Page 5 of A Daddy for Christmas 3: Nova
“And where was that?”
“Minnesota.”
Well, at least I’d pegged the accent right. My stomach picked that moment to remind me that I still hadn’t fed it yet, so I tucked my board beneath my arm and gave him a wave.
“Time for me to dip and find some food, Minnesota. I hope to see you around. You picked a good spot for a picnic; unfortunately, the smell of it is making me hungry. Too bad you didn’t pack for two; I would have loved to stick around and shoot the shit with you about all the benefits of having an outdoor office.”
“Next time then,” he replied. “And it’s Nova. Nova Jenson, not Minnesota.”
“Robbie McKay,” I said before turning and heading up the sand.
“As in RobbieRogue WaveMcKay?”
“The one and only,” I called back as I continued walking away, though it did send a surge of pleasure through me over the fact that he knew my name.
Beach fame was one thing, which just left me wondering how an office dweller in a landlocked state had come to knowanything about me. But more so, I hoped to make thatnext timea reality and would if he came back to my beach.
Look at me, claiming it like I owned even a single grain of sand. Only it was mine in every way that mattered, though I sure as hell wished I had someone to share it with. When the thought popped into my head, I knew I had to pursue it, though I rarely surfed off the same spot two days in a row. I might not chase things anymore, but I’d mastered the art of putting myself in the position to be caught.
Chapter 3
(Nova)
After the long flight and late evening on the beach, one would think I’d have slept through the night, but no. It had dawned on me, when I’d gotten up to piss at 3am, that I’d never taken the phone off airplane mode.
Did I really want to?
Hell no.
Should I, just in case someone, aka Pete, had fucked up the update even after I’d left everything gift-wrapped and tied with a little bow for him?
Unfortunately.
Fine, but I refused to look at any of the work-related messages that popped up until I had a chance to see my kitties. I clicked on one of the messages from my best friend, Megan,who I’d left with the arduous task of checking in on my super affectionate trio of fuzz-butts who went by the rather uninspired names of Squit, Pesto, and Bobby. Yes, yes, I had named them after the Goodfeathers from Animaniacs, which I still binged at least once a year. One look at the trio of large tuxedo kitties—one black and white, one gray and white, and one with solid orange fur interspaced with white and not a single stripe on him—and it becomes pretty obvious why they had those names.
As I’d hoped, Megan had sent proof-of-life photos, including one of three massive heads in the food dish, ears nearly touching as they pigged out. There were several others too, some of them sitting on and beside her, snuggling with her while she read a book. She’d promised to spend at least three hours a day with them, which she’d already declared to be prime time to plunge into the books in her TBR pile. One photo showed Pesto on his back, snoozing with his slightly curled paws in the air. Another was a snapshot of Squit perched on the back of the easy chair like he was reading over her shoulder. The last photo was of Bobby, pouncing on a fuzzy toy mouse.
It didn’t seem like they missed me in the slightest, though I knew to expect extra demands for lap time and for me to hold the stick with their dangly toys for them to pounce when I got home. They were the perfect mix of independent and needy, and I loved every last fluffy inch of them. Murder mittens included.
Since I was one ofthose once I'm up, I'm going to be up for a while, people, even if I didn't introduce caffeine into my system, I decided to scroll through the channels on the television, looking for a movie, since it had been years since I'd managed to keep up with a show. When I did find a series I liked, I typically wound up waiting for the final episode to air before I found it on a streaming service and dove in to binge-watch, though sometimes the endings were so disappointing that I regretted investing so much time catching up on the episodes.
Movies were safer. If I fell asleep, oh well, that usually meant it wasn’t holding my attention anyway.
Or I was exhausted.
I should have been exhausted.
Only there was a nagging distraction wandering through my brain, wearing a wetsuit and carrying a surfboard with white foam swirling around his feet. His departure from the beach had left me kicking myself for not having ordered extra when I’d picked up my meal. I could have stuffed it in the hotel fridge if it hadn’t been eaten. Who could have ever predicted an encounter like that?
It was the thing of romance novels or movies.
Was it any wonder that I chose to watchNorth Shorewhen I saw it scroll past? It was a favorite of mine when I was a teenager, because Matt Adler playing a surfer boy was just fucking hot. Only this time, I couldn’t take my eyes off Gregory Harrison. Those wavy curls and beard scruff were hot. Robbie’s beard had been neatly clipped when the sun slashed across his face, revealing deep tan and emerald eyes that seemed to shimmer whenever a glint of light hit them. The best part of being on an island far away from anyone who knew me was that there was no one around to tell me that I was completely off my rocker for planning what to bring with me when I went back to the same spot on the beach I’d visited today, hoping for a second encounter.
Because that was exactly what I’d decided to do.
I dozed off beside the notepad and pen I’d snagged off the desk, grateful that hotels still provided pens and pads in this digital day and age. List making was something I excelled at, as was planning things damn near to death, which I really needed to dial back, despite how many times the habit had saved me at work. It had gotten to where it was transitioning into every aspect of my life.
Right down to pulling up the menu of the seaside bar and grill I’d frequented to comprise a list of items to share if RobbieRogue WaveMcKay happened to be around when I arrived this afternoon. I could tell it surprised him that I knew who he was. I doubt anyone would ever expect a Minnesota boy to know anything about surf competitions, but they’d been a staple of late-night programming on the sports network when I’d been growing up. I’d been curious about the sport ever sinceSurf’s Upcame out when I was eight. After that it was surf everything, from my room decor to the surf-themed birthday party I’d begged my parents for the year I turned ten. They’d shaken their heads but indulged me, even getting me a small, airbrushed board to hang on my wall and a subscription to several surfer magazines. They were dog-eared as hell, and a few were missing pages and one staple away from falling apart completely, but I still had a giant stack of them.