Tidal (8 page)

A flicker of disappointment passed

over his face but it disappeared almost

immediately. He sighed and scratched his

head before sweeping his hand out at the

ocean. “You’re going to get hurt,” he said.

“A lot. Hell, you’ll probably be black and

blue by the time the rest of the cast gets

here.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I

replied dryly as he squatted down and

repositioned our boards a few feet apart

in the sand.

He winked up at me, and I told myself

it was because the breeze chose that exact

moment to send strands of golden hair into

his eyes and not because he was being a

sarcastic asshole.

“I’m not being a dick, Wills.” He

patted the purple and white board and

motioned his head from me down to it. I

ran my tongue along the inside of my

cheek, jabbing the tender flesh hard, to

keep from telling him to fuck off. When he

cocked an eyebrow, I sighed deeply and

kneeled beside of him, in front of my

board.

“Don’t tell me we’re going to

meditate.”

“Remember what I said about people

in the film industry?” he asked.

“You hate them?”

He looked down at his turquoise and

red board for a few moments, frowning

like he was trying to make up his mind

about something. “Don’t fuck with me or

I’ll drown you,” he finally muttered. He

was grinning when he said it.

I clenched my fingers into the sand,

grabbing up two big handfuls.

“We’re starting with some basics,” he

replied, his blue eyes gazing at me fixedly.

“No going out for you today.”

“What type of basics?” I released the

sand from my fingers and dusted my palms

together.

“For some reason I feel like you

wanted to throw that in my eyes,” he

teased. I wrinkled my nose at him. “Lie

down on your board, on your stomach.”

Reluctantly, I stretched out on the

smooth surface, so that my face was an

inch from the retro looking Channel

Islands logo. Tossing my long hair over

my shoulder, I looked up at him in time to

catch his eyes raking over my body. Jesus,

this guy wasn’t the least bit concerned

about being obvious, was he?

“Maybe I should have brought my

bodyguard,” I snapped.

He shuffled over to me, repositioning

me so that my body was completely

centered on the board. As he worked, he

said, “If we went to bed together it

wouldn’t be on the beach. Though I plan

on seeing you in that exact position, fully

unclothed.”

I scoffed, twisting my neck to follow

his movements as he crawled around me

to examine my form. “Confident, are

you?”

He paused. “It was a hypothetical

statement, but as a matter of fact, I am.”

“Are you this hypothetical about all

the girls you train?” I asked.

He lifted one of my feet, spending

entirely too long touching his fingertips to

its arch, before he placed it down against

the end of the board. “Put your other foot

just like that,” he ordered. I complied, and

he added, “And no, I’m not like this with

all the girls I train because I don’t get

involved with my clients. At least, I

haven’t yet.”

Why did that sound so hot coming

from him in
that
accent?

“And what makes me different?”

He came around to face me, to study

me a little more. I felt totally exposed

lying there facedown, and I placed my

head between the diamond-shape made by

my outstretched arms. “Who said you

were?” he asked finally.

I didn’t immediately lift my head back

up because I didn’t want him to see the

flush that spread across my face.

For the next two hours, we worked on

Cooper’s basics: popping up on the

surfboard and form. After the eightieth

time of doing it—the point where I felt

like my legs and arms were going to fall

off from pushing myself up and standing in

a lunge-like position in the middle of the

surfboard—he looked pleased.

“Did you just fist pump?” I groaned

irritably as I turned over onto my back in

the sand. I gave the purple board a glare. I

didn’t want to see the damn thing for at

least a day or two—that’s how badly my

muscles already ached.

Smiling, he said, “Proud of you, Wills.

You’re getting there.”

I rolled my eyes as he began dusting

the sand off both our surfboards. “I didn’t

do anything,” I pointed out, hoisting

myself up on my elbows so our eyes could

meet.

“Sure you did. You didn’t flounce, did

you?”

At least his standards for giving me

praise were low.

He held my board out to me. I

grumbled, got up, grabbing my shorts and

tank top, and took the surfboard with both

hands. “Here, carry it on top of your head,

like this.” He flipped his own upside

down, and centered it on his head.

“Why?”

He released a loud breath. “Because,

you want to look like you know what

you’re doing when the time comes. And

it’s not like we’ve been given a lot of time

to train.”

He was right, and I felt my stomach

twist at the thought. In less than two weeks

I’d be filming a movie. A fucking surfing

movie that already had a devout fan

following.

I shuddered and then balanced my

board on my head.

“God, this thing is heavy,” I said, as

we slogged through the sand in the

direction of his house or business or

whatever the hell he wanted to call it.

“And by the way, you carried them out

here in your hands before.”

He shot me a cocky grin. “Yeah, you

can do it either way.” When we stepped

onto the deck, he sat his board on a

wooden bench and lifted mine easily from

atop my head.

“So why not do it the other way?”

“Because you’re flustered.”

Less inhuman and much more

beautiful.

Remembering the words he spoke to

me in LAX caused the pit of my stomach

to tighten but I ignored the feeling. “If only

I could fire your ass,” I said.

He moved so close to me his tanned

chest touched mine. “You can’t.” Then he

lifted a strand of my hair, sliding it back

and forth between his fingertips. “And you

don’t want to.”

The sound of the deck door swinging

open sent him pulling me to him

protectively, and I instinctively lifted my

hands to cover my face from the flash I

was sure would follow.

