“I said I’m good, Tanner.”
It came out harsh. Diego’s eyes flicked over me, and I lookedat the water and didn’t explain. What was there to explain? That she made me feel for the first time in years, made me want something real, and to her this was just business. I’d known that. She had told me—very clearly. But my dumbass had caught feelings for a witch whose real magic tasted like the joy I hadn’t felt since before Marcus’ accident, before my sister got sick.
Then I felt it, Selena’s aura cresting the nearest dune—the wrong magic. She was buzzing, and not like during our match, or even like when we fucked. It was like a swarm of angry bees just looking for someone to cross them wrong so they could attack.
She came over the dune fast, barefoot, board under her arm—her own board, an old shortboard with the wax half gone—and one glance told me the whole story, with her red eyes and her jaw set. Her match-point current was running too hot with nowhere to go. Somebody had lit her fuse, and she’d come looking for someone who could survive when she detonated.
“I’m going out,” she said, mostly to the ocean. Then, the dare clear: “Anyone coming?”
“Hell yes.” Tanner’s eyes lit up.
“No.”
She met my gaze. Her face contorted with more pain than that simple answer warranted.
“Why not?”
“Swell’s wrong, and you don’t surf.”
“I grew up on this beach.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I’ve been surfing since I was twelve.”
“Casually.”
“Are you scared I’m going to beat you again?”
“You’re not going to beat me at surfing, Selena.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
The problem is the last time this happened, it ruined everything. The problem is you’re hurting, and instead of facing it, you’re running into the surf. Trust me, I know that only works for so long.
But I didn’t say any of that. That would require believing she wouldlisten to me.
Tanner laughed and grabbed his leash, clueless and delighted. “Local knowledge, let’sgo!” he whooped, and the two of them jogged for the water while my heart twisted in my chest.
Diego watched them paddle out.
“You feel that, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I feel it.”
I toldmyself I was going to sit on the patio at The Salty Siren and have a drink.
The drink was in my hand, cold condensation dripping down my fingers as I continued not to take a single sip.
All I did was watch her.
The first twenty minutes were fine. The waves were chest-high and clean, and she could surf—not at my level, but she could surf the way someone surfs who grew up on a break and had learned everything about it. She had good instincts, and I once again saw the athlete she was. She let the board lead, which she shouldn’t have, but she anticipated where it was going to be and adjusted. She fell twice on easy waves and came up laughing both times, and I watched her paddle back out, loose curls sticking to her face where they had escaped her braids, some of the sadness gone from her eyes. That was something, at least.
She paddled into position beside Tanner for the next set. It was bigger than anything she’d caught so far. Some might have paddled in, called it a day. But not Selena Torres. Deep in my chest, I felt a faint hum, an echo of what I’d felt during our match, as her brow furrowed and she took the challenge. She read the first wave, committed—which was exactly what I would’ve done—and the recognition of that drive, the desire to see just how far you could push yourself, lodged in my chest. She paddled furiously, then popped up.
She caught it.
I saw Tanner’s arms go up in celebration as she rode it all the way back to shore. Once there, she grabbed her board to head back out, but for just a moment she turned back. The beach was wide, but our eyes still met, and she was beaming.
