She’s stunning.
But I do, tearing my gaze away to see what she sees. The inky black water sparkles in the distance while foamy white waves crash one after another. The sound is hypnotic. Soothing.
“Yeah,” I agree. “It’s pretty epic.”
Her smile widens. “What about you? Do you like the cold, or do you prefer the heat?” She pauses for a second, probably realizing the double meaning of her question. She instantly blushes. God, she’s fucking cute.
“A few months ago, I would have said the heat,” I answer, giving her a meaningful look. “But the cold is starting to grow on me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. But, Pres?”
We’ve completely stopped walking. We’re just two lone figures staring at each other on an empty beach in the middle of the night. “Hmm?”
“This is not cold. It’s mild at best.”
She laughs. “This isn’t, but go put your feet in the water. Or better yet, go spend a few hours in it and see if you change your mind.”
“You swim in that freezing ass water?” I raise a brow as I shove my hands in my pockets. I won’t lie. It does feel pretty chilly out here.
“God, no. But some swear a brisk swim in the Pacific keeps you healthy and young,” she says with a shrug. “But I do occasionally surf.”
“You can surf?” I’m learning all sorts of new things about Presley Creed tonight, and fuck, that should not be hot.
“You can’t?”
“Remember the part where I said I’ve never lived near the ocean before?”
“Yeah, but I guess I just figured Hen would have offered to teach you by now.”
“He did, but whenever he goes out, it’s always with a group and?—”
She nods. “I get it. I don’t like crowds either.”
A moment of understanding passes between us.
“I’ll teach you.”
“Pres, you don’t have to?—”
“I do,” she insists. “You’re not a real Californian until you wipe out on at least one wave.”
My lips quirk. “Well, prepare to be amazed, because if there’s one thing I’m bad at, it’s organized sports.”
Chapter Eight
HOLLIS
“I will never understand why you live here,” Jonas says from my living room as I rummage through my fridge to find us some beers.
I really need to go grocery shopping. I’m usually good at cooking and fending for myself. I’ve been doing it most of my life, after all. But right now, with half a carton of milk and leftover Chinese food, the inside of my fridge is looking pretty damn pathetic.
I find the IPA he likes, grab two, and head back to the living room. He’s lounging on my sofa in fitted khakis and a blue button-down. He looks far too regal for the bare white walls and sparse furnishings. I, however, fit right in with my jeans and plain white tee. “Don’t knock my place. It’s homey.”
I hand over one of the beers, and he pops the top and takes a long drink. “If by homey, you mean small, sad, and devoid of life, then sure. It’s veryhomey.”
I take a seat across from him and roll my eyes at his theatrics. “You’re just annoyed I didn’t hire that fancy designer Keisha got to design your place.”
