Chapter Two

Spencer Willoughby wasn’t sure exactly what had just hit him, figuratively-speaking. He knew for sure what had quite literally hit his board and his car—a beat-up, piece of shit vehicle driven by a whacked-out woman who somehow managed to make him feel badly that she’d trashed his Petie. Petie was his term of endearment for the beloved surfboard he crafted lovingly from his own two hands, the very board he’d ridden twice daily for the past three years.

For a second he tucked away his outrage to try to digest what had just transpired. Sheesh, that was the weirdest thing he’d experienced in a long while. Crazy lady surfboard killer cries and makes him feel bad. What the ever-loving hell?

He kept looking at Petie, his hands caressing the smooth edges, his eyes not wanting to make contact with the harshly-fractured scene of the crime that only drove home to him the board’s premature demise.

He felt like crying. His plans for the afternoon had been so simple: all he’d wanted to do was take in a couple of nice waves at sunset on a glorious Indian summer kind of day, have a couple of beers, and call it a night. But now, shit, now not only could he not surf today, he couldn’t surf on the very board it had taken him months to make. That sucked massively.

The good news is he was nearly finished with one he’d started working on a while ago, although it was originally intended to be a gift for his kid brother Nate for Christmas. He knew, deep down, it would be kind of dickish of him to keep it for himself. But then again, it’s not like his brother would use it in late December. Oh, hell, who was he kidding? Even Spencer would use it in late December. That’s why God invented wetsuits, right?

His mind kept going back to the crazy lady who was bawling in front of him just minutes ago. How weird was that? He was the one with the dead board yet there he was left comforting her as if in her hour of need. He scratched his head, wondering how that turn of events came about.

And also he wondered why he kept thinking about those aquamarine eyes of hers, which reminded him of tropical tide pools when they filled with tears like they had. Something about those eyes just pulled him in, despite his anger. Or maybe it was just that smoking rack she was sporting. She wasn’t a small girl by any stretch, and her luscious breasts complimented her size quite nicely, two perfectly-sized globes tucked into that hot pink tank so perfectly. Here he was so pissed at that strange woman yet all he could think about was how much he’d love to get his hands on those things.

At least his priorities were straight. He laughed.

Meanwhile the amount of the check she gave him was pretty insignificant. It wasn’t going to cover the cost of replacement wood, let alone the time it would take him to craft another board, and certainly not the dent in the back end of his car. Good thing he could get his neighbor Ben to bang out the dent, maybe even do a little quickie paint touch-up. The car was old and beat-up anyhow, so that wasn’t his primary concern. It was simply how the hell was he going to surf until he finished his next board? He’d gotten spoiled with his baby. Now he was going to have to go back to one of his old store-bought surfboards, which was a bummer. Ah well, he was nothing if not flexible. He was going to just have to deal with it.

He pulled the woman’s check out of his pocket and read it, realizing he hadn’t even learned her damned name. He squinted at the small print till he saw it: Georgia Childress. Huh. She sort of looked like a Georgia. Tall and strong, built like she knew how to take care of her body. He liked a woman like that. He stared at her phone number, wondering if maybe he should write that down, just in case. It was weird, her giving him a check. Who even writes checks in this day and age? She could’ve just Venmo’d him the money.

He pulled out his phone and snapped a quick picture of the check, phone number and all. That way if anything came up he’d know how to get hold of her. Although right now the only thing that seemed like it was coming up was becoming a bit too obvious pressing up against the crotch of his wetsuit. Seriously, just thinking about her tits had done this to him? What guy gets his board killed, his car dented, and can only think about how he might be able to get into the pants of the perpetrator? He laughed. Scratch that—plenty of men.

He dragged his hand over the day-old (ish) beard on his chin and shook his head. He knew he had to put those thoughts out of his mind immediately. He didn’t come here to get involved with a woman, ditzy or not. He came here to get away from responsibility in all forms, and, well, crap, usually hopping on his surfboard served to clear his mind from such emotional pollutants. Looked like today he was just going to have to pretend this never happened, because that seemed the easiest way to purge the hot blond surfboard killer from his besotted mind.

He took one more look at his broken board.

Good luck with that, he thought, shaking his head. Why did he have the nagging feeling she was going to be harder to cleanse from his thoughts than the others were?

Falling for Mr. Maybe

coming January 9, 2018.

Available now for pre-order!

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