Chapter Two

Spencer Willoughby wasn’t sure exactly what 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 bad that she’d trashed his Petie. Petie was his term of endearment for the cherished surfboard he’d crafted lovingly from his own two hands, the 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 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 the board’s premature demise.

He wanted to cry. His plans for the afternoon had been so simple: all he’d wanted to do was take in a few nice waves at sunset on a glorious Indian summer 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.

There was one good piece of news: he was nearly finished with one he’d started working on awhile ago, although it was originally intended as a gift for his kid brother Nate for Christmas. He knew, deep down, it would be 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 wet suits, right?

His mind kept going back to the crazy lady who was bawling in front of him only 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.

Also, he wondered why he kept thinking about those aquamarine eyes of hers. When they’d filled with tears, they reminded him of tropical tide pools, and something about them pulled him in, despite his anger. Or maybe it was that smoking rack she was sporting. She wasn’t a small girl by any stretch, and her luscious breasts complemented her size quite well—the two perfectly sized globes tucked into that hot pink tank looked so right. Here he was 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 at that thought.

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 buddy Ben Montgomery 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’d simply have to deal with it.

He pulled the woman’s check out of his hip pocket and read it, realizing he hadn’t even learned her damn name. He squinted at the small print till he saw it: Georgia Childress. Huh. She 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 wrote checks in this day and age? She could’ve Venmo’d him the money.

He grabbed his phone from the console of his car 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 against the crotch of his wet suit. Seriously, 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—pretty much every guy he knew.

Scrubbing a hand over his day-oldish beard, he shook his head. He had to put those thoughts out of his mind immediately. After all, 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 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?