buying a house on the beach hadn’t been the smartest move after all. It had seemed right when she’d retired, or been forced into retirement, depending on how you looked at it, from professional surfing nearly ten months earlier. She’d sold her surfing school in Hawaii and moved to the Northern Florida Coast, settling near Daytona, a two-hour drive from Vero Beach, where she’d grown up. At twenty-five, she’d been nearing the end of her career, and the younger, faster women were snapping at her heels. She’d had a good run, and an even greater scare in that last tournament, never mind the accident that capped her career.
“Well, you’ll try again tomorrow, then. I know you will.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
“It’s going to get better. Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. I know you’ll surf again, and then you’ll be happy.”
Carly wasn’t nearly as sure as her friend was, but it was good to know she wasn’t alone in the world. “I’ll have the fantasy for you in about an hour.” She clicked the speaker phone off, wound her long, unruly blond hair up into a messy knot and took a drink of Red Bull for fortification. Then she let her palms run over the smooth oak of the old desk she’d picked up at an antique store last month while she brooded.
It was a gorgeous day outside, all blue skies and perfect swells, and she was unable to come out from behind this desk and catch a hollow.
She’d never admit it to anyone, but when she crashed in her last tournament, she’d been more scared than she’d ever been in her life. She’d been much more hurt, too, since she’d garnered a catalogue of horrific injuries, including a fractured vertebra, a broken femur and a fractured skull. Those were just the biggies, and she’d been lucky to get out of the hospital with only a titanium rod in her thigh as a souvenir. She hadn’t needed one in her spine, which most likely would’ve meant never surfing again.
After ten months of extensive rehab, her thigh and back still ached occasionally, and even though the PCL muscle in her knee had been surgically repaired, it would never be the same, and neither would she.
She’d been planning to retire after one last circuit of the major tournaments, but she hadn’t wanted to go out like that. At the time, her repetitive stress injuries were slowing her down, compounded by the fact that she’d kept up with the big dogs. She’d pushed her fears aside with her competitive nature and ridden in some surfing holes that were not for the squeamish. She’d been pounded and had worn her scars with pride.
At the time she was hospitalized, doctors had told her that leaving the competitive world of surfing behind might be the only chance she’d have of getting on a board again. It would have to be for recreation only. She couldn’t imagine not climbing on a board ever again, and so she’d agreed with the medical professionals.
She comforted herself with the fact that she hadn’t made that decision based on fear, however, she hadn’t realized how deeply the accident had rooted itself into her psyche.
She did realize it now, since she still hadn’t been able to get herself onto a board although the doctors had given her the thumbs up. That was a whole different kind of fantasy she needed to fulfill.
She picked up the magazine and flipped to the article on the art of fantasy and seduction by Candy Valentine.
For Carly, fantasizing wasn’t the problem.
It wasn’t easy to find someone to live up to those dreams. Most of the men she’d met never stayed in one place long enough to even think about a relationship. And a commitment was the last thing on anyone’s mind in the happy-go-lucky world of beach bums, who didn’t want to grow up. She had to admit, she’d been commitment-shy, too. Until Dan, another professional surfer, cruised into town and swept her away.
The relationship ended in disaster when she’d been hurt. He couldn’t handle it, he’d told her, and then added, besides, now we have nothing in common. From then on, she’d been reluctant about making promises. Casual flings were fine, but she wasn’t wading in deeper in the emotion.
Truth be told, most of the men she dated fell far short of her expectations, both in and out of bed. And now she was supposed to be helping Samantha spice up her reality with a healthy dose of fantasy.
The irony was enough to make her choke on her Red Bull.
She couldn’t worry about that now. Fantasize, she ordered herself. She’d use positive visualization, just like her old coach had taught her. Set your sights on your goal and picture yourself attaining it.
She opened a new Word document and began to type quickly, not thinking too hard about the words that flew from her fingers. That was the key to these things, and that’s what Candy had written in her latest article:
1 Loosen up, forget the embarrassment.
2 Ask for what you want.
3 Write what thrills you, what turns you on.
4 Explore your deepest sexual secrets.
What was her ultimate fantasy? Beyond getting back up on the board again, of course.
Take the reins and please me.
Really, the line between catching a swell and an orgasm was pretty fine. Both gave that in-the-pit-of-your-belly thrill, and both ended up leaving you wiped out and breathless in the best way possible. The only problem was that surfing was a solitary sport, and she didn’t want her orgasms to follow suit.
Let me lose control like I’ve never lost control before.
She thought about her prince charming, her hero, her everything rolled into one man, and then thought about how, even though she could more than handle herself, she’d like to be handled by him.
Just take me, dammit.
Yep, fantasy was much better than reality.
“YOU NEED A DATE FOR YOUR sister’s wedding, Carolyn, and so does Evan. I don’t understand the problem.”
No, of course her mother wouldn’t. Carly bit her tongue. For the millionth time that day, she wished she was still getting her stress-relief from a ride on a wave. Catching a sick double-overhead, especially, and riding through to the crest would’ve been the perfect remedy for this situation. But she knew she’d been lucky to have avoided her sister’s wedding hoopla for this long. The day was imminent now, and it was only a matter of time before her command performance as Carolyn Winters, society maven-to-be.
As if the lime-green bridesmaid’s dress wasn’t humiliation enough. And she couldn’t bear to think about the ridiculous hairstyle she’d have to endure on Nicole’s behalf. She’d heard rumors about mini-tiaras, and she hadn’t had the heart to investigate it any further.
“Evan’s not my type,” Carly said.
“But he likes you,” her father pointed out.
For your money, she thought. For me, all by my lonesome, not so much.
“He’s not going to be my date for Nicole’s wedding.” It came out louder than intended. Across the table, her father winced and her mother shook her head with impatience, and Carly was glad they’d chosen to eat in at her house, rather than make a public spectacle of themselves.
She’d fallen in love with the old place the second she’d laid eyes on it, despite the real estate agent’s pleas to forget about it and find something newer. Hurricane-proof was the exact term she’d used. But the small Mediterranean had a charm, a grace one didn’t find easily in a house for sale in this part of Florida anymore. The area was rife with McMansions and ranch houses. It had become her safe haven, close enough to the ocean for her to know it was there, but not too close to cause her concern. Until today’s fiasco.
“Will you please talk to her?” her mother said to her father while waving a perfectly French-manicured hand in the air.
Everything about her mother was perfect. Shelia Winters was still