He stands in front of me like he has no fucking clue what he looks like. The backward baseball cap atop his head has a lockof his dark hair peeking out over his forehead, and the way he’s now crossing his arms as he leans against his surfboard makes his biceps flex and bulge. He’s obnoxiously attractive, without any ounce of the arrogant aura most men who look like him would possess, which almost makes him more annoying.
“If there is water, there is a chance of drowning. Always. You should never go out alone.” I shrug. “But feel free to test his temper about it if you’d prefer.”
He huffs, frustrated, and I want to laugh at that too.
I haven’t spoken to Weston directly since he moved in Friday. I’ve mostly stuck to my room. But I saw him through my window after he arrived, so I knew he’d know I was home too.
“I’m not meeting with your dad, though. I’m meeting some other coach,” he says incredulously. “I guess your dad is preoccupied this week.”
Yeah, sorry. Hate to be inconvenient, but I’ve got a pregnancy to terminate.
I roll my eyes, capping each of my paints and adding them to my smock before I untie it from my waist and roll it up.
“Would the other coach even care?” he asks.
I stuff my smock into my tote bag before folding up my easel. “I mean... yeah. It’s a rule my dad set for anyone surfing in the cove. Plus, Liv is going to report back everything you do toda?—”
“Liv?” he asks.
I pause, lifting my head, and suddenly, Weston is a step closer. Close enough that I can smell whatever aftershave he used this morning. Something like lemons and sandalwood. My breath catches at the proximity, and I lean back.
He clocks the movement, keeping his eyes on mine as he gently takes one of the legs of my easel from my hand, pulling it toward him. His lips tilt at the corner, and I wonder if it’s supposed to be a comforting smile. I let it go, and he steps away, continuing to fold my easel for me.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “Liv Costa-Ramos. Please don’t tell me you’re attempting to be a professional surfer and you don’t know who she is.”
His head snaps up as he pauses, jaw dropping. “I’m... I’m being trained by Livia Costa-Ramos today?”
“Yeah? Dad didn’t tell you? Liv is family.”
“What?” he gasps, staring after me in astonishment as my easel hangs limply from his hands. “I... I knew your dad trained her before her first Olympics, but I hadn’t realized?—”
“She’s married to my cousin, Lou.” I point to my easel. “Are you going... What are you doing with that?”
He blinks rapidly, dropping his head and inspecting his hands as if realizing for the first time that he’s holding something. “Sorry. I was trying to help and then you...” He sighs as he drops to his knees in the sand and continues folding the legs together.
“Thanks,” I say, tucking my unfinished painting beneath my arm as I swing my bag over my shoulder. “And Liv is great, by the way. Don’t be nervous. She’s... intense. But great.”
He nods, standing and holding my compacted easel that was definitely folded incorrectly.
I bite my lip to hide my smile, taking it from him. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Weston is so stoic, it’s as if his skin is made of something impenetrable, and I’m frustrated by how frustrating I find it.
“Well, I’ll see you around, Weston.” I pass him, and he anchors his eyes to mine—just as he did the other night through my window—watching with rapt focus until I reach the stairs.
His stare is steel, impassible and impossible to comprehend, though he doesn’t look away.
“Sure, Willow,” he says, his voice a rough caress. The sound of my name from his mouth feels intentional, brushing over the back of my neck as I turn and begin ascending the cliffside.
His gaze brands me with every step I take.
The house is still quiet when I slip through the back door and sneak into the kitchen, assuming my parents are still in bed. It’s just before six a.m. Neither of my parents are particularly early risers, and Allie will be sleeping until at least eleven, as she often does when she doesn’t have a morning shift at the bakery.
I open the fridge, staring blankly at the shelves. I’m sure I should eat something before my appointment today, but what I thought was stress-induced nausea is actually morning sickness, and my appetite is nonexistent.
The front door creaks from the front of the house, and the sound of two hushed voices filter through. I shut the fridge and turn around just in time to find my cousin and her wife entering the kitchen through the dining room.
Lou pauses, eyes widening as she notices me. “Willow,” she breathes, before a bright smile takes over her face and she closes the distance between us, wrapping me in her arms. “I didn’t think you’d be awake already. I missed you.”
