Page 11 of Whispers on the Water

Chapter six

Greg

I find myself jogging to keep up with Sam as she hurriedly crosses the street and sprints towards the water. A broad grin spreads across my face as I pick up my pace, astonished that I’ve stumbled into her world again. I hadn’t been looking for her, that’s the truth. But to say I hadn’t thought about her every night since our encounter would be a lie. She had accidentally left her panties behind, like some sort of naughty Cinderella who shops at the a lingerie store. Those damn things haunted me more effectively than any ghost could. Lurking. Judging. Teasing. Finally, I threw them out—two guilt-ridden days later.

The vivid recollection of her beneath me, the taste of her skin, and the way her legs encircled me, quivering with pleasure, floods my mind as I adjust the fabric at my crotch, trying to quell my growing arousal. “Knock it off, Greg,” I chuckle to myself. I barely manage to regain some semblance of control just as Sam reaches the water..

She runs for a few moments, splashing through the ankle-deep waves, before launching her board and jumping atop it with effortless elegance. I’m in awe, watching her arms slice through the water, propelling her forward to meet the oncoming wave. She belongs here, in the embrace of the ocean, more than anyone I’ve ever seen.

I shake off my daze and follow her lead. My cover story for the job I’ve been assigned is that I’m a temporary ex-pat trying to find myself after a messy divorce, which is not exactly that far from the truth. But the minute I saw her again, I knew it wouldn’t do. Impressing Sam is all that’s on my mind. The act feels unnecessary now; my attention is wholly captured by her. My past accolades as the high school surf team captain seem irrelevant in this moment, except for giving me the skills to keep up with her.

Sam is already angling for her first wave by the time I get through the break. The water is warm today, it’s always warm in Costa Rica. But still, the mist blowing off the whitewash is refreshing. The tingle of salty air, cool breeze, and beautiful scenary is all perfect. Jungle trees line the the beach, just beyond the sand. But I could give two shits about all that. Instead, I watch from the side as she effortlessly pops to her feet, dancing her way to the nose of the board before playfully hanging her toes off the edge. I whoop out a cheer that’s probably louder than typical decorum allows. But watching her conquer that wave like it owes her money, fuck it’s hot.

Catching up to her after her impressive display, I sing my praises. “Damn girl!”

She shrugs, tucking wet hair behind her ear. “Lucky wave.” Her modest response does little to hide the spark of joy in her eyes. It’s clear she enjoys the compliment, a detail I tuck away for future reference.

As we sit on our boards, bobbing gently on the swells, I try to find the courage to strike up a real conversation. But before I can ask anything, she’s turning her board toward me. “You’ve done this before?” she asks.

“Yeah, been trying to get back into it after a decade-long break. It’s less of a midlife crisis than buying a sports car, right?” She scrunches up her shoulders with a noncommittal answer. We both know I’m not in a midlife crisis. I fucking rock a surfboard. “Anyway, I’ve been going out with different teachers. They all suck. But someone recommended you guys. Said as long as I don’t hit on you, I’ll get the best lesson of my life.”

Sam’s laughter rings out, and in that moment, I’m convinced there’s no better sound in the universe. “I guess word gets around. But that’s Tilly. She’s a much better teacher. I always end up showing off,” she says. My gaze drifts to her legs, idly kicking in the water, and memories of how those same legs wrapped around me, pulling me closer, flash through my mind. “Erm yeah,” I stammer, momentarily losing the thread of our conversation.

Her scrutinizing look cuts through me, and then, out of nowhere, she splashes water my way. “Stop that. It’s not subtle,” she accuses with a playful smirk.

“Stop what?” I feign ignorance, even as my heart races.

“Picturing me naked,” she retorts, her voice laced with a sultry tease. I let out a loud, exaggerated raspberry. “Oh, I forgot all about that,” I lie, barely keeping a straight face.

“Liar,” she shoots back, the tone of her voice dancing between teasing and tempting. Our eyes lock, and I’m hoping—no, I’m certain—she’s reminiscing about our night just as much as I am. There’s a spark in her gaze that tells me everything I need to know.

A perfect wave approaches, but neither of us makes a move for it. We let it pass beneath our boards, an unspoken agreement keeping us together just a moment longer.

“So…” I try to shift the conversation, my feet idly kicking to maintain balance. “You go to that club often?”

She shakes her head, a hint of embarrassment coloring her features. “No. I’m not big on bars. Too many people and too chaotic most of the time.” Her expression shifts, hinting at a tinge of regret. Did she not enjoy our time together as much as I did?

“You’re telling me, that was one of those, ‘she never goes out but when she does, watch out’ things?”

She shrugs noncommittally and starts to pivot her board, but as she passes, she reaches out, her fingers brushing against my board, guiding me into the path of a forming wave. Lying flat on my belly, we paddle in sync, the anticipation building as the wave lifts us. With a final push, I pop to my feet, the board responding instantly under me. But just as I get moving, the board gets a mind of its own and lists hard right. With a small adjustment, I regain my balance and slice a path through the water, the thrill of the ride electrifying.

Sam, still ahead, glides along the wave, her movements fluid and confident, her copper hair streaming behind her like a fiery comet. I’m struck by the sheer beauty of her form against the ocean, a vision that momentarily distracts me from my real purpose here.

But then reality snaps back. I’m not here to admire surf instructors or relive passionate encounters. I’m on a mission, one that involves searching for a suspect, not getting lost in the allure of a woman who’s already left an indelible mark on my time in Costa Rica.

And if I’m being totally honest with myself, I have noticed how Sam matches some of the descriptions. She’s about the right height, though a bit fuller. But you’d expect someone to change from 19 to 27. Her hair color is lighter, but that’s easy to fix with a box dye or even being in the sun a lot. The real discrepancy is the nose. The woman I’m looking for has a distinct narrow nose with a noticeable bump from a break. Yet, it’s entirely plausible she’s had some work done, especially here in Costa Rica, where plastic surgeons aren’t exactly scarce.

The club was too dark, and I was too buzzed to make any connections. But seeing her here, in the glaring light of the sun, the pieces started to uncomfortably align. My senses are always sharper on the job, and truth be told, I’ve been scouring surf shops along the Central American west coast for months, hunting for one person—Elaine Archibald Williams.

I mentally correct myself; her full name is Elaine Samantha Archibald Williams. The coincidence of her middle name being Samantha is too glaring to overlook.

As I paddle closer to Sam, the conflicting feelings swell. If she is Elaine, I’ve royally screwed up. Fraternizing with a suspect is a massive breach of protocol. I try to shove those thoughts aside as I call out to her, “Switch me boards. This one pulls right.”

Her laughter rings clear, and she playfully bats my arms away. “No way. Big Blue belongs to you now. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone stay on it other than me and Tilly.”

I can’t help but feel a mix of indignation and amusement. “You give this board out on purpose? You evil...” My playful splash is met with more of her infectious laughter.

Her laughter brings me back to that night at the club, the way her fingers felt entwined with mine, the music enveloping us. It’s a stark contrast to the seriousness of my mission.

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