Page 4 of A Daddy for Christmas 3: Nova

Now that I really thought about it, that t-shirt wouldn’t be a half-bad marketing idea. Maybe I’d have a few printed up since I’d finally come up with several other merch ideas to help promote my instructional videos. I could add them to the tier three boxes; those already came with five new videos and step-by-step instructions, both drawn and recorded, to help them master the tricks and techniques easier. The best part was that since there were beginner and advanced versions of each technique, as well as several steps to master in the middle, it would take a while before I ran out of things to teach. I had the ocean and her endlessly unpredictable ways to thank for that. My sweet mistress knew what to do to keep a man on his toes.

There I went with the poetics again, but dammit all, I didn’t think that was too big of an ask. I didn’t want a few stolen hours in the evening, exhaustion, slurred words, and passing out before ten; I wanted someone who looked forward to moonlit walks at midnight and sneakily baked treats for road snacks, just in case we decided to go on an impromptu excursion. I wanted spontaneity and all the fireworks of first love.

I wanted what I’d never gotten to have as a teenager, when most discovered their soul-encompassing first crush and sobbed into their friends’ pillows following the inevitable breakup.

For as much as I’d wanted to be out, that hadn’t happened for me until I’d come to Maui and been served with papers declaring that I’d been disinherited. As far as I was concerned,that was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. It pushed me to devote myself to my craft and travel the world, entering and winning enough surf competitions that sponsors had rolled in and that amount I was set to inherit had turned into no big loss. In the type of family I’d grown up in, you learned about financial matters early, with information about stocks, trading, and development being drilled into our heads the way other parents quizzed their kids on the alphabet. We were groomed to excel in both school and sports, though I’d soon learn, not long after taking up surfing, that there was a pre-approved list ofacceptablesports that riding waves had not been on.

I could still see my father’s sneer during our first family vacation here, as I’d stood beside the new local friend I’d made, clutching a borrowed board.

“Do not let your grandfather see you with that thing,” he’d hissed.

I knew he’d had plenty more that he wanted to say if he hadn’t heard my grandfather’s voice growing louder as he headed our way. I’m sure I could guess how that lecture would have turned out if he’d had the chance to give it. McKay’s don’t ride surfboards. Fortunately, what my grandfather had to tell him proved to be far more scandalous than me running around trying to catch a few waves and pick up the local slang.

NowIwas considered a local, and Robbie McKay of the Portsmouth McKay’s, formerly of Inverness by way of the very grandfather my old man had been so worried about, no longer existed outside of the old family bible. Gram-Gram would never have allowed anyone to deface that. Pretty sure the rest of them had done their level best to erase me following the disinheritance, especially as my face and name started appearing everywhere. Even more so onceRogue Wavewas added to it, but that was a story for a whole other time.

The McKay’s of Portsmouth had been much too formal for me. I never was very fond of fancy or standing on ceremony just to be seen looking stern and rigid. The old man had always claimed it was about breeding and reminding folks that you came from a noble line. All I ever saw it as was being snobby, just like living in a house on snob row. It was little more than an endless stream of sterile dwellings cleaned by the underpaid.

I preferred a bit of sand here and there, especially if it was deposited from in between the toe beans of the cat who allowed me to share its home.

There was another wave waiting; I just knew it, even while remaining steadily aware of the figure still lingering on the beach. Were they watching me? Shading a hand over my eyes, I could just make out the motion of him lifting something to his lips. Ahh, a picnic for one. I’d had my fair share of those over the years. I decided to leave him to it then, even as my stomach let out a little rumble, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since lunch.

One more wave, just one more, and I’d look to fill my empty belly, perhaps with a trio of cocktails. Shrimp, crab, and a whiskey sour. Those always went down smoothly, especially if Birdie was making them. I think she was working tonight.

She was if it was Friday.

Was it Friday?

I think it was Friday. Shit, losing track of days was easy with the life I led.

The last wave was a bit of a gnarly one, and I wiped out before completing the ride. As I emerged, I caught sight of the man watching me, bathed in red-gold hues and shadows, his expression impossible to make out. For a moment I wondered if he’d been worried when I’d taken that spill, then dismissed the thought as highly unlikely. It hadn’t even been that big of a wipe out.

I was hit with the tantalizing aroma of spicy, pungent seafood broth from the bowl they held. The moment I smelled it, I knew just what they’d ordered and had a very good idea of where they’d gotten it from too. The same place my grumbly stomach demanded we go.

“Nasty spill. Are you okay?” He asked as I strode from the water a few feet to the left of him.

His voice had a rich timber to it and a hint of an accent I couldn’t place. Not Southern or New England, but definitely not California or anywhere else on the West Coast. Somewhere in the Midwest, maybe, which wasn’t a place I was very familiar with. I tended to avoid landlocked states while feeling sorry for those stuck so far from my beloved ocean.

“Naa,” I said, straightening my spine and squaring my shoulders. “That’s pretty typical for bad dismounts on this beach.”

“Bad dismounts, huh? Is that what they’re called? Reminds me a little of bull riding without all the stomping hooves.”

“Waves stomp just as hard and heavy as hooves; trust me, you don’t want to be smashed by a mammoth, especially if you’re not used to taking hits.”

“The only hits I enjoy are the occasional ones I take after a long, frustrating day at work, to wipe the memories of the office from my brain.”

“If they are the kinds of hits I’m thinking of, I’ve been known to enjoy a few myself, without the prompting of a desk job, no offense. Life wasn’t meant to be lived behind walls.”

He chuckled, though I detected a hint of bitterness in his tone.

“You’ll hear no arguments from me about that,” he replied. “Buildings are dreary, and time passes much too slowly. Unfortunately, the only good job I could find after college happens to be in one.”

“What’s your field?”

“Video marketing, but since nothing was available when I was job hunting, I landed in the social media advertisement department, which is a whole different beast. Kind of like your waves. They vary a lot more than I care for. I’d rather spend my time working with a videographer and creating storyboards for shoots.”

“Have you ever shot on the beach?”

“For a school project once, I designed one for sunscreen and cast a few people from the theater department to help me shoot it. It wasn’t a beach like this one, though. It was a manmade one surrounding a lake near my school.”