause, waiting for her to look back at me. “This isn’t the first time you’ve washed up on a beach like a piece of driftwood?”
This time she laughs and the sound is more musical than any song in my entire surf rock collection.
“No,” she shakes her head, bright auburn curls and a fine dusting of sand flying. Then, at my raised eyebrow, she laughs again with a flustered wave of her hand. “I mean yes. I mean— I’m Aster.”
“Hi, Aster,” I decide to let her off the hook, no matter how gorgeous her heart-shaped face looks blushing the same shade of deep red as her hair.
My hand makes its way to the small of her back, guiding her to the steps. It fits perfectly, snugged in just above the luscious swell of her ass. There’s a hum of electricity where our skin is separated by nothing but the thin material of her top.
“Come on,” I ease her towards the door. “Let’s get you inside. I’ll make you some coffee and you can tell me all about what you did to get those legs.”
2
Aster
… And the southern girls with the way they talk, they knock me out when I’m down there. — The Beach Boys, California Girls
I’m wearing the wrong underwear for the apocalypse.
I mean they were totally the wrong underwear for sleeping on the beach under some dude’s porch last night, too. Come to think of it, now that I’ve tried a pair for a full twenty-four hours, I can’t think of a single circumstance where a thong is the right underwear.
What kind of day could possibly be made better by a sequined string shoved up my butt?
“Do you have anything with you?”
Then again, my opinion on sexy underwear might be about to change forever.
Sebastian’s hand is warm, intimate against the curve of my back in a way that I’m not used to as he leads us up the small set of wooden stairs.
I do my best to focus on the sand, the sunrise, the stretch of endless water in front of me. Anything but the beautiful stranger leading me up into his home and the completely alien circumstances I’ve managed to find myself in.
Seb is easily the most striking man I’ve ever laid eyes on in my life.
His inky black hair somehow looks perfect, even plastered to his head and dripping with ocean water. I’ve never seen eyes that shade of blue, either. It makes me wonder if they simply soak up the ocean and California sky and then reflect them back out at the world. Even the shadow of stubble that dusts his cheeks and chin this early in the morning looks like it belongs there.
Eyes aren’t the only thing I’d like to lay on that.
Jeez. Apparently, all it takes is one teeny tiny world-wide quarantine, being abandoned in a strange place, and being rescued by buff, tan Keanu Reeves in a wetsuit to thrust my libido into overdrive.
Who would have known?
“Not anymore,” I shake my head at Sebastian as we round the planks of his sun and sea-water bleached porch. A small glider sits in the corner, overlooking the water.
I watch as he rests the surfboard against the side of the house.
I can’t believe it was just a few hours ago that I saw the ocean for the first time in my life. The lump in my throat threatens to return; a lifetime of fears and insecurities trying to claw their way back up from the pit of my stomach.
“I had a bag with me, but I think it’s somewhere in the back of my friend’s rental car.” I hate how pathetic it sounds.
There are girls who get stranded on spring break during the middle of a pandemic scare.
I am not one of those girls.
“Doesn’t sound like much of a friend if you ask me.” Sebastian’s black eyebrows knit together.
He’s right, of course. It only annoys me more. I knew better, damn it.
Knew better than to leave campus, much less come on this trip in the first place. Somehow, though, I really thought—
I open my mouth to explain but close it again when the sting of tears prickles the back of my eyes. Despite having spent the night on the beach and finding myself penniless and homeless for the foreseeable future, crying in front of the most handsome stranger I’ve ever met is just one step too far.
I can’t do it. Pride is literally the only thing I have left right now.
Seb seems to understand. He doesn’t push things, doesn’t even ask another question.
“Come on in, mer-girl.” He grins and slides the door open all the way.
The contrasting light frames him in the doorway, highlighting the way the wetsuit clings to every sculpted inch of him.
There are a lot of inches.
I duck my head and follow him inside before my face gets any redder. The last thing I need is for my knight in shining neoprene to think I’m burning up from a fever and toss me back out on my ass.
I don’t have the virus, I’m just hot for you!
Sure, I can see that explanation going over real well.
Then again, he’s inviting me into his place without knowing a single thing about me. During a lockdown. Maybe I’m the one who should be worried about Prince Charming on a surfboard.
Ted Bundy was supposed to be hot too, right?
“You hungry, Aster?”
His deep voice cuts through my wandering thoughts.
Yeah, but not for breakfast...
Sebastian makes his way towards what I assume is his bedroom and I take a look around.
It doesn’t take me very long to make a complete inventory of the small, tidy bungalow. A deep tan couch and small bamboo console table take up most of the main living space. No television, just a record table and an extensive album collection lining the wall. There are books and picture frames dotting the shelves among the vintage album sleeves.
I’m immediately struck with an overwhelming urge to cross the tiny room and inspect everything. Years of having proper southern manners beaten into me keep me pinned in place.
“I made it to the stor
e yesterday, so I’m all stocked up on fresh juice and organic dried fruit.” I try not to focus on the fact that Sebastian didn’t close the bedroom door as his voice floats out.
“Thanks,” I manage to croak out through suddenly dry lips. “It’s really sweet of you to invite me in while I figure out what to do.”
It takes real work to not think about him peeling that slick wetsuit off his chiseled body. What do surfers wear under there, anyway? I have a quick, brutal fantasy involving Seb revealing his tan, toned flesh to me one beautiful inch at a time as I sit in his porch swing.
Across from the living room, three plush barstools are sidled up to the island that clearly doubles as both prep area and dining table. The kitchen is cozy and well-stocked. Sunlight streams in from everywhere, the sound of the surf outside a soothing melody.
“Don’t mention it. We’ll get you all sorted out. You’re in luck— I managed to grab the last bag of chia seeds and some quinoa.”
I’m so busy concentrating on not thinking about a wet, naked Seb beneath that slick wetsuit that it takes a bit for his words to fully penetrate my mind.
“Wait,” My head pops up from the shelf of vintage Beach Boys albums I’m inspecting. “Did you say chia seeds? As in ch-ch-ch-chia pets?”
Welp. Looks like he’s a sociopath after all.
“Yep.” Sebastian emerges from his bedroom wearing nothing but a pair of brightly patterned board shorts and a smile so beautiful it hurts to look at.
The definition in his chest and arms is sculpture in motion. The smooth plane of his stomach is mouth-watering. And as much as I want to will my gaze to stay at a respectable level, I can’t help but look at the easy way the shorts rest on the jut of his strong hip bones when he walks.
