Life Is A Beach: Life Is A Beach / A Real-Thing Fling. Pamela Browning

I please. So do you want to go out in the boat with me or not?”

      “A houseboat isn’t something you’d take out to sea,” she said, casting a look in his direction. He didn’t know the meaning of that look, but it was definitely not one that said go away, so he kept walking along beside her.

      “Toy Boat has a dinghy,” he told her.

      “So you’re planning on rowing out to sea? That’s not advisable, you know. The waves can get pretty big offshore.”

      “Maybe it isn’t called a dinghy. I don’t know because I’m not that experienced a boater. It has a motor.”

      “And what strings are attached to this offer?”

      “Absolutely none. Maybe while we’re in the boat we could talk about freeing me up. Maybe we could talk about freeing you up.”

      He saw her rolling her eyes. “I’m as free as I want to be,” she said. She swiped at her nose with a tissue that he hadn’t realized she carried in her hand, increasing his suspicion that she’d been crying.

      “Maybe that’s the problem. You need to feel attached to someone,” he said hopefully. She could be lonely, he supposed. She could be shedding a few tears because she had no one to walk with on the beach on a beautiful and romantic night such as this one, which could play into his purpose really well.

      “I don’t think I want to be attached in the way you’re thinking about.”

      “Perhaps you need to free up your chakras, all seven of them. Have you ever thought about giving yourself permission to feel, Karma?”

      She shot him a skeptical glance.

      Realizing that this line of discussion wasn’t going any further, he changed the subject. “How far do we walk? When do we turn around and go back?”

      She seemed on the verge of smiling when she looked up at him. “Why? Too much exercise for you, cowboy?”

      “Not at all,” he said firmly, wishing suddenly that she could observe when he and Lightning, his prize quarter horse, were cutting cattle. She’d see that he was a superior athlete, an experienced horseman. He was out of his element in sea-sand-sky territory, that’s for sure.

      “I usually stroll to the next lifeguard station, then head back. You’re welcome to go back now, if you like. These walks of mine are usually solitary.”

      “Too bad,” Slade said.

      “Not really. Solitude is good sometimes.”

      “Karma, when a woman looks like you, acts like you and kisses like you, there’s no reason to be alone.”

      She emitted an exasperated sigh. “Maybe I want to be alone. Maybe I like it that way.”

      “And maybe I’m the king of Siam, but I don’t think so.”

      “I don’t think there is a king of Siam anymore. For that matter, there’s not a Siam anymore. It’s called Thailand these days.”

      “You get my point,” he said.

      They had almost reached the lifeguard station, and Karma slowed down. She drew a deep breath before speaking. “I know what you were looking at in yoga class tonight when I was doing that backbend, and I might as well tell you that unless you concentrate on being centered, you’re not doing your blocked chakra any good.”

      He turned back toward the Blue Moon when she did and wondered what she would do if he kissed her again. He decided not to chance it. “I believe I feel my chakra becoming unblocked,” he said, not believing that he was actually speaking these words that flowed so easily from his lips. “I feel a certain—a certain—” He struggled to think of something that would convince her that he was making progress.

      “A certain letting go?” Karma supplied.

      He grinned and punched a fist into his opposite hand. “That’s it! A ‘letting go’!”

      “Maybe it is working. Maybe you are getting better. Backbends are good for releasing emotion.”

      She walked on, a frown marring her features. “You’ll have to keep doing yoga. It will help you dramatically.”

      Maybe his muscles would stop screaming out in agony by next Tuesday night, maybe he’d be able to twist himself into a damned backbend—a real one this time, not a weak imitation.

      “I should practice,” he said. “Other than backbends, I’m not sure what poses would be best, though, so perhaps you could help me.”

      “No funny business if I do,” she said firmly.

      “What do you mean, funny business?” he replied, all innocence.

      “Kissing me,” she said. “Becoming unduly familiar.”

      “Now wait a minute. I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.”

      “If I’m going to find you the wife you want, you can’t sully the process,” Karma said in a reasoning tone.

      He didn’t know what to say to that. The kind of wife he wanted had slipped his mind. The sweet, delicate little Southern-belle type didn’t seem so desirable anymore. He knew he should ask when he could view some videos of female Rent-a-Yenta clients. He knew he should be more eager to make contact with other women. He ought to be encouraged by the thought of having a date with Jennifer. And yet when he stole a glance over at Karma walking along beside him, when he took in that curly blond mass of hair and those breasts straining against the cotton of her blouse, when he thought about what had been revealed through those lace panties when her leggings split—well, she was the one he wanted to know more about. She was the one for him.

      At least for the short term.

      When they reached the boardwalk, he stopped to pull on his boots. As if against her better judgment, she waited for him.

      “How about if I pick you up Thursday afternoon at three to scatter your aunt’s ashes?” he asked, taking the bold approach.

      She looked down at her bare feet. “I don’t know if I can be ready by three. I have work to do in the office.”

      “Three-thirty, then.”

      “Well, only if you learn how to motor that boat.”

      “I’ll learn.” Slade finished pulling on the boots and stood up. At the moment that he was ready to slide his arms around her, she stepped up on the boardwalk. It was an evasion, but he wasn’t going to let her get away with it.

      “Not so fast,” he said, the words coming out more gruffly than he had intended. He grabbed her wrist, the handiest thing to grab, and twisted her around. His heart was thumping against his ribs as he pulled her close. He’d bet his last dollar that her heart was hammering, too.

      “Slade,” she said, the word more of an assent than a denial. And then he kissed her thoroughly, liking the way her head was on a parallel with his because of the increased height standing on the boardwalk gave her. If she were tiny, like the woman he’d come here to find, kissing her wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying. As it was, when he opened his eyes they were gazing directly into hers. He liked what he saw there because it wasn’t anger or defiance or anything but a kind of hushed acceptance of what was and maybe could be.

      He released her reluctantly and dug a paper out of his back pocket. “I brought you my psychological profile,” he said. “It, um, may give you clues to my emotional identity.” He wasn’t sure what an emotional identity was, exactly, but it was the kind of term Karma would use.

      She merely stared at him, then took the sheet of paper from his hand. It quivered a bit, and not entirely from the ocean breeze.

      “See you tomorrow,” he said, and then she was off, scampering up the boardwalk like a runaway heifer.

      All in all, he thought jubilantly as he headed for the parking