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Impossible. I've been in love with Tilly for as long as I can remember. But since she moved to the States, I've been trying, albeit slowly, to erase her from my memory. Mostly because I know that’s what she wants.
Sam's been a huge help with that. She's made it a point to keep Tilly's name out of our conversations, and I've been all too willing to maintain that new tradition. It seems Sam's done the same with Tilly. My trip to San Diego had been in the works for months, yet Tilly seemed completely unaware of it.
When I opened the door earlier and saw her there, the look on her face was like she'd seen a ghost. That had sliced through me like a sharp surfboard fin to the neck. Yet, she is staying, which had to mean something good. Clinging to that comfort, I reach for a blanket, draping it over my legs in a vain attempt to still the restlessness seizing me. But as soon as I close my eyes, there she is again—the way her dress slunk low on her chest, her smile flashing teeth, her legs lying so invitingly next to mine.
Her scent overwhelmed me—coconut and sunscreen, a perfect storm. Feeling a surge of desire, I force my eyes open. And… now I’m hard. Sleep is a battle I’m not going to win tonight. Standing, I make my way to the bathroom and turn on the tap.
A cold shower is the only solution. With her so near, it's the only way.
***
As the first light of dawn creeps through the windows, I find myself awake far earlier than usual, the echoes of the night lingering in my mind. My sleep had been restless, filled with dreams of her body, her face, her voice. It isn't uncommon for her to invade my dreams, so it takes a moment for the reality of the previous day to catch up with me.
A jolt of realization hits me—she’s here. Nerves have my heart racing. But fuck, she's right behind the door. Probably sleeping in that curled up position that's so damn adorable. No one else knows this but Tilly talks in her sleep. Usually about food. I've heard it a few times and fuck if it doesn't make her all the more cute. It feels like everything is riding on how I play things this morning. If I want to be in her life again, this needs to be perfect.
And perfect starts with coffee for Tilly. I rush into the kitchen and get a pot brewing. Thankfully, Sam has creamer that Tilly likes in the fridge. If she didn't, I'm not above going to the store before she wakes up. Once the dripping starts, I hustle down the hall.
With a single knock, I clear my throat before I say, "Uh, Til? I'm gonna head out soon. Got coffee going." My heat for the tournament is in three hours, and I have at least an hour's drive ahead of me.
"Just a sec!" she says, her voice clouded with sleep. There's a soft rustling of blankets and then I hear padded footsteps on the hardwood beyond the door. On bated breath, I wait for it to open. When it does, I wish I had already left.
Fuck me. There she stands in a t-shirt, the outline of her breasts clearly visible beneath the thin fabric. Perfect beaded nipples are outlined. It's like they're greeting me personally. I want to lick my lips and maybe them too. I almost say, 'Hello ladies' aloud. The restraint of not doing anything makes sweat form on my upper lip. My face flushes with warmth as blood pools below my waistline. No matter what I try to do, my eyes are glued to her chest.
"Thomas Hilcrest!" Her voice is sharp, yet a hint of amusement undercuts its severity. I finally manage to meet her gaze, catching a twinkle in her eye that tells me she isn't as upset as she sounded.
"Shit, sorry," I laugh, rubbing my neck. "But seriously?" I gesture toward her. "It's like leaving a slice of chocolate cake on the counter and expecting me not to want a bite."
She chuckles and shakes her head, then with a gentle push against my chest, she begins to close the door. I raise my hands in surrender, yet I can't ignore the heat in her eyes—a flicker of something more. As soon as the door closes, my hand instinctively goes to my cock, squeezing in a futile attempt to calm myself. But damn, it's only getting harder. Having a hard on when she's around was something I was constantly dealing with back in Costa Rica. The number of times I’ve gotten an inconvenient boner around her are in the high thousands. And those tattoos. Jesus, did she get those just to torture me? I want to run my tongue over every inch of inked skin.
What was that look she gave me? Was it flirting?
Thinking about baseball and old grannies in bikinis, I walk back to the living room where my suitcase lays by the couch. If I can't taste her, I may as well get ready for the day. There isn’t much inside, a few t-shirts and a couple pairs of boardshorts. I pull out my favorite pair of trunks, custom-made Spiderman print and head to the bathroom. It might seem childish, but I have fucking loved that web-slinging hero ever since I was five. Besides, no one sees them when I surf in the Pacific Ocean anyway. By the time people are focused on me, I’m usually in a wetsuit.
Inside, I splash cold water on my face and brush my teeth before slipping into my shorts. Coming back out, shirtless, I make my way to the coffee pot just as the door to Sam's room opens.
Taking a deep breath, I fill two mugs and turn around, holding both. The timing is perfect. She steps into the kitchen, draped in one of Sam's sundresses. It hangs a bit loose around her chest, which, paradoxically, only enhances her allure. The dress's bright floral pattern illuminates the light brown highlights in her dark hair. I have to swallow hard to prevent myself from staring too obviously, but she's seriously testing my restraint this morning.
Handing her a cup, I manage, “You look nice.”
She accepts the mug, glancing down at herself. “Yeah, it’s a little…innocent for me. But beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Beggars?” I echo, puzzled.
She nods, a bit cryptically. “I suddenly find myself without clothes.” I'm about to probe further, but she raises a hand to forestall me. “A story for another time. You’re leaving?”
I take a sip from my mug, then set it down as I head to the living room to grab a shirt and pull it on. “Yeah, got a long boring drive up to San O.”
A silence falls between us, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Suddenly, I'm struck by an impulse to invite her along. She looks a bit forlorn standing there, as if the prospect of being left behind doesn't sit well with her. “You wanna come?”
Her expression lights up. “To your tournament?”
“Yeah, why not? I mean, Rick can handle the shop, right?” She casts a glance toward the living room, mulling it over. I rub a hand through my hair. It might be a dick move, but I know exactly how much women love when I flex as I muss my hair. "Come on, Til. Come cheer me on, today." Flashing my best smirk, I wait.
Her cheeks grow a bit red as she bites on her bottom lip. “I guess so.” It’s not the enthusiastic response I hope for, but it sends a thrill through me nonetheless. Then her smile widens. “Yeah, it’ll be fun. I’d love to come.”
There’s no real way to describe how much that added sentence means. All I really know is my stomach is doing a strange swoop that has nothing to do with the upcoming tournament. I try not to show how excited her agreement makes me. “Cool. Can you grab some protein bars? I’m gonna check my rack.” I point over my shoulder with my thumb, still not ready to leave in case she suddenly changes her mind.
She salutes me with a stern look that makes my stupid grin grow wider. “Roger that, surf man.” As soon as she’s moving around in the kitchen, I dash outside, eager to make sure we can leave quickly, still somewhat unwilling to believe this is actually happening. I check the surfboard rack on my car; it's secure. Of course it is. I must have checked it twelve times yesterday. But those boards on the roof are my babies. Jerry, Gary, and Kerry, the triumphant trio that has seen me win more trophies than Bruce Lee. Okay, so I have no idea how many awards the infamous superstar has won, but hell, I suddenly feel as untouchable as the Kung Fu master.
