His hair is a mess from yanking his shirt off, sticking up in unruly tufts that somehow make him look even more handsome.
My fingers twitch around the edge of my board.
Just last Saturday, we were on his boat, and I had my hand wrapped around his—
Abort the flashback.
My face burns hot.
I’ve beensodisciplined about not thinking about that moment. Well, relatively disciplined. I’ve only replayed it every single night before bed, but that hardly counts.
To my horror, he walks toward us.
“Three o’clock,” Fee announces at foghorn volume.
“I know,” I hiss, willing her to stop drawing attention to us.
How the hell did he even know I was here? Has he come to babysit me? Did Jake send him? Maybe there’s something urgent at work and they couldn’t reach me?
I don’t want him to see me stuffed into rubber.
Still, that treacherous flutter starts in my chest. That stupid, hopeful part that whispers: he’s here, he came, maybe—
He walks straight past me.
Not a glance. Not a flicker of recognition.
His eyes are locked on Maren.
A strange, static buzz floods my ears. There’s something in his expression that makes my skin prickle with uncomfortable recognition.
Wait.
No.
The pieces snap together in one nauseating second.
That blonde hair. The way she moves. That familiar confidence.
Oh my fucking God.
I know exactly where I’ve seen Maren before.
She’s not just our bubbly surfing instructor. She’sher. The goddess from his cottage. The one he spanked before they disappeared inside to do things that have tortured my imagination ever since.
I stare at my surfboard, studying the teeth marks.
It was awful when I thought he was here for me.
This isso much worse.
“Maren,” Patrick says.
I want to dig a hole in the black sand and crawl in. Maybe if I turn my head away, he won’t see me.
“How was your morning session?” he asks, like they’re old friends. Or current lovers.
“Brutal.” Maren laughs, rolling her shoulders. “Still feeling it. Oh—” She reaches behind her back, muscles flexing. “Can you help? This zipper’s been sticking.”