Even here, the cameras could find me.

“God, you’d think I had a gun!” a deep

female voice laughed.

“Paige,” Cooper warned through

clenched teeth. He stepped aside to reveal

a pint-sized woman with tattooed arms,

short, black hair and hazel eyes that

seemed to pop thanks to jet black eyeliner.

She lifted her eyebrows at Cooper and

tapped her foot impatiently. He let out a

groan and added, “Wills, this is Paige.

She’s an instructor here.”

Paige. The friend whose parents

owned my rental house.

“I’m Eric’s girlfriend,” she said,

grinning.

The Coppertone guy who’d admitted

to masturbating to me a few hours ago.

Awkward.

“I’m Willow.”

“She knows,” Cooper said at the exact

same time Paige said “Nice to meet you.”

Shooting him a glare, she told me, “I

made breakfast.”

“I’ve got to get back to my rental to

study my script.” It was partially the truth.

There was only so much a line prompter

could do for me. And of course I wanted

to get away from Cooper because I was

sure being around him much longer would

pull apart my sanity until there was

nothing but a handful of frayed thread

remaining.

“Oh come on, you can spare an hour,

right?” Paige asked. When I shook my

head, she walked across the wooden deck

and grabbed my hand. I flinched, but she

didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve been dying to

meet you, Avery, and I made pancakes.”

Don’t get me wrong, Paige seemed

nice enough—she was smiling at me

hopefully and from somewhere inside the

house, Eric yelled teasingly “Tell her I’ll

come naked.” But when I looked over at

Cooper and saw how annoyed he looked, I

pulled my hand out of her grasp.

“I think I’ll just pass today.”

She frowned but nodded her head

understandingly. “Next time, then?”

“Definitely,” I said.

The ride back to my rental house was

filled with an uncomfortable silence that

made me wish the Jeep’s floorboard

would open up and swallow me or at least

spit me out onto the asphalt. When Cooper

pulled onto my street, I was thankful to see

the moving truck with my personal

belongings parked in the driveway. Miller

was directing the guys handling my stuff,

and when Cooper drove his Jeep into the

driveway, he gave us a little nod of his

head and a sideways smile.

I was already trying to jump out the

Jeep before Cooper put it into park.

“Wait,” he ordered, and I froze with

my fingers wrapped around the door

handle.

“What?” My tone was clipped.

He took a deep breath and I waited for

a Hollywood-esque apology. For him to

ask me to breakfast or make another wise-

ass, blatant attempt to get into my shorts.

When he spoke a moment later, I didn’t get

either of those. “I’m giving a lesson first

thing tomorrow, so have your bodyguard

drop you off at my place at nine.”

I turned my head to smirk at him.

“Why don’t you just come to me and we

practice popping up and down on a

surfboard on my front lawn?”

He gave me a slow, lazy grin that

managed to dig its way under my skin and

rub me raw. “I like you much better in my

element, Wills.”

Of course he did. I stumbled out the

Jeep, slammed the door behind me, and

stalked into the house without as much as

a backward glance. The whole time, I felt

his laughing blue eyes following me.

***

my mother kept her word about getting in

touch with me. Miller and I were in the

middle of going through boxes that had

been delivered (and a lot of them were

full of clothes that were too small or too

big from my fluctuating weight) when my

cell phone rang a few hours later.

“It’s my mom and dad,” I said, looking

down at the screen as the word
PARENTS

scrolled across it in neon green lettering. I

sank down on the edge of the couch.

Miller pushed himself up to his feet

and started toward the front door. “Want

to text me when you need me again?” he

asked, glancing back.

I hesitated. Helping me sort through

my belongings wasn’t a part of Miller’s

job description. I knew that he was only

doing it to be nice because he felt sorry

for me for being alone, but dammit if I

didn’t want to keep him with me for the

conversation. The phone vibrated on the

coffee table, and I felt my ears start to

burn from the sound and from the potential

humiliation.

This was day four of being out of

rehab and my first call from my family.

God only knew when or if any of my

friends would ever call.

“Willow?” Miller asked.

“I should be okay,” I said. “I’ve got to

study my lines and watch the original

version of the film.” It was a gift from

Dickson, my producer, which had come in

the mail this afternoon along with a note

saying how happy he was to be working

with me again.

“I’m going to go work out. You call

me if you change your mind?”

“Will do,” I said quickly. The moment

the screen door shut and Miller

disappeared from sight I answered the

phone, tucking it in the spot between my

ear and shoulder. “Mom?” I asked.

“You sound so good, honey!” she

immediately gushed.

“It’s good to hear you too.”

“Have you been doing . . . well?” she

asked tentatively.

Translation: Are you popping a

rainbow variety of pills yet? I grabbed a

box of shoes from the other end of the

sofa, crushing the cardboard between my

hands as I carried it to my bedroom at the

back of the house.

“No,” I said, and then shook my head

furiously. “I mean yes. I’m doing great.

Rehab worked wonders and I feel great.”

Except for every now and then, when

I catch myself wanting to reduce every

sense in my body to nothing
, I silently

added.

“How’s Hawaii? Do you love it? Are

you taking lots of pictures?”

I thought of Cooper and the frustrating

insta-lust I felt toward him and threw the