Page 1 of Tan Lines & Trouble
Thea
One more step would mean certain death. Not literally, of course. No, the only thing at risk of peril happens to be my pride. But Mama always said if you don’t ask, you won’t know and ever since I saw Dane Foster running across the quad last Tuesday, I’ve been itching to ask him a thing or two.
Like why he cut me out of his life with a dull spoon and why he’s here, at Palm Bluff University of all places, especially since I’m ninety-nine percent positive he’s not even a student here. Last I heard, he was out in Cali, living the dream, preparing to compete in the Rip Curl Pro in Portugal—which is less than two months away. He should be amping up his training, not back in Florida, less than ten feet away from me with a beer clutched in his hand while half-dressed beach bunnies compete for his attention.
Dane and I grew up next door to each other, and even though he went to the fancy-ass private school while I went to public, we were damn near inseparable, spending every afternoon, weekend, and summer together. Even when his school friends came around, Dane included me and threatened to beat up anyone who dared pick on me. Hell, we even exchanged vowsin my backyard in second grade. So, yeah, when he quit talking to me out of nowhere the summer before high school, it broke something in my young, naïve heart.
Now that he’s back, I want answers—I need them.
The years have been kind to him. Dane’s once boyish and lanky physique is now built with sleek, compact muscles; all man. His skin is bronzed as if he’s perpetually in the sun and his hair is a golden halo of curls highlighting his chiseled angular face. But the best part about Dane is his eyes. Deep cerulean framed with lashes that any woman would kill for. Even from my hidey-hole in the corner of the kitchen, I can see his piercing eyes, they’re as fathomless as the waves he surfs and I could easily drown in their depths.
My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my denim cut-off’s. I slide it out, already knowing it’s going to be a text from my best friend, Blue—and yes, that’s her real name.
Blue
Have you talked to him yet or are you hiding like a sissy?
Me
I’m not hiding. I’m doing recon.
Blue
Lies! Ten bucks says you’re in some dark corner or pressed against a wall doing your best to blend in. You probably haven’t had a drink. Hell, you probably haven’t even talked to anyone.
Me
Wrong again. I spoke to the guy manning the door.
Blue
Thea, Thea, Thea. What am I going to do with you?
Me
Uh…
Blue
Rhetorical question. Listen closely. You’re going to leave your corner, chug some liquid courage, march up to your Golden God, and confront him. And then, you’re going to find a hot, willing co-ed and dance until your feet hurt.
Me
No to the dancing. Yes to the rest.
Blue
2 out of 3…I’ll take it. I wish I was there!
Me
Yeah, yeah. Says the girl out on a date with her dream guy. Speaking of, WHY ARE YOU TEXTING ME?
Blue
Stop procrastinating.
Clearly, parties aren’t my thing—along with crowds, and you know, just people in general—and Blue knows that. Gah! Sometimes I hate how well she knows me. But that’s what happens when you’ve been best friends with someone for six years; they know your quirks and fears, your dreams anddesires. Unfortunately for me, mine are all tied up in one boy—well, man now.
