Chasing Waves Read online

  Copyright

  Chasing Waves

  Copyright © 2017

  Bianca Mori

  Kindle edition

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the copyright owner.

  Cover design by Bianca Mori

  Cover photo © Stocksy.com/John White

  CHASING WAVES

  Bianca Mori

  Table of contents

  Summary

  Excerpt

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Preview: Four Basic Principles

  Acknowledgments

  About Bianca Mori

  Books by Bianca Mori

  Chasing Waves

  Thirty-two-year-old Mags Abarquez is a single mom to a preschooler with golden ringlets, and by God, she is going to be good. After a lifetime of only being interested in catching the next wave, she tries out for her company’s training faculty, determined to be serious and make it work this time. The only catch? Luke, her hot, younger training mentor. With a sexy nape, a penchant for paper-thin T-shirts and a disarming smile, he’s Mags’ personal brand of kryptonite. Can she stay the course when temptation loves to banter and is so good with her son?

  A contemporary romance set in the Philippines about motherhood, workplace attraction and finding that sweet spot between passion and vocation, Chasing Waves will make you swoon and smile.

  I should know better than this…

  I settle on one of the long benches at the back of the store with a cup of coffee and a chocolate croissant, Auntie Tilde’s pasalubong safely deposited by my side and Magnus’s napping head curled on my lap, when I notice someone very familiar browsing through the baskets of bread.

  I can I.D. that distinctive nape (And back. Especially that flimsy T-shirt) anywhere. The nape’s owner turns and Luke’s eyes crinkle into a smile.

  “Hey there!” he approaches.

  “Hey yourself.”

  He glances down on my table. “More Cinematic Bread?”

  “Oh no.” I take a huge, flaky, chocolate-y bite. “I’m trying to unlearn that. This is simply for pleasure.”

  He leans and brushes a pastry flake from the corner of my mouth. There’s a brief flare in my belly at the contact of his fingertip with my lip.

  “Just out of curiosity,” I ask, a tad breathless, “how old are you?”

  “Me? Twenty-seven.” He gives me a puzzled grin as he pulls a free chair to our table. The sound of the leg scraping against the tiles wakes Magnus up. His curly head pops up from under the table, rubbing his eyes with chubby paws.

  Luke takes in the sudden appearance of a tiny human in stride. “Oops, sorry little guy!” He ruffles Magnus’s hair affectionately. “Is this your son?”

  “The very one.”

  “And how was nursery school, my man?”

  Magnus’s eyes squint at him, and then back at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I chuckle. “He’s not used to being sociable so soon as he wakes up.”

  “You and me both, man. What’s your name?”

  He clings to me but mumbles “Magnus” at the relentlessly cheery intruder.

  “That’s a real nice name. Magnus. Like a king’s name.” Luke puffs out his chest and stares around the room imperiously. That gets a giggle from my son. “I bet you’re the king in your house, aren’t you?” Magnus nods shyly. “Ha! I knew it. You say the command and your mom and da--”

  I shake my head, quickly and furtively. Luke glances at me, looking stricken.

  CHASING WAVES

  Bianca Mori

  To Thesa, Jaz, Jackie, Sugar, Abby, Rocio, Mom--

  Because you rock.

  Chapter 1

  SURFING LIFE’S WAVES

  My life as a wannabe surfer

  UGH WHY CAN’T I NAIL THIS STUPID TITLE

  SURFING

  Speech Draft

  Mags Abarquez

  Picture me on a wave.

  Surfing takes something that is the definition of effort and makes it look effortless. We like to say a person ‘coasted on a project’ or ‘surfed through some deadlines’ like it’s such an easy breezy thing.

  Wrong.

  Surfing hurts. Pressing your cheek against the board as it hurtles and bounces across the water: that scrapes your skin raw. The weight of your body, balanced on your toes and hands; your belly tensed, the pivot from which you pop up and launch yourself into an upright position: that taxes your muscles. When the ride ends and you are hurled off the board and plunged headlong into an angry wave, the saltwater invading your nostrils and throat: that burns.

  And when you’ve finally pushed off and fought to find that knife-edge balance? The exhilaration is fleeting; success, when achieved, lasts a few seconds, if at all.

  Then you do it again. And again. Until your arms feel like jelly and your skin is salt-burned. Just for those few seconds of freedom atop a rushing wave.

  I think of that particularly concentrated taste of the sea, when a storm is coming and the waves are beautiful. The salt seems heavy in the water, like it’s been boiled down. It stings your nose raw, leaves your lips swollen and briny. You just know that when the water feels that way, the waves are going to be amazing. That sting is a promise of long, unbroken rolls of water; waves so generous and so willing to be ridden that the sting, the pain, creates this exhilarating sense of anticipation. Even if only for a moment.

  ***

  “So you see, surfing is a lot like love,” I finish.

  Cass rolls her eyes and places the beer bottle on the table with exaggerated care.

  Auntie Tilde only laughs. She’s heard my surfing-is-like-love theory too many times to scoff. Besides, she understands. She lets me have my analogy, because she’s gracious and because she knows, a lot better than most people, that sometimes we need to cling to our theories to make sense of real life.

