“You look nice,” he said, putting the SUV into reverse and backing out the narrow driveway. When we reached the mailbox, something hit me.
“Hey, stop,” I said, and he slammed on the brakes. I pointed up at the little apartment over the garage. “I should tell my bodyguard where I’m going.”
He shook his head. “I’ve already spoken to him—we’re going out alone.” When I whirled on him, he held up his hands defensively. “Look, I want you to be relaxed. I don’t want some big ass bodyguard making you nervous.”
“You mean he makes you nervous.” I was angry he’d gone over my head and talked to Miller, and I was angry at myself for still wanting his lips on mine. I crossed my arms. “I’m fine with him being around,” I said.
Cooper released a sarcastic little laugh. Then he finished backing into the street and placed the car into drive. “I should punch you in the face,” I muttered as he took off, going ten miles over the speed limit.
“What’s stopping you then?”
“I’m on probation.”
He laughed again, but this time there wasn’t a mocking edge to it. He almost sounded like he felt sorry for me, which only served to make me angrier. “And just so you know, Wills, your bodyguard doesn’t make me nervous—not even a bit. I don’t think you have anything to worry about here, but I won’t let anything happen to you. Not ever when you’re with me.” There was a roughness to his voice that made it impossible for me to doubt what he’d said.
Not even a bit.
***
Instead of going directly to the shore, Cooper took me to a two-story beach home surrounded by palm trees. “This is Kailua Beach,” he explained, as he parked his Jeep behind a Ford Ranger that was probably just as old as I was. “And this is where I live . . . and work.”
I squinted at the sand-colored stucco house. Sure enough, there was a wooden sign hanging above the front door that said Blue Flame Surfing Academy. I raised an eyebrow and he lifted his shoulders. “I forgot to grab our boards,” he said. “My mind was . . . occupied.”
When he got out of the Jeep, I followed behind him, hot on his heels. “So you live with your boss, not an actual roommate?”
He gave me one of those grins that nearly stopped me in my tracks. There was a deep dimple in his left cheek that I hadn’t noticed before. “Well, technically, my roommate lives with his boss.”
This time, I really did stop walking. “You own your own surfing school?” I squeaked.
Flashing me a confident look, he said, “I’m the best, remember?”
He sprinted up the steps and disappeared inside the stucco house. I stood there, staring through the open door into the brightly lit foyer for a few moments. Cooper was 22—he’d said as much last night when he told me he’d left Australia ten years ago when he was 12. I was sure he made good money training people to surf and doing competitions but this place was amazing. Oceanfront, two-stories, and on a private lot—no doubt it cost a fortune.
“Ugh, stop it Willow,” I said aloud. Just because I sucked at holding on to money didn’t mean Cooper was the same.
Walking up the stone steps, I reminded myself that how Cooper afforded his belongings was none of my damn business. When I reached the foyer, which smelled like sunblock and clean linen plugins, I followed the sound of voices around the corner into a shop area, complete with t-shirts and surfing gear.
Cooper was on the other side of the most unique sales counter I’d ever seen—it was made of old surfboards with writing all over them. He was talking to a guy wearing nothing but boxer shorts who was as tall as Miller and probably weighed less than I did. The moment I stepped into view, their conversation faded and the guy dragged his hands through his messy brown hair. He was by no means sexy, like Cooper, or even good-looking for that matter—his grungy facial hair would make Zach Galifinakis weep with pride— but when he grinned at me, I couldn’t resist smiling back.
“I’m Cooper’s roommate,” he said. There was a humorous gleam in his brown eyes when he added, “I used to jack off to your music videos.”
Nice introduction.
I’d been a horrible singer and all my music—one album’s worth—had been heavily auto-tuned. At least the music videos were sexy, according to Cooper’s pervert roommate. “How’d that work out for you?” I asked, unsure whether I should laugh or run in the other direction.
“Not so bad . . . if you don’t count the tanning lotion disaster.”
Oh my God—what the hell was wrong this guy?
Skinny Roommate grinned and walked over to me, holding out his hand. I looked down at it, disgusted, before I turned my head to the side and gave him a skeptical look. “Oh come on, that was a long time ago,” he said, holding up both hands to wiggle them a few inches from my face. “See, no tan streaks.”
Gross.
He was totally crass, but for some reason, I started to laugh. It was a welcome distraction from thinking about Cooper. Skinny Roommate pulled me in for a big hug, hunching over so he could inhale my hair. I took a step backward to separate our crotches so he wouldn’t get any more strokes of inspiration. “God, who would’ve thought Willow Avery smelled like peaches. Peaches and—”
“Stop feeling up my client, Eric,” Cooper warned. Eric sniffed me a few more times and then, groaning loudly, pulled away.
He gave Cooper a dramatic glare. “You get all the fun ones.”