Page 7 of Tan Lines & Trouble
I flip him the bird and get back to work, moving in and out of the position a few more times and once Dane is satisfied, we move onto the next step. “Now, push up and use your back foot to propel your front leg under your chin and then stand.”
We work through it a few more times before Dane’s satisfied. “I know I said your pop-ups needed some work, but you look good Dots, really good.”
I beam, and even though I know he’s only complimenting my form, I pretend he’s telling me that I look good. “Thanks! I learned from a pro.” I wink and we both laugh.
“Same time next week?” he asks as he begins packing away his stuff.
“Yup.” The sudden urge to ask him if he wants to meet up outside of our weekly lessons hits me like a bag of bricks to the chest. “So, um, what are you up to this weekend?”
“Oh, uh,” he looks down. “Just hangin’.”
I nod. “Right. Sure. Well, if you wanna maybe hang out or…” I trail off, feeling like an idiot for asking.
He doesn’t answer right away, which only adds to my building embarrassment. “Uh, well, the thing is?—”
I cut him off, not wanting to hear his rejection. Apparently all the touching and flirting was a figment of my imagination. “It’s fine. I’m sure you’re busy. I’ll catch you next week.” I grab my board under my arm and hoof it to my Jeep before he can reply.
DANE
I fucked up—again. Dots is barely back in my life and here I am watching helplessly as she runs from me. The thing is, my dad’s a prideful man and he was adamant he didn’t want anyone knowing he was sick.
So, yeah…rock, meet hard place.
Do I hope it blows over or do I text?
Twenty minutes later, Anton and Brooks find me angry-baking in the kitchen, still hung up on whether or not I should reach out.
“What crawled up your ass?” Anton asks as he plops down onto a barstool at the island.
“Rough lesson with your mystery student?” Brooks adds, swiping his index finger through the batter remnants in the bottom of my mixing bowl.
“Something like that,” I mutter, as I smack his hand.
“Hey! Ouch!” He jerks his hand back and sucks the batter from his index finger. “Ooh, brownies.”
“Brownies?” Anton echoes. “What are you trying to decide?”
“What do you mean?”
“Brah,” Brooks drawls, going back for another swipe at the bottom of the bowl. “You only make brownies when you’re trying to figure shit out.”
“Nu-uh.”
“Yuh-huh. When Quicksilver and O’Neil wanted you to shoot an ad on the same day and you didn’t know who to pick, you made pecan fudge brownies.”
Anton snaps his fingers. “Oh! And when you were trying to decide if you wanted to take blonde Molly or brunette Molly to the SURFER Awards, you made blonde brownies with maca…maca-whatever they’re called nuts.”
I look at them both like they’re crazy.
“So, what’s the great debate?” Brooks asks, stealing the bowl once and for all.
“It’s a long story,” I say as I crack open the oven door to check on said brownies.
“Alexa how long is left on the timer?” Anton asks.
“There are twenty-two minutes left on your timer,” comes her robotic reply.
The jackass smirks. “Sounds like you have plenty of time to sum shit up to me.”
