“He got me earlier too.” He reaches out and steadies my board. “Came up right next to me. Nearly went over.”
“And you didn’t warn me?”
“He’d gone by the time you came out.” He tips his head, those green-gold eyes warm in the morning light, and I absolutely don’t let myself think about how good he looks right now. Wet hair pushed back. Board under him. Bare chest already golden from the sun, dripping with water. Completely unfair. “Were you watching me?”
I pull myself back onto my board and sit up on my heels. “I was watching the waves.”
“From the deck.”
“I live here temporarily. I’m allowed to observe my surroundings.”
His mouth curves. “For how long?”
“Long enough to notice the wave pattern.” I push my hair back again. “Which was excellent, for the record.”
That grin appears, the one that destroyed me on the plane and has only gotten worse since. “I saw you come out,” he says. His gaze drifts over me, slow enough to make heat gather low in my stomach. “Was wondering how long before you joined me.”
“I was always coming out. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Sure.” He nods toward the horizon where a set is building. “Want to head out a little? Smoother past the first break.”
I lie on my stomach on the board, and we paddle side by side for a minute, the water slipping cool and blue around us. I watch the strength in his arms in my peripheral vision and tell myself I’m studying his technique, which is a lie so obvious it should embarrass me more than it does.
“So,” he says.
“So.”
“We could talk about the plane.”
I keep my eyes on the horizon. “We could.”
“Or,” he says, voice going lower, “we could keep circling it until one of us gives in.”
I pinch my lips to the side, knowing I couldn’t run from it much longer. “Option two sounds easier.”
“I spent weeks looking for you.”
“You mentioned that,” I say softly, but my pulse is in my throat now. Part of me wants to ask how hard he looked, where he went, whether he was disappointed every time it wasn’t me.
He sits up on his board, straddling it, and the sight of him has me paying attention. Sun on his skin. Water beading and sliding down his chest. The hard line of his stomach. The quiet confidence of a man who knows exactly what kind of effect he has and isn’t above using it.
I quickly divert my attention to the water instead as I sit up as well.
“You left while I was sleeping,” he says.
“You looked peaceful, and I didn’t want to bother you.”
“I was going to ask for your number.”
“I know.” I pick at the edge of my traction pad. “That’s kind of why I left.”
He studies me for a second, the full weight of his attention, his patience, is far too intimate for open water this early in the morning. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you know how I work.” I finally glance at him. “I knew if you asked, I’d say yes. And then I’d have your number in my phone, and I’d want to use it, but I came here to be on my own for a while. I’d never be able to leave you alone.”
His eyes hold mine. “Too late for that?”
My pulse skips. “You say things like that on purpose to make me swoon.”
