Riptide of Romance: A Fake Marriage Sports Romance (Pleasure Point Series) Page 2

  I clutched my helmet as though it were a protective shield. My gaze flicked to the hallway as I took in the thick pile carpet, the original artwork, the antique furniture. “Thanks, but no. Where’s the big man?”

  Devin strode toward me, hand outstretched. With his spiky brown hair, intense green eyes and movie star dimples, he was handsome in a GQ kind of way. Even if I did tower over him by eight inches.

  I nodded my head. “Devin.”

  “Come on back, old friend. Lots of catching up to do.”

  I followed him like a goddamn kid called to the principal’s office.

  “Make yourself at home.” I fell into a comfy chair, and he swept his arm in a grand gesture.

  In La Fortuna, success in the freaking business world seemed to be determined by the view. Devin’s corner office held a jaw-dropping vista of the Pacific Ocean, the high priced homes perched on the hilltops a never-ending panorama. “Long way from high school, right old buddy?” I wanted to wipe his smirk right off his dimple-faced mug.

  He sat behind his humongous desk and leaned forward, all business. “Surprised to find out I bought the mortgage on your uncles’ shop? Sorry about your uncle, by the way.” My jaw clenched followed by a pounding in my ears. “You’ve got thirty days to come up with fifty thousand or the surf shop is mine.”

  He stood up and like a magician, unveiled an architectural rendering that sat perched on an easel. “Wait until you see my plan.” His pinkie ring twinkled in the morning light as he pointed out his grand scheme using a gold pen as a pointer. “This is where the Whole Foods will go. Where the surf shop is now.” His too loud voice was full of bluster as he pointed to the second level. “State-of-the-art lofts with the latest in architectural design go here.” He winked at me. “Buyers are already lined up. They can’t wait for those farmhouse sinks and concrete countertops.”

  Devin was enjoying my misfortune way too much. Don’t sink to his level. But of course, I did. “When did you become such a slime?”

  He rounded the desk and leaned against the polished wood, trying to give himself the competitive edge. “Justice, Justice. Such foul language. Slime? Is that what you call your oldest friend?” He leaned forward. “I became a slime, as you call it, when I got sick and tired of staying in fleabag motels in Mexico, eating cheap tacos and surfing on some crappy foam board with a hole in it because that’s all I could afford.”

  Electricity practically shot off Devin’s body as he stood up and paced the room. “I wanted more.” He pointed to a fancy framed diploma. “Did you know I went to Stanford? ‘Course you didn’t. You may as well have fallen off the edge of the earth when you left town. Where have you been all these years? Living in a shack as a surf bum?” He laughed. “I have money. Kristin and I stay at the Ritz when we travel. I live in a house on the hill. Long way from that peanut-butter-and-jelly life my mom forced me into.”

  I stood up, my chin high. I wanted to rip his architectural drawing in half and stomp on it with my leather boots. “I don’t give a damn where you went to school. The shop isn’t going anywhere. No way am I letting you take over the Blue Tide.”

  “You haven’t got anything to say about it. Not unless you’ve got fifty-grand.”

  I wanted to swipe my arm across Devin’s desk and clear off all his stupid knick-knacks—the freaking Zen garden with white sand and miniature rake, the Bonsai tree, the neatly lined-up gold pens and pencils. I jabbed a finger in his face. “You’ve got no right.”

  He smiled a patient smile. “I have every right. The shop will be mine, and you can go back to wherever the hell you came from.” He eyed my boots. “And get those dirty shoes off my white carpet.”

  “When did you become such a hard ass? And why did you make me come out here if you’re just going to repeat what Lola already told me?”

  “Ah, the lovely Lola. She handles all my foreclosures. Does a damn good job of it too.” He grinned. “And she’s got one hell of a sexy figure.”

  How dare he look at Lola’s body? “Don’t talk about her that way.”

  He ignored me and settled himself at his desk, leaning back and putting his feet up on the polished wood. “She’s the bank’s top collector. I guess being good looking doesn’t hurt things. Right?” He folded his arms. “Fifty-grand, Justice.”

