Beach House Reunion (Beach House #5)(46)

She scratched her head lazily, waking up more. “Do I have time to make some coffee?”

“Nope. We need to catch the waves.” He paused and took a moment to really look at her, from head to toe, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “You look like a little girl, all scruffy and no makeup.”

That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. She felt a bit embarrassed. “I didn’t have time to primp.”

“I like it,” he said. “You look like Gidget. You’re probably too young to know that movie.”

Linnea smiled, delighted at the analogy. “I’ve always loved that movie. I’m kinda shocked you know it.”

“My mom . . .” he said with a slanted smile. “I liked the surf scenes.”

“I don’t remember how I first watched it. I was probably just trolling channels on a lazy summer day, but I fell in love with the movie. I wanted to be Gidget. She wasn’t trying to catch a boy. She wanted to learn how to surf and be accepted as one of the gang.”

“Well, Gidget, you’re going to learn now. Let’s go.”

“Wait! My beach bag. I need to get a towel and suntan lotion.”

“I’ve got lots. Hop in.”

He seemed determined to get to the waves, and who was she to argue? She hurried to the passenger side of the truck and climbed in. The inside was as well-worn as the outside. The seats were torn, and the floor was coated with a thick layer of sand. He tossed her a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” she said, twisting the cap. She was quiet as they drove north along Palm Boulevard. In the shadowy light, she admired John’s strong, straight nose, high cheekbones, and pale reddish-brown lashes. He didn’t have his mother’s wide mouth. His lips were actually rather thin and surrounded this morning by dark auburn stubble that she found sexy. Seeing his bed head, she didn’t feel badly for not brushing her hair. She smiled and looked out the windshield. And why bother? They were going to get wet in a few minutes anyway.

There wasn’t much traffic on Palm until they made the S curve. Traffic slowed as a line of cars with surfboards strapped to their roofs searched for parking spots on the green grass that lined the road. It seemed everyone knew one another. Surfers gave one another knowing nods and waves, some stalling traffic to share a few words. No one seemed to mind. She watched, fascinated. She’d had no idea that there would be this many people here. In college, everyone was sleeping in at this hour. There was a whole other world she hadn’t known existed during the dawn song.

John found a spot at Thirty-First Avenue and parallel-parked on the grass with dexterity. Large houses formed a wall between the street and the ocean beyond, blocking the view. She could hear it, though, and was eager to get out.

“All right, li’l lady,” John said, turning off the engine. He met her gaze and smiled encouragingly. “Let’s do this.” Reaching across the seat, he dug into a bag at her feet and pulled out a tube of suntan lotion. He tossed it to her. “Don’t be skimpy.”

Linnea was grateful. Going out on the ocean without high-SPF lotion would’ve been a disaster for her fair skin. John looked in the rearview mirror and applied a thick white cream on his nose, cheekbones, and collarbones. When he was done, he handed her the stick.

“Seriously?” she said, scrunching up her nose. “That looks like war paint.”

“I don’t mess around. The sun’s rays are for real out there.”

Linnea looked at the SPF dubiously. Determined to be a good student, she moved closer to him to look in the rearview. They were touching shoulders, and she was aware he was watching her as she delicately dabbed the white lotion on her nose and cheeks. She screwed the top back on the stick and handed it to him. He studied her face critically.

“May I?”

She nodded.

He leaned close and gently applied a thick stripe of zinc down her nose and along her cheekbones, then playfully dabbed at her chin. When he tucked his finger in the collar of her shirt, he paused to look into her eyes, checking if it was okay for him to proceed. She felt the air thicken between them and nodded.

John gently stroked a line of lotion on one collarbone, then the other. Even though it was an innocent, straightforward gesture, it felt enormously intimate. Linnea felt her neurons inflame as the roller moved along her skin. Finished, he looked again into her eyes, so close she could feel his breath on her lips. She saw desire swimming in those pools of green and knew her own eyes reflected that emotion.

“That’s better,” he said, releasing her shirt and leaning back.

She breathed again in the cooler air.

John tossed the lotion into the bag and said, “Would you mind taking that?”

She was happy to have a job to do.

They got out of the truck, and John tucked the keys under the front driver’s-side tire. Around them other cars were jostling for spots while still others whizzed by. She heard car doors slam and greetings shouted as men and women, all carrying surfboards, headed to the beach. John knew the routine. He moved swiftly and efficiently, removing the straps from the boards and carrying each one from the bed of the truck to the grass.

“Where’s the bag?” he called, arm extended.

Linnea hurried over with it. He reached in and pulled out what looked like a bar of white soap.

“First lesson,” he said, holding up the bar. “This is surf wax. And these,” he said, dropping to his knees, “are called longboards.”