Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
I turn and look out wistfully over at the waves down to the beach. Shit, now that’s where I’d most want to be right now—out in the ocean catching a sweet wave and riding it hard. It’s not even just the heat, either. I always wish I was surfing, and it’s been like that ever since I was old enough to stand on a board. Gramps always jokes that I got my surf legs before I got my land legs, and I don’t think he’s wrong.
Gramps—my grandpa Gus—is basically the one who raised me up. My mom was gone when I was five, and my dad peaced out to who knows or to fucking cares at this point where not long after. So, Gramps took me in and showed me how to surf, how to fend for myself, and how to be a man. He does alright with his HVAC business, but college was always going to be a stretch for me. I had my heart set on business school, to help me out with my dream of opening a surf shop here in town.
But, yeah, college is fucking expensive, and Gramps could only cover so much. So, I did what a lot of guys do: I went to fight for my country. I went with the Marines and did three brutal fucking tours in the Middle East before I got shipped home with a medical discharge and a purple heart after a roadside IED. The shrapnel wound to my shoulder doesn’t keep me from surfing, though it does hurt sometimes.
But the biggest change when I got back was that business school was the last damn thing I wanted to do. After the shit I saw over there, all I wanted in the world was to disappear into the zen that surfing brings me. Course, even just being a surf bum costs money, and Gramps is getting older and all. So, I spend a lot of my time working for Farrow HVAC.
I sigh, sweat trickling down my chest into my already drenched t-shirt. Fuck, I wish I was surfing.
I turn away from the waves and look over the pier towards the job today. I grin at the neon “Buns Out” sign, with two cinnamon buns squashed together in the worlds least subtle ass reference. I used to come here growing up, and I definitely remember my buddies and I giggling at the big dollops of frosting coating the buns on the sign. We used to call this place the “jizz hut,” being the witty, crude fourteen year olds we were.
Man, it’s crazy that this place is still open, especially in this fucking weather. Yeah, I used to come here when I was a kid, but not in the middle of summer. I mean, I love a warm, sticky cinnamon bun as much as the next guy, but who the ever-loving fuck is eating these things in the ninety-nine-degree heat? With this fucking humidity?
I groan and step out of the truck. Jesus, there’s even a line to get those fucking things. Hot, sticky dough, on a day like this. People are fucking weird. I’m about to grab my tools out the back of the pickup, but I realize I’m beyond sweaty—I’m fucking drenched. Not exactly a good look for a job. I peel the t-shirt off and let the hot sun dry my sweat for a second before I grab a fresh one from the cab. I pull it on and glance back at the bun shack. But this time, I’m not looking at the stupid sign, or the line of weirdos.
This time, I see her, and my whole fucking world stops spinning.
The girl behind the counter is fucking stunning. She’s beautiful, and not just “good looking beautiful,” I mean “the essence of fucking beauty beautiful.” She’s the kind of beautiful that Renaissance painters try to get onto a canvas. She’s so beautiful it’s like it’s ethereal, or unreal—like she’s a fucking fairy or something.
She looks frazzled, but it doesn’t do a thing to dull that shine. Some bitch is yelling at her, but she’s just smiling back, looking radiant. Then there’s the clothes—I mean, fuck. I guess the outfit hasn’t changed at all since the last time I was here. In this heat, it happens to be sticking to her like a second fucking skin, and I’m not gonna lie, that does things to a man. I can tell it’s not like she’s doing it for tips or to be sexy—I mean, it’s clear it’s the heat. But hell, it’s still sexy as fuck.
I growl, and my cock throbs hard. My eyes wander over her, and I groan. Fuck, it’s been a very long time but this ain’t the time or the place. I grab my tools, and I head over to the bun shack. I walk around back to the service door and ring the buzzer a few times. Seconds later, I can hear muttering from inside, and the lock being pulled.