  Where the hell was I going to get that kind of money? I made enough money from In Your Yard, my traveling motorcycle mechanic business, to keep me in surf wax, rent money, and new surfboards. I pressed my lips together. “I’ll get you the money.”

  The delightful aroma of designer perfume wafted into the room as Devin’s wife, Kristin entered. When she saw me, her mouth formed an O. “Justice! When did you get into town?” I smiled at my old high school friend. Kristin looked like she’d just gotten back from exercise class—blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, the latest in designer workout wear hugging her athletic body.

  Kristin had the unfortunate bad luck of falling for Devin’s charms. She was a likable chick whose father was responsible for most of the town’s wealth to the tune of a few billion made from his pharmaceutical company. “Hi, Kristin.” I stood up and held her lily-white hand placing a soft kiss on the knuckles. “It’s an extreme pleasure. Time certainly has made you more beautiful.”

  Her ponytail bounced, and her face turned pink. “Oh, well. I didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting.”

  “No interruption at all. I was just leaving.” I planted my feet wide and pointed at Devin. “But I’ll be back.”

  Devin stared at me, his green eyes ice chips. “Thirty days, Justice.” He squinted his smile hard. “Then the bulldozers show up.”

  Three

  Lola

  I breezed into my bohemian style apartment clutching a bouquet of fresh yellow tulips and smiled. I’d decorated my digs in vibrant purples, yellows, reds, and turquoise. The colors stood out against the gleaming hardwood floor, and the welcoming vibe always lifted my mood.

  “Hey, Dexter.” I set the flowers on the counter and picked up my white kitty. He promptly hissed. “I love you too.” I set him on the sofa before he took his claws to me. The poor kitty didn’t mean to lack a warm personality. He was that way when I rescued him as an adult cat and who knows what he’d suffered?

  I was just setting the flowers in a cobalt vase when the door swung open. My fourteen-year-old next-door neighbor, Bobbie French, skipped in like she owned the place and set her laptop on the rough-hewn wood breakfast bar. “What’ve you got to eat?”

  “Well hello to you too. How was school?”

  She perched on a stool and swung one leg. “Same old boring stuff. You’d think the teachers consider us morons or something.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “Do you know that they made me do trigonometry again?” She crossed her eyes. “I could teach that class in my sleep.”

  She hopped up and inspected the contents of the fridge. “Yum. Brownies. You mind?”

  “Do I have anything to say about it?”

  She smacked the brownie tin down on the counter and cut two squares off, placing them in the microwave. “Nope.”

  Dexter mewed piteously while rubbing against her legs. “This cat is going to claw your eyes out one of these days. Ever heard of stage three dermatitis? No? Well, people die from it. Aren’t cats supposed to purr and junk? Like be sweet and not hiss and scratch?” She let out an uncontrolled laugh. “It was fun that time you and I dyed that purple streak down his spine.” Dexter looked up at Bobbie and let out a loud cry. “I have to admit he is kinda cute though.” She leaned over and pet Dexter. “You win.” She poured a hefty serving of kibble into Dexter’s bowl, and the kitty dug in with gusto.

  The timer dinged on the microwave and Bobbie served up our snack. She nearly moaned at the first bite. “Sheer heaven.”

  I had become a bit of a mentor to Bobbie over the years. I’d started out as her babysitter after she and her aunt had moved to town and now, at age fourteen she practically considered herself my business partner. I
could do worse than the smart-as-a-whip Bobbie when it came to the organizational affairs of my bathing suit business.

  “How are surf lessons going?” I asked. Bobbie loved hanging out at the Blue Tide Surf Shop and had been taking lessons. She really was more suited to working with numbers and computers, but I think she had a crush on some of the cute surfers who frequented the shop. We’d gone surfing together a couple of times, and I had to admire her enthusiasm. Bobbie was short on athletic talent but long on zest.

  “Good. Who’s that new guy at the shop?”

  I poured two glasses of milk, but at the mention of my gorgeously sexy ex-boyfriend my hands shook and I almost dropped my glass in the sink.

  I turned away so she wouldn’t see the heat rise in my cheeks. “Oh, you mean Justice.”

