I stand where the wash curls over my feet, cool and teasing. The ocean at home wears gray and a hint of meanness; it keeps its distance and makes sure you know who’s in charge. This one shows off, little trade-wind sets braiding together and collapsing on the sand with more enthusiasm than physics strictly requires, blue sliding into turquoise until my brain trips over it. I’m not confused about what lives three meters out—ankle-tickles convert to real force past the break and bathymetry does not care about optimism—yet the pull feels steady rather than hostile, and for once the part of me that measures risk for a living decides I can meet it without embarrassing myself.
I wade in and let the cold climb my shins, then my knees, then the soft edge of my nerves—blessed relief from the heat. By the time thewater settles at my waist, tiny silver fish ribbon past in tight formation, a hundred little mirrors.Silversides? Atherinids?I mentally apologize to my ichthyology professor for not being able to do better than “sparkly and fast.”
Once my breathing matches the small sets rolling through, I plant my palms on the board and try to sit. It flips; so do I. A quick scan—no witnesses, thank God. Second attempt: elbows locked, center low, one leg over and then the other. I end up perched on the child-sized board like a very determined flamingo, and it works. The water holds. For a moment it’s just green bikini, salt on my tongue, sun on my shoulders, and the lazy lift and fall of the Pacific like a hand under my spine.
I wish my parents could see this part—the part where the homesick knot loosens. I’ve been telling them I’m okay, that moving here was right; I believed it in theory. Floating here, I mean it.
I start to paddle, inching farther from shore—not to catch anything, absolutely not—just to make the board earn its keep. It’s pleasant until a short, punchy bump lifts the nose higher than seems necessary. I shift forward, grip the rails, manage to stay put long enough to feel smug, and that is when the second wave in the set sneaks behind the first and tips me straight off the back.
No bottom under my feet now. The water goes white-green and loud, the board pops free and drifts out of reach—no leash, of course—and the aerated chop turns my stroke to nothing. I blink salt from my eyes and get the geography of up and down briefly wrong; the trick is to exhale and follow the bubbles, so I do, small silver strings rising where my brain failed to. Fish ribbon past with clean efficiency and judgemental googly eyes while I pinwheel in their corridor like a misplacedfile.
This is not panic. Not yet. I can swim, I can hold my breath, I know sets come in threes. I tuck my chin, angle toward the brightest patch above, and wait for the water to loosen its grip long enough to let me surface.
Just when I think I finally know which way is up, I’m hit again—only this isn’t a wave, it’s warm and unyielding, an arm clamping across my waist and hauling me out of the constant roll until my head breaks the surface and air rakes down my throat; it can’t have been more than a minute, but my lungs file a complaint anyway.
The hold slides from my waist to my back, a solid palm braced under my ribs, and I’m pressed against another body while we move, slow and sure, until my toes find sand on the very tips.
“Whoa there,” says the voice that’s been both my dreams and my nightmare for a month. “I thought you were a goner for a second.”
This time he sounds amused; a low chuckle vibrates through my spine. I look down at the forearm cinched around my middle—salt-slick, iron-steady—while I get my balance and the nerve to turn.
When I do, I run straight into an indecent amount of him. Abs I’ve only seen implied by shirts are now incontrovertible evidence; water beads track over a chest that has been threatening cotton for weeks. In retrospect, drowning might have been the less complicated choice.
My gaze travels up—broad shoulder, corded neck—until it lands on his face. Holden Wilkes is smiling. It’s the full thing: bright teeth framed by a generous mouth, small lines at the corners of his eyes, dark hair wet and pushed across his forehead. For a beat I genuinely wonder if Ididdrown back there.
Reality snaps back when his eyes move over my face and recognition sparks; the smile drops faster than the wave that flipped me, leaving confusion and surprise in his eyes and his mouth pulled down, unhappy.
“Coralie?”
“Hello.” Goody. My vocabulary abandons me where this man is concerned.
“What were you doing out there?”
I glance at the waves, then at my board, bobbing treacherously in shin-deep water. “Surfing?”
He scoffs. “You shouldn’t be in the water alone, especially if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
Heat crawls up my cheeks, fighting the cool water at my shoulders, and only then do I register that his arm is still firm around my waist. Of course I had to be saved by the one asshole in O?ahu who would probably have preferred not to share oxygen with me; I have preciselythismuchluck.
I peel his hand away and start past him—dramatic exits being notably less dramatic at wading speed. “Thanks for helping me.”
His expression flashes to stunned—behold, a human—before he follows in three easy strides. I snag the board as we go, drop it at the stand, and head for my towel. He stays a step behind the whole way.
I spin, primed to give him hell if he thinks he can deliver another lecture on inadequacy, and the sight of him strips the words clean out of my mouth. Sunlight catches the hard set of his jaw and throws off his watch in a quick, bright flash; every line of him is cut and precise, those dark eyes sharp and assessing, his whole body somehow both tense and at ease, which should not be possible. Holden might be an unfeeling robot with a superiority complex, but he is hot;no, that doesn’t even begin to cover it—he is very likely what the Greeks were trying to sculpt, all angles and control and heat, and there is too much to take in at once.
Okay, so I am not immune to the male body—sue me. His gaze, however, is fixed on my feet and nowhere else, like anything north of my ankles requires ethics clearance.
“Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you.”
A scoff leaves my mouth—new, unfamiliar, a sound that startles even me. “Or what, you would’ve let me drown?”
His eyes snap to mine, his head lifting so fast I worry for his C3; white rims the brown in a clean ring of shock. The reason for it is beyond me.
“Why would you say something like that?”
“Why would I… okay. You know what? Leave it.” If he wants distance, I can match distance. Fine—yes, I find him good-looking and infuriating and he rents a small apartment in my brain—but he has been dismissive since day one. Any sudden concern reads as standard-issue decency plus the fact that he didn’t realize it was me untilafterthe rescue.
I start packing, sliding my skirt over a wet bikini bottom and shoving my shirt into my bag, because the last thing I need is two damp circles announcing themselves while I try to hold my ground. Sand sticks to my calves; my hands won’t stop shaking.