  “It’s getting late,” she says, clearing the table. “Can I call you a cab, Cass?”

  Cass is in her mid-20s, nearly a decade younger than me, and likes to call me mamu. Her dark hair turns to a rusty blonde near her temples and then morphs into crinkly algae green from chin to shoulders. It makes me think of seaweed fronds, waving in the water. She glances out the window. The sun is bright, the birds happily chirping. Eight in the morning, just three hours after our shift ended, but we are feeling it. Too much beer for breakfast (dinner?) and messed-up circadian rhythms, what fun!

  “It’s okay, Tita. I got it,” she says, waving her phone. The grid of city streets appears on the ride app on her screen. “My ride is a few minutes away.”

  “I wish we had those when I was younger,” Auntie Tilde sighs. “Then I would’ve left Harold earlier.”

  It’s become an old joke, the end of her marriage, and Cass and I chuckle as expected. Auntie Tilde is younger than my mom by two years but it’s like the groovy late 60s skipped Mom completely and landed full force on Auntie Tilde. She’d always been my champion, the wise older woman who comforted me when Mom read my diary or grounded me or said something hurtful (which was often). We understood each other, and that’s why I lived with he
r now in her ancient bungalow.

  Cass stands and hugs me tight. “I’m going to miss you, mamu Mags,” she says, her breath hot in my ear.

  “Come on Cass,” I squeeze her tight. “It’s just a different shift. We’ll still see each other.”

  She pulls away from me and grasps my shoulders until they nearly hurt. “That’s what they all say.”

  “Who knows? Maybe I’ll get to train you.”

  “I’m so going to be your worst agent.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  She smiles again, but her eyes start swimming a bit.

  “No, Cass! No drama!” I wail, my own eyes pricking.

  “But then who will walk me through some new bit of the billing process so that I don’t screw it up? Who will tell me weird theories about surfing when I want to talk about my screwed-up love life?” she chokes on the last word.

  I shake my head, remembering the sad tale she’d shared, earlier that morning over pre-breakfast shots of tequila, of a one-night-stand with a friend gone terribly wrong. “You just like that my nonexistent love life is more fucked up than yours.”

  She roars with laughter while Auntie Tilde hisses, “Language, Mags!”

  I clap my hands over my mouth as a mussed little boy’s head, barely visible over the ancient dining table, bobs from the back of the room and crashes into my lap. I run my hands against my son’s golden-brown curls, still a little baby-soft, as he wriggles against my stomach.

  “It’s the big guy!” says Cass.

  Magnus raises his head a bit from my lap and gives her a confused look. Then his sleepy eyes, a startlingly light, clear brown, shut tight and he buries his face against my stomach again.

  “Sleepy, Buchoy?”

  He nods, his nose tickling against my shirt.

  “I have your milk, Buchoy,” says Auntie Tilde, setting a Tetra Pak of chocolate milk on the table. “Drink up! You need to be strong for your first day of school!”

  Cass squats down and runs her hands down Magnus’s back. “I can’t believe he’s starting school, Mags. Three and a half years old and already in nursery! Are you excited, big guy?”

  He nods shyly, his little arms snaking around my back to hug me tight. “You take me to school, Mama?”

  “Yes, boo. I will.”

  There’s a buzz from the table as Cass’s ride rings for her; she gives me one last tight hug and promises to email me all about Clarence, our a-hole supervisor, and then she’s out the door.

  I watch her leave with a little pang of sadness. Cass, who’d been in the same Project Clausen wave as I was, is the tightest friend I have at work. We both had reputations and naturally gravitated towards each other in our little corner of BPO purgatory of walking irate customers through their billings. I’m not supposed to talk about it, but Project Clausen is a mid-sized cable TV subsidiary of a giant North American media conglomerate. (Our clients are often given code names because some of them treat offshoring their customer service departments to a third party in a tiny Southeast Asian nation like a dirty secret, so we all have to sign contracts promising not to reveal their true identity.) In BPO parlance, “waves” are like blocks in college. You come in with one batch of people and get trained, oriented and deployed all at the same time. But, as I’ve proven with my sudden jump to the training department, not all of us get out at the same time. Kind of like the army, I suppose.

  Before I can dig a little deeper into my new ‘BPO waves are like the Army’ theory, Auntie Tilde sets a cup of coffee in front of me. “You’ll need this if you’re bringing Buchoy to school and making it to your early shift.”

  “Thanks, Auntie.”

  She walks off with a groan, hand on her lower back. Her eyes are tired. “If I don’t get to say goodbye to you later: good luck, Mags.”

  Chapter 2

  If I have one (hah!) weakness, it’s necks.

  Male necks, to be specific. Male napes, if you have to ask. The sight of a smooth column of rosy-olive flesh bracketed by the dark bristles of a good, recent haircut makes me weak in the knees. Combine that sexy nape with a pair of wide shoulders and a nicely sculpted back?