  I pictured Justice’s rugged body. Why did he have to be so damn hot? I took a bite of my snack and forced myself to focus on the heavenly treat instead of Justice’s sculpted abs, his chiseled surfer chest, his luxuriously messy dark hair, the way those blue eyes, the color of the ocean, mesmerized me. His smile was even more devastating than I’d remembered and I had wanted to kiss his full lips and scratch my chin against his five o’clock shadow.

  Damn him. Why couldn’t Justice stay away? All these years and little news. He certainly wasn’t on Facebook, a fact that I knew because I check every month. Stalker anyone?

  I set my glass on the counter and Bobbie jumped up and trailed me toward the window where I pretended to busy myself with the blinds. “You know him?”

  Know him? That would be an understatement. But the truth was I didn’t know him anymore.

  Justice was my first love. When we met in Mr. Dixon’s sixth-grade class, he’d tormented me like crazy. Love taps are what people call it. I’d just moved from Brazil to California, all wide-eyed and full of childlike innocence. Justice had teased me so much that I’d finally begged my papai to teach me the finer points of the punching bag. Justice hadn’t seen it coming when I slugged him with my right hook. We’d been in love ever since.

  Justice was my first kiss. He was the first guy I’d made love to, right there on the beach with a blanket spread out in a secluded spot under a star-studded sky, our teenage hands groping, our lips crushed against each other’s, my first orgasm. We’d been feverish, young, crazy, and inseparable.

  When Justice turned nineteen and told me he wanted to spread his wings, I knew what that meant. My ass was getting dumped. My Latin temper flew way out of control, and I told him to “Get the hell out of my life and go find somebody who’s not on to you.” I told him he was nothing but a grease monkey who thought he knew how to surf. I had a few other choice things to say that I’d rather not remember.

  “Yes, I know him,” I told Bobbie.

  “He’s super hawt! Will you introduce me?”

  I turned away and crossed my arms. “I don’t think he likes me very much anymore.”

  Bobbie pranced around and made me face her. “Why’s your face all red?” I turned my head quickly. “Did you guys date?” She poked me in the ribs. “You did, didn’t you?” I nodded, and she let out a hoot. “Man, that’s sick! If I ever get a boyfriend like that, I’d kiss him.”

  That got the smallest smile out of me. “Yes, we dated. But it didn’t end well.”

  “You’re old, Lola. That had to be like eons ago. Who cares about any of that?” She pushed her glasses up her nose again. Bobbie always did that when she was getting ready to give me a lecture. “You know that nine out of ten relationship therapists say that holding onto resentment is harmful to your health.”

  I suppressed a smile. “Shut up! Old? I’m only twenty-five. What are you doing thinking about guys anyway? Don’t you have trigonometry homework or something?”

  She pulled a face. “Puhleese. What I need is some excitement. And what you need is a hot surfer like that Justice guy.”

  I needed to change the subject and fast. I rubbed my hands together and opened Bobbie’s laptop. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Bobbie maneuvered the trackpad and pulled up my Etsy site. I felt a frisson of excitement every time I saw the vibrant colors that graced the website and still felt giddy when I saw my name in lights. “Brazilian Gypsy – Bikinis by Lola.”

  I clapped my hands together. “I love what you did with the logo.” It depicted the silhouette of a curvy model, her long chocolaty hair spilling to the middle of her back. The caption read: “Be Awesome!”

  Bobbie wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I love this one.” She pointed to a model wearing one of my designs. The model sported a profusion of Wonder Woman style bangle bracelets, one stacked upon another, her fingers held in a peace sign. I’d designed her swimsuit with flower-power fabric reminiscent of the sixties and a few strands of beads falling from the bra top and flowing over her torso. My curvy women swimwear line catered to women who lived in the real world—not the anorexic model types that Hollywood seemed to portray in their gossip magazines.

  I glanced at my trusty sewing machine that sat in the corner of my apartment. I cranked my designs out one at a time, and they sold well on Etsy, but if I wanted to expand, I needed to be able to take advantage of the group of freelance seamstresses I’d found. And that meant I needed money. Money I didn’t have.

  I washed my brownie down with a swig of milk. “I’ve run the numbers. If I can just get around fifty grand, I’d feel good about leaving the bank. I could open the shop I’ve always dreamed of.”

