Fallon grabs her, and they jump up and down, celebrating. Josie joins them, and so do the Bees.
Once photos are taken, Wendy runs toward me. She’s dripping wet with her hair plastered to her shoulders. Water slides down her face as she slams into me at full speed. My arms close around her, and the ocean soaks through my shirt as I spin her around. Her whole body vibrates as she laughs, full of leftover adrenaline.
She presses her face into my neck, still breathing hard, still laughing.
“I’m so fucking proud of you.”
She pulls back and looks at me. Her brown eyes catch the afternoon light, and I study the gold flecks.
“I love you,” I say. The words tumble out of my mouth on a crowded beach in broad daylight, and I mean every one of them.
Wendy’s eyes soften, and she doesn’t move. Then her hand comes up to the side of my face. She holds my cheek and looks at me for a long time.
“Carter, I—” She closes the distance and kisses me instead, and the kiss says everything she can’t.
She didn’t say it back, but I don’t take it personal. I’ve never said those words to hear them in return. I don’t want to live with the regret of someone not knowing how I feel about them.
We pull apart, and her hand drops from my face. In the distance, someone’s kid screams while the DJ switches tracks.
Cal appears with two drinks. “Seems you two could use these.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Cal points at me with the rum bottle. “Way to live the sweet life.”
Gran watches from her beach chair with her mimosa and says absolutely nothing.
Wendy walks away, grabbing my hand and pulling me with her. We don’t talk about it.
The surf competition and celebration fade into the late afternoon. The rum keeps finding my cup. Wendy walks away at one point, and Fallon stares at me.
“What was that, Banks?”
“Nothing,” I say with a shrug.
“If you hurt her, I will?—”
“I don’t need the warning.” I hold up my hand.
“Most guys do,” she says.
“I’m not most guys,” I tell her, gulping down the rest of my Coconut Crush.
By sunset, the crowd scatters. Wendy and I walk back to the B&B. Her trophy is in one hand, and she’s got her other index finger looped with mine. When we enter, she sets the trophy on the front-desk counter.
The lobby is empty. Sunlight cuts through the windows and catches the salt still drying on her shoulders. She runs her thumbalong the base of the trophy, smiling at nothing, and I want her somewhere no one else can reach.
“Do you want to get out of here?” I ask her.
She turns. “Really?”
“I want privacy.”
Her eyebrows lift. “There’s always the Grand Palm. It has a rooftop pool and forty-dollar cocktails.”
“I’ll make a phone call.”
“Carter, that place is?—”
