Page 2 of Two a Day

I grit my teeth, send the call to voicemail, then text a reply.

Brooke:Thanks for thinking of me. But feel free to lose my number.

Then, I block his. I down the rest of my coffee, blow out an exhausted breath, and stare at the kitchen counter, littered with reminders of my hellish week. My bottle of migraine meds got a workout these last seven days. So did my wallet, thanks to the bill from the tire shop after I drove over a nail in the grocery store parking lotafterI got rear-endedby a mom texting in her minivan. And over in the corner, a wilted bouquet of peonies dies miserably, fallen petals collecting around the vase in a stinky mess.

Who sends flowers to someone who didn’t get a promotion? My boss. Why can’t Stephen make it easier to be mad at him? But I guess I should be grateful. Flowers and no promotion are still better than redundancy and no job. It’s hard to get ahead in my industry, and I need the money, so I’ll just have to water the peonies, smile, and go to work tomorrow, ready to do it all again.

But there’s only one thing for me to do today as the weekend draws to a close.

Hit the beach and read a book.

Nothing cures a bad week like some sun and an escape into make-believe.

After a few hours spent basking on the beach, immersed in the latest escapades of Axel Huxley’s vigilante-for-hire, I’ve nearly forgotten my ex’s ridiculous request. The sea and stories have always settled me, ever since I was young. Today, the combo does its trick, washing away my week.

Normally, I wouldn’t let an ex bug me so much, but I can’t escape The Shirtless Esquire. He’s become athingon social media. My co-workers update me about his online antics, more than one of them noting how hot Sailor is.

I wish I couldwhateverhim away with a pure give-no-fucks attitude, but hearing from him reminds me that in the year since we split, my dating life has been a desert.

My social calendar is the Sahara.

That’s Los Angeles—a good guy who doesn’t mansplain is as rare as a clear lane during rush hour on the freeway.

I set down my paperback on my Los AngelesBandits towel, then stare at the Pacific, willing the scene to calm my rattled nerves.

In the distance, a boat bobs along. Closer to the shore, a couple of towheaded toddlers cart buckets of sand for sandcastles. Off to the side, guys play volleyball, spiking like they’re trying out for the nextTop Gun.

And all along the water, surfers and paddle boarders ride waves and paddle through them. Venice Beach is home for all sorts of board sports thanks to its mostly mellow crests. Neither are things I’ll ever do, but I like to watch and to wade.

I stand and stretch.Watch out, world. A top-notch toe-dipper is on her way into the Pacific.

Leisurely, I make my way to the shoreline, letting the cool water kiss my feet. The early afternoon sun beats down on my shoulders as I wade in until the water reaches my waist. I freestyle for a few relaxing lengths, then my gaze catches on a paddle boarder two board lengths away, close enough for me to see the water bead on his carved abs.

Oh hello, eye candy.

I float on my back and indulge in the primo view.

That body will take a mind off a week of headaches, flat tires, and annoying exes—broad shoulders, carved abs, and a killer smile have that effect. Yup. Happy place, I am in you at last.

The hottie pushes his oar through the water,gliding along a rolling crest of a wave, nice and smooth. Strong legs, big, delish arms, totally lickable abs—all his muscles rippling and glistening with ocean water.

I sigh. This is the kind of shirtlessness I can enjoy. Boardersshouldbe shirtless.

But as I’m enjoying the scenery, another paddle boarder comes out of nowhere, dropping into Eye Candy’s wave, and breaking a basic rule of the ocean road—don’t jump in someone else’s lane.

I pop upright, tensing, picturing dangerous scenarios unfolding. Ones that involve boards, and oars, and heads, and whacks.

The lanky guy loses his footing and tumbles backward off the board in a blur of limbs, hitting the water with a loud slap. The oar shoots from his hand on a fast track for Eye Candy. The former lifeguard in me shouts, “Heads-up!”

But not quickly enough.

Smack!

The oar connects with the back of the paddle boarder’s noggin, and the hottie goes kersplat, face-first into the water. I cringe in sympathy as he’s knocked under the sea.

I move as fast as I can, and as I reach the scene, the skinny guy surfaces and shakes his wet hair out of his eyes. Spotting his paddle board a few feet away, he swims off for it.

“You should be more careful,” I chide.