Page 38 of The Wrong Brother

There are already quite a few surfers out. Not shocking—it’s a weekend morning. The waves aren’t great but it’s always a little funky here. I watch and wait, not wanting to drop in on anyone or piss someone off. I ride a couple of fat little waves but I’m honestly enjoying the paddling and waiting more. The water is crystal clear and the most beautiful blue-green. I straddle my board for a while, rocking with the motion of the water, watching a big honu (turtle) swimming lazily. I’m trailing my fingers through the cool water, eyes on a second honu lazily swimming toward me when something grabs my leg. I scream, jerking sideways and knocking myself off of my board. It grabs me again and I push up to the surface, gasping for air.

Rafferty hauls me up against his chest. My fingers are splayed across his hard pecs, my favorite of his tattoos at eye level, and I splutter ocean water all over him.

“Oops.”

“Shit! That’s what I was going to say. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

All those muscles and skin, right here. I believe I respond in a very ladylike and eloquent way. Something like “Uhhhhhhh.” It probably went perfectly with my spitting fish impression moments before. I look up, equally mesmerized by his green eyes. There are little beads of water on his eyelashes. One of them drops onto his cheek and I watch it trace a line down his skin and break apart when it reaches his beard. His blond hair is lots of different shades from being out in the sun, but his beard has hints of red in it. His mouth is moving andshit! I don’t know how long he’s been talking to me or what he is saying.

“Catherine? I asked if you’re still surfing.”

“Um, wereyousurfing?”Good save. Ask a dumb question and it won’t be even more obvious that you were staring instead of listening.

“Nah. I was painting and saw you out here. The water looked nice so I took a break.”

“You’re painting? Can I see what you’re working on?”

“Sure, if you’re done out here. I don’t want to interrupt.”

“The waves aren’t great and neither am I. I was mostly honu watching. I’d much rather be with you.”Oh my word. What is wrong with me today? I couldn’t play it cool if you paid me.

“Same,” that little smile that always makes my stomach flip makes an appearance. “I guess I should let you go or you won’t be able to paddle back in.” He releases his arms from around me and I immediately miss him. “I’ll meet you up there.”

I know I’m supposed to get back on my board and follow but I forget, watching him swim. There is something seriously wrong with me. I start paddling in, trying to catch up, but I stop moving again when he steps out of the water. It’s like some slow-motion dream sequence with water sluicing off his rippling muscles and his board shorts clinging deliciously. I audibly gulp like a fucking cartoon character. He turns towards me, the front view even better than the back, and smiles, making me melt like shave ice in the summer sunshine.

“You coming?” he calls.I wish…

He takes my board when I get to the steps and I forget about the leash. I start trying to walk, almost knock myself into the dirt, and he has to stop and unstrap it for me. He carries my board up to the walkway where I can see his easel set up. It could be chivalry or it could simply be to keep me from doing something like taking out an unsuspecting walker. I move around to the front of the canvas while he puts my board down. I’m still standing, taking it in when he steps up behind me. He’s not touching me but I can feel his presence as if he is. Then he slides his arms around my waist, pressing into my back and I relax into him. There are little flecks of paint on his arms and hands and I have a sudden vision of our skin and paint and I flush, heat coursing through my body. He tightens his arms around me as if he knows what I’m thinking and that makes me blush even more.Chill, Horny Harriet!

“It’s getting there,” he says as if we’ve been talking this whole time. He’s painting the sunrise from this vantage point and I almost,almostforget the chaotic mess going on inside my head looking at it.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sunrise shown this way. It’s an interesting angle, painting it from the eastside. It’s like the warmth and color are seeping from the side instead of growing from the horizon.”

His lips brush against my ear, making me shiver. “I love that you got it. I was trying to express that feeling, but wasn’t sure if it was coming across.”

“It does. I love it.”

We stand together, looking at his painting. Or the view. I’m not sure. Well, I’m not sure what he’s looking at. I’m staring blindly ahead of me, feeling his body behind mine and trying not to recall the images in my head from a few minutes ago. But then he’s no longer touching me. I turn to find him, missing his presence, and see he’s packing up his paintbox.

“Oh, are you done?”

“For now. Are you?” I nod. “How did you get down here?”

“I rode my bike, like an idiot. I did a spin class this morning, then rode the 3 miles down here and surfed. The 3 miles back are going to be brutal.”

“I drove. I can throw the bike rack on the back of my car and drive us.”

“My hero—my quads thank you! Or they would if they weren’t already working overtime just to keep me upright.”

Rafferty takes his box and my board and I hurry ahead to unlock and move my bike. My bag is where I stashed it, untouched. Approaching his car from behind, I see he has an odd assortment of things in the trunk: a laundry bag, art supplies, an entire suitcase, and a bike rack. It’s strange. I don’t comment though. I’m not sure my array of “go bags” leaves me any room to do so. At this point, I don’t know what situations he needs to be prepared for. Still, it stays there, in the back of my mind, a puzzle I’ll be sorting through whenever my brain isn’t otherwise occupied.

I feel useless standing by while Rafferty installs the rack, hangs my bike, and stows my board with his on top of the car. At the very least, I should take off my rash guard. While he’s tying off the boards I plop my bag onto the trunk, digging through it for my towel and cover-up. I line everything up methodically: dress hanging on my bike, towel next to my bag, slippahs paired up on the ground.

I straighten up from putting my shoes down and he’s standing right in front of me, giving me a look I can’t read. There’s something in his eyes that makes me feel like I’m flying down the first valley on a rollercoaster. His paint-spattered fingers grasp the zipper on the front of my rash guard, slowly pulling it down. Inch by inch, my skin is exposed, his fingers skating along the opening. My heartbeat speeds up as his fingers trail lower, nearing the end of the zipper. He steps closer, pulling the rash-guard open. His fingertips skim lightly up my body towards my shoulders and he peels it off of me. His bare torso brushes mine as he leans in, pulling the heavy fabric down my arms. His face is now close to mine, lips almost brushing mine, breath warm on my skin. I’m tingling, my body anticipating what will happen next. Then he pulls back, bringing my coverup with him and handing it to me. He had been reaching over my shoulder to grab it. Right. What did I think was going to happen? I put it on in a daze, somehow getting myself into the passenger seat with all of my belongings. I must, because I’m buckled in and Rafferty is driving, but I’m merely a big mushy mess of confusing emotions and overwhelming sexual awareness.

23

rafferty

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