  *Fans self and combusts into flames.*

  When I get to the office this afternoon and head to the pretty 16th floor training rooms instead of my project’s dank production floor on the 23rd, I had no clue I’d be confronted with such a fine specimen of my personal kryptonite. Yet here it is: a beautiful, smooth nape, lightly tanned, as if the owner had spent a few days on the beach just recently. It belongs to a guy crouched over the usual tangle of LAN, phone and projector cables that bedevil every meeting room in the office.

  Is our IT department finally hiring hot guys? His back muscles ripple under a flimsy gray t-shirt as he moves to pull a long blue cable stuck under a table leg. Oh lordy. I take in the broad shoulders tapering into a trim waist and that lovely bump of spine peeking just above the neck of his shirt, and I think I sigh. Audibly.

  Suddenly he straightens up and extends his hand to me.

  “Hey!” His rich voice is perfectly friendly and pitched with a Midwestern American accent. Definitely not from IT. “Have you been there long? I’m Luke Ignacio.”

  No, I haven’t been standing here long, ogling your world-class nape like a pervy, pervy girl.

  “Hi. Mags.” I take his warm, strong hand in mine.

  Oh lordy. I’m already a devoted fangirl of his nape, but his face seals the deal. Friendly eyes that crinkle as he smiles. Nicely shaped lips. That ‘50s fade haircut I like so much but which Cass calls the Hitler Youth look.

  “Mags Abarquez? From Project Clausen?” He lets my hand go to run his through his fascist hair. “When I saw your profile I asked Tina if we got a Leadership Development application by mistake! Your scorecards were consistently part of the team’s upper third—those are team lead stats!”

  “Thanks,” I smile demurely. If I knew this guy would be turned on by the metrics of how quickly and correctly I process calls, wait till he sees my after-shift reports! Sizzling. “I’m flattered you think I can make it through L-Dev. But nah, I’ve heard the horror stories.” The leadership program all potential management candidates had to go through before even being considered for promotion was notoriously stressful.

  He crosses his hands over his chest and cocks his head, giving me his full attention. “ So what made you want to apply to training?”

  “Oh. Wow.” I blink several times, my tongue tied. “I wasn’t prepared to answer with my motivations this early in the shift!”

  “I’m so sorry! Did you close Project Clausen and report straight here?”

  “Yeah.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to launch into a rant about how my a-hole supervisor Clarence wouldn’t even let me move my rest day to the day before I was to start in this mid-shift training program (Clarence’s actual words, when I clocked out at five this morning: “Training starts at one pm? That’s more than enough sleep than I usually get!”), but I settle for a shrug instead.

  “That’s tough,” he shakes his head and gestures to the side table. “Please, have some coffee, I’m sure you need it.” Before I can take a step, though, he fills a mug with the fresh brew, then pours one more for himself.

  “So…?” His eyes are curious over the rim of his mug.

  Okay then. It was time for the tip-of-the-iceberg answer.

  “I’ve been in Project Clausen for three years,” I say in a tight rush, breathless before I can get to the next sentence. “I felt like it was time. Plus I’ve always enjoyed the training courses I’ve taken, so I wanted to be on the other side of the room, for a change. Help someone as much as I’ve been helped before.”

  He nods encouragingly. Relief seeps through me; the tip-of-the-iceberg answer works.

  “Well, I’m glad you decided to make the change, Mags.” The door to the room opens and more trainees file in. “That’s my cue! I hope you enjoy today’s class.”

  The trainees settle in their seats; me and my coff
ee mug settle at a spot near the center of the U-shaped table. Luke introduces himself and tells us what to expect from the training program. My face slowly turns into a heart-eyes emoji. God, he’s so cute. And articulate. And…

  “All right! That’s it for me. Now it’s your turn. Please introduce yourself and make sure to end your introduction by completing this sentence: ‘One thing about me that you would be surprised to learn is…’” He smiles at the class as the trainees start composing their intros. “Mags? Would you like to start?”

  Son of a bitch.

  Heart hammering in my ribs, I lick my lips. Every eye on the room is upon me. My palms start to itch.

  “A-all r-right.”

  This is so stupid. Here I am in a roomful of juveniles, nervous about sharing ‘One thing about me that you would be surprised to learn.’ It’s a standard breaking-the-ice question, one that I’d encountered countless times throughout the several dozen training sessions I’d attended as a professional call center-hopper. But talking in front of a lot of people for the first time, no matter who they are, always gives me the heebie-jeebies.

  “I’m Mags Abarquez. I was with Project Clausen for the past three years -- the longest I’ve ever been in any project or contact center.” Blank looks from the room. “Okay... I’m a mom and my son just started nursery school today.” Someone awwwws and cracks an appreciative smile at that. “And. Um. One thing about me….well. You might be surprised to learn that...my favorite thing in the world to do is surf.”

  “Cool!” says Luke, clapping his hands twice. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to surf. I’m more of a hiking guy myself.” His eyes disappear into his cheeks as he smiles. “Thank you for sharing that, Mags. And congratulations on your boy’s first day in nursery school!”

  I stammer my thanks as I sit down and the guy beside me introduces himself as Peter and starts his spiel.