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Reaching around her, Luke held the soap just under the band of her bikini top and leaned in close. “You can get your front, yeah?” She squeaked out an affirmation which had him chuckling. “Andy?”
“Hmm?”
“There’s pure peppermint oil in the soap. Don’t rub anything too sensitive with it.” He leaned in even closer, smoothing a soapy length of hair away from her ear. “Not unless you enjoy the burn. Got it?”
“Yeah,” she breathed. “I got it.”
Minutes later, Andy emerged from the bathroom dressed in a stretchy white shop tank and another pair of cargo shorts. Navy this time, and not entirely hideous.
Actually, the look was pretty damn cute on her. Especially with her freshly-washed hair pulled up in a bun and damp tendrils curling about the exposed nape of her neck.
From the kitchen island where he was dicing up veggies, Luke watched her make a slow circuit of his living room, occasionally stopping to check out a photo or book tucked into one of the recessed media shelves on the wall opposite his kitchen. He had a decent-sized TV there as well — not that he watched it much — and a scattering of succulents that seemed to be thriving without much help from him.
Rounding the corner, Andy slowed to admire Luke’s board collection. Just to the left of the entryway was a floor-standing rack that was missing a couple sticks at the moment.
Yeah, the foam board Andy was using wasn’t actually a loaner from the shop. It was from his personal collection. It was also the same board his mother had taught him on when he was little.
If Andy noticed the picture of him lying on the thing — all thin, gangly limbs and intense I’m-gonna-be-the-next-Kelly-Slater-one-day expression — she might put two and two together.
Glancing upward, Andy spotted it. Hard to miss since it was one of only two framed wall hangings in the room. Grinning, she stepped closer. Then her smile slipped as she did the math. Her gaze swung across the room to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the balcony.
“Shit, I left it at the beach. We should go get it.”
“It’s fine,” Luke said, tossing fresh jalapeño and bell pepper into a pan warming on the stove. “Kyle will bring the boards up in a bit.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He turned back around to see her focus had settled on the other wall hanging in the room: a framed poster that hung just outside his bedroom of a popular surf spot in Maui.
Luke couldn’t see it from his vantage in the kitchen, but he knew the vibrant color of the ocean in the photo was the same teal hue as his sofa, and the long tubular wave in the shot was underlined by one of his favorite surfing quotes.
“Waves are toys from god,” Andy murmured. “Clay Marzo. Wow. Who is he? I’ve never heard of him.”
“Marzo’s a pro surfer from Dylan’s hometown of Lahaina. Total badass on a board.”
“He sounds very wise.”
“Never met him, but I hear he’s a pretty interesting guy.”
“Interesting?”
“Yeah,” Luke said as he washed his hands, “he was diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome at some point while on the pro circuit.” Luke slipped into the living room with a kitchen towel to see Andy staring at the poster intently.
Her gaze flickered to him, then right back to the wall. “That must have been prior to 2013. The diagnosis was retired then and folded into the umbrella term of Autism Spectrum Disorder.”
He cocked his head at her.
“At least, that’s what I read,” she mumbled.
He smiled. This woman and her books. “Come on, you can help me with the quesadillas.”
She followed him back into the kitchen, where he’d lubed an electric griddle with butter and filled ramekins with shredded Monterey Jack, sour cream, and salsa. “How do you like yours?”
“Just cheese please.” She eyeballed a fourth ramekin he was filling with the sautéed peppers. “I don’t enjoy the burn. Not that kind anyway.” Her mouth tipped up in the sauciest little smile. A smile that said she was fucking with him again and enjoying herself doing it.
Luke nodded towards a retro, aqua-blue fridge nestled amidst clean white cabinetry. “Methinks you could do with some cooling off. Why don’t you grab us some drinks?”
She padded over to the fridge and rummaged around for a moment before returning with two bottles of Fruit Punch Gatorade. Cracking the top on one, Luke chugged back half of it. “Ah,” he said appreciatively, “a fine vintage.”