  “What about the Mystic Seaweed deal?”

  Mystic Seaweed was one of the top surfwear companies. They accepted new designers from time to time. “My contact told me to get some designs together.”

  “Totally awesome!” Bobbie beamed and held her glass of milk aloft. “To big bucks.”

  “To winning designs.”

  Bobbie gazed at me from behind her glasses, her eyes looking myopic. She clinked my glass with hers. “To dating that hot new guy at the surf shop.”

  I was saved from a reply when I heard three sharp raps on my door. “Bobbie! Dinner’s ready.” It was Bobbie’s aunt Ginger.

  I opened the door for her. Ginger must’ve been pushing fifty, and I marveled at her fit and toned body. I had ideas for a clothing line, and I squinted my eyes imagining what she’d look like out of the faded jeans and fitted tank top she wore.

  With her bold personality, I visualized Ginger striding down a fashion runway sporting a Boho mini dress, something off the shoulder in deep purple. That would look fantastic with a collection of chunky silver jewelry. It would set off her dark brown tresses perfectly. Especially since she loved to die purple streaks through her luxurious hair.

  Bobbie darted past Ginger and into their apartment across the hall. She let out a squeal. “You made beef stroganoff! My favorite.” She called over her shoulder, “See you tomorrow, Lola.”

  Four

  Justice

  “Are you really planning on going through all those boxes?”

  Papaw leaned over a dusty carton, pulling out some of Uncle Seth’s mementos. “Yep.” He turned around and shrugged. “What else have I got to do with my life?”

  Was it really only a few weeks ago that I’d discovered my beloved uncle had kicked the bucket?

  I’d been out in the boonies, east of San Luis Obispo working on a sweet Honda 650, oblivious to the cares of the world.

  I loved entering the zone when I repaired motorcycles. Dirt under my fingernails, sleeves rolled up, toolbox open, a socket wrench in my hands, the satisfaction of an honest day’s sweat rolling down my back. It was my way of making sense of the world.

  It was broken, now it’s fixed.

  Simple.

  When I’d returned home, my phone finally came back into range with six messages from Papaw. I returned his call.

  “How you doing, son?” When Papaw called me “son”, I knew it wasn’t a good sign. When I’d first heard the news, I thought it was a bad dream. The truth was more like a nightmare. I’
d hopped on my motorcycle, and put her in full throttle all the way from San Luis Obispo down to La Fortuna and here we were.

  Papaw walked to the fridge and pulled out two cold ones. “Nothing left to do but hang out with you.” He handed me a beer. “My favorite grandson.”

  “That’s because I’m your only grandson.”

  “Humor an old man, will you?” He settled himself onto a sagging couch in Uncle Seth’s man cave.

  My uncle had outfitted the area behind the surf shop into the ultimate mechanic’s dream: Motorcycle posters, girlie calendars, fridge, sofa, work tables where he spread out his tools, and several large, red Snap-on rollaway toolboxes that held a treasure trove. I closed my eyes and could feel the sweet wrenches, pliers, and screwdrivers in my hands.

  I sat next to Papaw, and we clinked bottles, taking long, satisfying swigs. I glanced around the man cave where I’d spent so much of my youth and my throat caught. The sweetest part of my childhood had been my love for Lola. And now everything had changed for the worse. Tears pricked the back of my eyes, and I missed Uncle Seth all over again.

  Papaw set his bottle against jean-clad legs and regarded me. “You really thought you could stay away, didn’t you?”

  I looked down at the floor. “Guess I did.” I took another long pull off my beer and felt my legs go wobbly. I gave him a half smile.

  “You never were one to sit still. But this town ain’t half bad. Your roots are here.”

  “I wanted my own life,” I said defensively.

  “You mean like your dad? He couldn’t get out of here fast enough, and I never hear from the man. Couldn’t even be bothered to come to his own brother’s memorial.” He sighed heavily and tears filled his eyes. “I’m sorry, kid. It hurts like hell.” He drained the bottle in one long swig and slammed it down on the wooden crate that served as a coffee table. “I’m getting another. Want one?”