“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, trying for casual and pretending that my heart isn’t beating a mile a minute as I slide my hand into his, feeling goosebumps dancing up my arm.Just a casual surfing experience with a friend, I try to tell myself.
He clutches my hand, and we run out into the waves, laughing. We paddle out together, waves rolling easily today. Cal said it’s a good morning to surf, the kind of morning that the locals don’t waste and tourists haven’t figured out.
The ocean feels different when you’re with someone who is making your pulse do stupid things.
He keeps glancing back at me like he’s checking I’m still there. Like he’s responsible for me. It’s ridiculous and sweet and makes my chest feel tight in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.
I didn’t have that with Tyler. Tyler was the kind of guy who always walked four feet in front of me and was constantly on his phone. He couldn’t care less. And now I’m seeing what I dodged.
It wasn’t all his fault, though.
As much as I hate to admit it, I didn’t exactly foster a great relationship between us. My ninety-hour work weeks didn’t leave much room left for romance. Maybe I was subconsciously avoiding what wasn’t true love. Unfortunately, I wasn’t aware enough to realize that until recently.
Tyler is a total cheating scumbag. That won’t change. However, I have to take some accountability for what went down.
The next relationship I have, I want to do better. I want to have lazy weekends with my partner and to build a family I can be present for. It’s strange how my escape to Coconut Beach has opened my eyes about what I want my future to look like.
I’m tired of being passive in my own life.
I want to take control and be happy in it.
Cal looks over at me and winks, making my heart flop inside my chest. It’s easy to imagine this future with someone like him. Not justbecause he’s the hot bartender who makes me feel alive. He’s kind and genuine and caring.
“You’re doing great,” Cal says, grinning at me.
“Hardly.” I’m out of breath and my muscles are already screaming, but I’m having fun.
Cal’s shown me a few times how to do it, and I’m trying to pick it up, but the truth is I’m so uncoordinated compared to him, and I’m terrible at surfing. I fall off every time, and we both laugh when he catches me. His hands on my waist send zings to my lady bits, and it’s more than obvious that I am wildly attracted to Cal.
We take a break, and I’m standing barefoot in the sand, the board on the ground. Cal sits next to me on the sand, his legs stretched out, watching the sun rise. It’s already rising, and it’s beautiful. I make a mental note to get up earlier and watch more of these sunrises. I never paid attention back in New York. I always felt like it was a rat race. I was running from one thing to another. Here, life just feels slower and steadier, somehow.
I’m trying my best not to stare at him. And when I look at him, he seems to be doing the same. The sun hits his shoulders, his dark hair wet with water. I’m failing. I am absolutely staring at him. I love his tattoos. I want to trace them all with my fingertips and ask him what they mean.
He turns and catches me looking, a little color rising in his cheeks, which shouldn’t be possible for a grown man who is probably used to being eyed like candy.
“Cal, I think I might be the worst surfer of all time,” I admit, tearing my eyes from his abs.
He shakes his head and chuckles. “It’s your first time. You’re allowed to figure it out, Miss Competitive.”
It’s strange not to be the best at something. I think it’s pretty much engrained in me to be top tier at everything I do. Surfing humbles me in the best possible way. I’m also learning I can have fun doing something I totally suck at.
“I’m taking that back with surfing,” I say to him with a sigh. “I’m terrible at it.”
He scoffs. “You just need practice.”
He lies badly.
I laugh and feel lighter than I have inmonths.
“You’re a good teacher,” I murmur, gaze locking with his.
And he is. He’s given me tips on when to paddle and when to stand. He’s hovered and helped, but he is good at teaching.
He’s a good friend, I remind myself. A very hot friend. But a friend.
We sit side by side, sun warm on us, while he tells me about the bar and the history of Coconut Beach. I’m interested in each fact he tells me, gobbling them up as fast as he can divulge them.
“What was it like to grow up here?” I ask, curiously.
