“Okay, Gold Coast, let’s try this again,” I said, holding the board steady in the shallows. The morning sun bounced off the water, bright enough to make Michelle squint. Her hair was a mess of salt and frizz, and she looked absolutely done. Not on my watch. Not in my surf lesson.
She groaned but dropped to her stomach and paddled out a few feet before turning back. I guided the board into position, gave her a little shove, and called, “Okay—pop up!”
Michelle scrambled like a baby giraffe. Knees bent, arms flailing, she somehow managed to stand for a whole second—maybe less—before wobbling and collapsing backward. Right into me. I caught her against my chest, salt water splashing around us. Her laughter was breathless, bubbling against myshoulder, and when she tilted her head back, the sunlight hit her face just right.
“I stood up,” she gasped, still laughing. “Aren’t you proud of me?”
She’d been upright for maybe a nanosecond. Hardly medal-worthy.
Still… that grin. Those eyes.
“Very.”
The air between us shifted. Her hands on my shoulders. Her body pressed against mine. It was all I could do to keep my thoughts to myself. Then she gave me the kind of look I didn’t need instructions for, and my job flashed before my eyes. One kiss and I was done. Fired on the spot. But holy hell… what a way to go.
“We can’t,” I said, even though every part of me was screaming otherwise.
Michelle slid her fingers into my wet hair, keeping me close. “Can’t we?” she breathed.
Was that a question or a dare?
Drops of seawater clung to her lips, taunting me. I pulled her tighter as the tide rocked us together. “I’ll get fired if someone sees.”
Michelle’s smile turned wicked. “Then no one sees.” And with a tug, she pulled us under.
For once, the world cut out. No noise. No responsibilities. Just her mouth on mine in a cool rush of saltwater—her lips fever-hot against the chill, tongue sliding in like she owned every breath I had left. Weightless, lungs burning, her hair floated across my cheek, while her nipples brushed my skin through the soaked cling of her one-piece swimsuit in sharp, teasing points that jolted straight through me. The air was quickly draining, but I didn’t care—I only wanted more. If Icould have, I’d have stayed under with her until my chest gave out and the ocean swallowed us whole.
We broke the surface gasping, her laughter wild and breathless. Maybe Michelle had a rebel heart after all.
Yeah. I’d go under again for that.
The week’sworth of private surf lessons Michelle scored with her coupon hadn’t exactly gone to plan. Didn’t matter what I did, there was no teaching her. Michelle was just spectacularly uncoordinated, to the point where I found myself scrambling for compliments. Gems like ‘Balance is overrated’ and ‘I’ve never seen anyone paddle backwards with such confidence.’
Nah, we needed something less coordinated but still brave… like the coasters at Magic Mountain.
What I’d learned from Michelle was that rich kids didn’t spend their Saturdays at an amusement park. They jetted off to Fiji or Rome or hopped on some private yacht with their names on the guest list. A rickety coaster and graffiti-covered trash cans buzzing with yellowjackets weren’t on their radar. For the rest of us, though, thiswasthe vacation. Sticky pavement, fried food, and the thrill of cheating death for three minutes at a time.
Michelle stayed stoic as we wound back and forth beneath the massive white skeleton of track that towered overhead like some giant ribcage. Every few minutes, a train roared past as the wooden beams rattled and the riders screamed. Michelle’s eyes followed the cars as they whipped by, her knuckles white on the safety rail.
“You’ve still got time to chicken out,” I said, giving her no slack.
Just like she’d given me none when she picked our last spot—a fancy French restaurant in the next county, safely out ofrange of anyone she knew. Michelle had thought it would be fun to “culture” me. She’d slicked my hair back and shoved me into a rented suit, but forgot to mention the place required basic skills with a fork and knife. I quickly discovered that sawing through my duck à l’orange with the edge of my fork wasn’t how rich people did it.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she said, leaning against the railing beside me. “No, I’m going to ride this deathtrap just to spite you.”
Michelle’s spunk never ceased to amaze me. Sometimes it felt like she was from another planet. Her life experiences were a world away from mine, but then she’d toss out some snotty little diss, and I’d swear I’d trained her myself.
“If you die,” I offered helpfully, “at least you’ll go out screaming my name.”
“Cursing your name is more like it.”
“Same thing. At least you’ll be thinking about me at the end.”
She shifted, fidgeting with the strap of her tank top like she couldn’t get comfortable, and before I thought twice, I hooked an arm around her waist and lifted her onto the railing. She gave a little squeal and grabbed my shoulders, legs instinctively wrapping around my waist so she wouldn’t topple backward.
“Scott!” she whispered, half scandalized, half laughing. “You’re going to knock me over.”
“I’ve got you. Relax.”
