Another wave builds. Instead of paddling through like I’m supposed to, I let it crash over me. Salt rips up my nose, down my throat. I’m choking in waist-deep water.
“Georgie!” Maren splashes toward me. “Are you okay?”
“Never better,” I wheeze.
Get out of the water, you idiot. You’re not built for this. Go back to spending Saturdays coding.
Ugh. My inner voice has zero faith in me.
But… this is stupid, I know it is, and yet if I don’t at least manage to catch one wave, it’ll feel like giving up something bigger than surfing.
I drag myself back onto the board, chest heaving, half-drowned.
Wave after wave knocks me down. I choke, sputter, claw back on, and get thrown straight off again. My wetsuit feels like wet cement.
Still, I grit my teeth, force myself to breathe, and wait for the next small swell.
I paddle, clumsy but determined, feeling the board rise under me, and before I can overthink it, I push up to my feet.
Somehow, miraculously, I’m standing!
The board catches and skims forward, the water roaring underneath. Cold spray bites my cheeks.
“I’m flying!” I shout into the wind.
And then I’m not. Smack—straight into the water, limbs flailing everywhere.
But I did it.
I surface, triumphant in the way someone might after winning bronze at the Olympics. Spinning in the water, I do a frantic scan, desperate for Maren or Fee to have seen.
That’s when I spot someone on the walkway, watching.
Heat rushes through me, a different kind of wave. He saw me do it. My tiny, ridiculous triumph.
TWENTY-ONE
The chain of command
Patrick
“What’s the occupancy lookinglike for next week?” I lean against reception, watching Mary navigate her computer.
She squints at her screen. “Ninety-two percent Monday through Thursday. Full up for the weekend—that wedding lot from Edinburgh.”
“Did they sort out their dietary demands yet?”
“Aye. Eighteen vegetarians, four vegans, and one poor sod who’s allergic to everything but air.” Her fingers click across the keyboard. “Kitchen’s not happy about the last-minute changes, but they’ll manage.”
“Tell MacLeod tough shit. That’s what we pay him for.” I drum my fingers on the counter. “And the contractors? They finishing the west wing repairs before the wedding guests arrive?”
“They say Friday, but...” She gives me that look that means don’t hold your breath.
“Thursday. Or they’re covering every comped room out of their own pockets.” I push off the counter. “Anything else I need to lose sleep over?”
“That’s all the disasters for now.” She pauses, shuffling key cards. “That poor lass in the back office has been here since half six this morning. Again.”
“She’s doing her job. I’m not chaining her to the desk.”
