His smile lit up everything. “For real?”
“For real. I don’t care about Vanessa.” A tiny lie, but it was a white one. “I just care about us. I want this. I want us.”
Callum crashed his lips on hers—deep, slow, sure. The kind of kiss that made her feel like she’d found her place. That no matter how long the road, it had somehow led her here. Callum was her home.
49
CALLUM
Walking on The Waves - Skippinish
He had a girlfriend.And not just any girlfriend. Alejandra López Romero was his girlfriend.
Callum didn’t care about the Olympic medal, the USL titles, or any award she’d won throughout her career. He cared about the thirty-three-year-old Spanish woman with green eyes like the hills of Wales, with black hair tamed by braids, and a jaw set like she was staring down a sea monster over Cardigan Bay.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked nervously.
The day was calm. No waves. He had borrowed a paddleboard from Rhiannon, thinking it might be the gentlest way to get her back into the ocean on her terms. He remembered her in Tarifa, sitting with Sofia just past the lineup. They hadn’t surfed, just floated and talked. Maybe that could help here too.
“I’ll paddleboard,” he reassured her. “You just sit on the board. It’s a perfect day, we’ve checked the forecast.”
Both of them were in wetsuits, just in case they fell in. The Atlantic here was even colder than in Portugal. The suit hugged her like a second skin, and he tried not to let his eyes linger too long on the swell of her hips.
Alejandra nodded, exhaling sharply. “How stupid am I? God, an accountant is telling me how to deal with the ocean. This is nonsense.”
“I will pretend you didn’t just insult me,” Callum deadpanned. “But let me remind you I was a professional swimmer before I was an accountant, so yes, I do know a thing or two about water.”
“Did you swim in open water?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No, but—”
“Then still. An accountant is teaching me how to deal with the ocean,” she said, though there was a smile in her voice now.
“Come on, stop being a crybaby,” he teased, “and hop on. Your captain’s about to remind you why you fell in love with the ocean in the first place.”
Alejandra took a deep breath—deep enough that he saw her ribs rise under the wetsuit—then settled on the board, crossing her legs. He knelt behind her and started paddling.
Aberystwyth from the ocean was stunning, an enclave of color and quiet, cradled between water and hills.
“It reminds me a bit of Bogliasco, in Italy. Where Sofia is from,” Alejandra said, shoulders finally easing. “The colorful houses. Though the mountains there are steeper. These are more like hills.” She turned slightly to face him. “How was growing up here?”
“Fun. Lots of things to do. More in summer than winter. Tourists coming in from London or other cities. It was always busy.”
“A little like Conil, probably.”
“How was it, growing up there? In the south of Spain? Sounds ideal.”
“It was,” she admitted, twisting around to face him properly now. “But I didn’t enjoy it the way normal kids do. I started going pro at eleven, so life got hectic fast. As I told you, my parents built everything around me, sacrificed a lot for us, for our dream.” She sighed and looked out at the ocean, her fingers gliding across the cold surface.
“This is ridiculous. My mind is ridiculous. Why would I be scared of this?”
Callum chuckled, gently shaking his head. “Stop. It’s notridiculous. It’s normal after what you went through.”
Alejandra scrunched her nose. “But Conil is beautiful. The best sunsets I’ve ever seen. It’s home. Similar to what you’ve seen in Tarifa.” Which he truly enjoyed.
“Aber’s got pretty decent sunsets too,” he offered.
“Where do you see yourself in ten years?” she asked suddenly. “London? Aber? Somewhere else?”
