“Oh, right. Because you were waiting forWeston,” she sings, snickering. “Okay, love you.”
“Love you,” I grumble, feeling Wes smile against my palm as he slowly raises a brow.
“Bye, Willow!” Dahlia calls as their voices fade away.
I drop my head to his shoulder, sighing with relief. He cups the back of my head, and if I’m not mistaken, he plants a kiss into my hair.
“We should probably go before we’re caught,” Wes whispers.
I whine, the sound muffled against his collarbone, nodding in agreement.
CHAPTER 21
WESTON
Rain pelts the windshield as we turn down Oceanside Boulevard. A summer storm rolled in just as we finished training earlier this afternoon, though the wind was howling since the early morning, making for choppy conditions. I surfed through it, because I knew it’d make me stronger. Plus, completing an almost-decent rodeo flip and an effortless snap given the unpredictability of the waves and rough waters had me feeling more ready than ever for the Challenger next week.
The weather got significantly worse as we were leaving, and the thirty-mile drive back to Pacific Shores made me thankful I hadn’t driven my truck today. It still only starts up about half the time, and even though Leo has suggested I take it into the auto repair shop his family owns, I know the maintenance is going to be significant, and I don’t want to accept handouts. I’m hoping by the time my summer here is over, I’ll have saved enough from working at Heathen’s to afford a proper tune up and at least get myself back to Santa Monica.
Leo pulls his car into the driveway and kills the engine before looking at me. “You did good today, I think you’re ready. I wantto take the rest of the week and go a little slower. Focus on conditioning and form, not injuring yourself.”
“So, you want to stay in the cove from now on?”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “We’ll stay here tomorrow in case the weather is shit, and then I’ll take you back up north the last few days before the competition—we’ll focus on perfecting your basics and save the tricks for the Challenger.”
I nod. “All right.”
Leo unlocks the door, patting my shoulder before he leaps out into the rain and jogs up his porch. I do the same, passing through the gate that separates the main house and the garage. I move quickly to get under the cover of my porch before I pause to look out at the horizon. The clouds are menacing, sheets of mist showering over the endless ocean, hardly visible through the density of the storm. The sun descends over the Pacific, fighting to peek through, clashing with the violent sky. Like two old gods at war.
I’m not a fan of storms. I don’t like the screaming of wind or the rumbling of thunder. It reminds me of wrath and anger and hatred. The night is darker, loneliness somehow deeper because a mist of discomfort isolates humanity. We’re all drawn indoors, hiding from the world and each other. I spend my whole life in hiding, but bad weather serves as some kind of sick reminder of it.
I used to cower beneath a thunderhead, and that kind of living made me a storm cloud. Now I’m always in fear others are hiding from me.
I turn from the cliffside, entering Willow’s birthday into the keypad and unlocking the door. I head straight into the bathroom, stripping out of my wet clothes and stepping into the shower, allowing the hot water to soak my frigid bones and sore muscles.
Now that I’ve been training away from the cove and up the coast—meeting with Liv halfway between where she’s located and Pacific Shores—I’ve hardly seen Willow. We’ve been working opposite schedules at the boardwalk, her opening Honeysuckle in the morning, and me closing Heathen’s at night. We text almost constantly, but we haven’t discussed that moment in the shower last weekend. It doesn’t feel right to address it over the phone, and I haven’t had any time alone with her, though I’m desperate for it.
I want to ask her, had we not been interrupted, how far we might’ve gone. The possibilities have played on a loop inside my head every time I’m in the shower, or when I lie down at night—my cock in my hand and her face on my mind. I’ve never experienced a desire so potent before. I was sure this type of feeling just simply didn’t exist for me.
I remind myself constantly that Willow’s been through the worst kind of false love, and while she’s slowly coming out the other side, I can’t risk pushing things too far or too fast. I need to move at her pace, remind her I’m just as infatuated with her brain as I am her body, that I want her heart and soul just as badly as I want her physical being. I also remind myself that I need to move slowly for me too. Every aspect of this is new to me, and as much as I want to explore everything with Willow, I’m fucking terrified of being unable to give her what she deserves.
I’m terrified of disobeying her father’s wishes and losing my future because of it.
Terrified of fucking up and losing Willow and surfing both.
So, not seeing her has been hard, but I also think it’s exactly what we needed. Nine days of space to breathe, confirming that it’s a hell of a lot easier to do so when we’re together than when we’re apart.
That’s what Willow feels like to me. Being underwater, pushing toward the surface, watching the sun’s rays dance beneath the waves, everything quiet and muted. Then, breaking through, taking that first deep, all-consuming breath of salt air. Daylight explodes, brightening the entire world. The roar of crashing waves rush through your ears. You’re reminded what life feels like, and that no matter how peaceful the stillness beneath the water is, it’s not living.
I’m not sure I’ve ever been living, not really. Not until I met her.
While I’m doing my damnedest to respect Leo’s wishes, I can’t stay away from her anymore, and I’m more determined than ever to prove to him, to Willow, that I can be what she needs.
After I’m finished with my shower and toweled off, I throw one of my prepared dinners in the microwave and head into the bedroom to change. I slip on a pair of joggers and a tee before tossing my towel in the basket next to the closet door. My eye catches on the bookshelf and vanity in the corner. I’ve never paid much attention to either of them before, but a memory filters through my mind.
All women should read romance so they have a bar to set their standards, all men should read romance so they can learn how to properly please a woman.
Curiosity over Willow’s comment pricks at my skin, and I approach the shelf, thumbing through the spines in search of any romance titles. I know Darby and Leo have a home library in the main house, so I assume these are leftovers that wouldn’t fit. Mostly travel guides to Southern California. None of them seem to be romantic fiction.
