The picture was taken. Ilias stepped away. She could breathe again.
Her goal had been to impress Jamie, but it seemed like Jamie was more smitten with Ilias and his performance than interested in Salacia. When Sofia had mentioned her social media following, growing by the hundreds daily, Jamie had looked thoughtful but noncommittal.
Salacia might be new, but her personal brand wasn’t.
She’d been building this image for years—online, offline, in and out of labs and expeditions. And today, she needed to channel the version of herself who faced the Atlantic like it was her home, her battlefield, her temple.
“Still pining over that sponsorship?”
Ilias again. Of course. She shot him a glare as she grabbed a beer from the ice bucket.
He grinned wider. “You and Ale have the same murderous look.”
“We’re friends for a reason,” she replied coolly.
“Yeah, but she’s my friend too. We should definitely be friends, you and I, habiba.” He clinked his bottle against hers. “You think she’d hang out with someone boring?”
“She hangs out with you, so I guess she tolerates annoying people,” she muttered, taking a sip.
He laughed. Then he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her cheek, his hand cradling the side of her neck. Again.
Her entire body betrayed her. Goosebumps prickled along her arms, a rush of heat pooled low in her stomach, and her breath caught in her throat. Her pulse hammered like it was trying to escape her chest. She could feel the tiniest hair on her arms stand on end, the electric tingle racing through her skin. Every nerve ending was screaming that she wanted more, even though her rational brain screameddon’t.
She had to convince herself more. It was her body reacting to a healthy, genetically fit male, wired over millennia to respond to cues of strength and confidence. Her neurons and hormones conspired together, and there was nothing she could do to override it.
“I’m going to cool off. See you later,” he called, waving to the group like he hadn’t just knocked the air out of her lungs.
Sofia stood there, beer in hand, hating him. Hating herself more. And absolutely loathing the way her body reacted to his presence.
6
ILIAS
The Ancient Art of Always Fucking Up – Lewis Capaldi
Ilias had madehis way to the final without too many problems. The only obstacle left was the one man he’d rather not face: Steven Dubois.
He usually enjoyed talking with and facing the other contestants. Over the years, they’d become like a family. Sharing downtime between heats, traveling together from one tournament to the next, celebrating wins and drowning losses in cheap beer. But as he cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders loose, Ilias wasn’t thinking about camaraderie. He was ready to destroy Steven in their final heat.
Sofia was there. And beside avenging his sister’s honor, he wanted to show her exactly how good he was. He doubted winning the Ericeira Pro Event would magically change her opinion of him, but it couldn’t hurt. He hadn’t had the chance to ask Alejandra much about her; she’d only hinted that Sofia was healing from a breakup. He knew he should stay away, give herspace, but every time she was near, his entire body reacted, like something inside him recognized her before his mind did.
She was like a siren, calling to him from across the water, and he was stupid enough to want to be dragged under, devoured whole, just to feel her pull again.
He’d spotted her earlier. Her long brown waves tumbled down her back, contrasting beautifully with the chunky knit cropped sweater she wore, striped in wide, vibrant bands of green, purple, red, and yellow. She was wrapped in high-waisted white wide-leg pants, snug at the waist and hips, then flowing loose down her legs.
The fit had sent Ilias’ brain spiraling, imagining how good it would feel to wrap his hands around that perfect, round ass. She was gorgeous, and utterly uninterested in him. His new favorite type of woman, apparently.
Her brown eyes locked on his. And, again, like some cosmic joke, as if distance made her a better person, she mouthed, “Suerte.”
He was fucking done. He grinned wider, blew a kiss her way, then turned his back, sure she had just scowled at him in return.
“Gosh, you’re so smitten it hurts to watch,” Amira said, arriving at his side with Coach.
“Just focus on the damn final, Ilias,” Coach warned, blue eyes steady on him.
Coach was a sturdy Dutchman, one of the best surfers Ilias had ever known. He’d taken Ilias under his wing when he was just twelve with the help of his wife Gretchen, their PT. After twenty-one years, Coach and Gretchen were basically family.
“We’ve got a long right-hand point break today. Smooth walls, occasional hollow sections. It’s perfect for maneuvers and long rides. North-West swell. High tide. No barrels. Just long carves. Multiple critical sections. Got it?”
