Chapter 20
TWENTY
Rubber sausage
Georgie
“Is it weird that I’m this nervous?” I ask Fee as we shuffle through the sand at Talisker Bay. Every God-forsaken jiggly bit I own is on high-definition display, shrink-wrapped in neoprene. This is my first time in a wetsuit. It might also be my last. If I need to poo, it’s game over.
“Not at all,” Fee says cheerfully. “Everyone’s nervous their first time. I faceplanted the entire lesson. You’ll be fine.”
Today is my first surfing lesson. Another brave tick on The List.
This morning I read fourteen articles about surfing technique. I may not be sporty, but I am aggressively Type A. I know the theory behind “pop-ups” and “duck dives” and proper foot placement.
Theory, unfortunately, isn’t the same as coordination.
Fee and I join the group near the surf shack—mostly twenty and thirty-somethings.
Then there’s our instructor, Maren. From her accent when she introduced herself, she’s Swedish or Norwegian, maybe.
She looks like what would happen if a Viking goddess decided to become a surf instructor. She’s tall and blonde, with a toned body that suggests she spends her life doing exciting outdoor activities.
Her wetsuit’s rolled down to her waist, revealing a sports bikini top and an alarming number of toned muscles.
I suck in my stomach automatically, though the wetsuit makes it pointless.
“Georgie, you’re new to surfing, right?” Her bright blue eyes land on me.
I nod. “Complete beginner.”
“She’s a bit nervous,” Fee adds helpfully, nudging me.
Maren beams, reaching up to tighten her ponytail. Her perky boobs bounce in a way I pretend not to notice. “Totally normal. We’ll take it slow and build your confidence. You’ll be standing on a board in no time.”
I smile back, caught between shyness and being completely dazzled.
Something about her feels familiar, nagging at the edges of my memory. Portree, maybe? My brain keeps circling but can’t land.
She covers safety, currents, the calm spots versus the dangerous ones. “We’ll practice all of it on dry land before we even think about water. Sound good?”
A chorus of confident “yep!”s goes around the group. I manage a squeaky “uh-huh.”
I’m happy to stay on sand forever, thanks.
Maren hands out the boards—giant foam slabs. Mine’s pastel blue with suspicious teeth marks gouged into one edge.
“Don’t worry,” she says, catching my stare. “Seals. They get nosy. Sometimes they take a nibble.”
Reassuring in theory. Less so when you remember we’re in Scotland, not SeaWorld.
She demonstrates the pop-up—lying flat, then somehow magically flowing up into a perfect surf stance. It takes maybe half a second and looks like something out of a Nike ad.
“Your turn! Lie down, hands by your chest... and pop!”
I lie down. I attempt to pop. I face-plant into my board instead.
“Brilliant effort, Georgie!” Maren calls out. Translation: You’re shit, but I’m too polite to say so.
It’s very British of her, considering she’s Scandinavian.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m sweating through the rubber, arms trembling, and we haven’t even looked at the ocean yet.
This is humiliating. Everyone else has mastered the basic pop-up. I’m still eating foam.
Just when I think it can’t get any worse, a familiar green Land Rover pulls up beside the beach.
My stomach plummets.
Through the windshield, I watch him yank his T-shirt over his head in one smooth, impatient move.
No, no, no. Please, not today. Not when I look like a rubber sausage.
He climbs out, and my mouth goes dry.
His wetsuit’s rolled down to his waist, hanging low enough that I can see those lines that disappear beneath the neoprene. All that skin I had my hands on just days ago.
The wetsuit clings to his thighs in ways that make me remember exactly how solid he felt pressed against me.
His hair is a mess from yanking his shirt off, sticking up in unruly tufts that somehow make him look even more handsome.
My fingers twitch around the edge of my board.
Just last Saturday, we were on his boat, and I had my hand wrapped around his—
Abort the flashback.
My face burns hot.
I’ve been so disciplined about not thinking about that moment. Well, relatively disciplined. I’ve only replayed it every single night before bed, but that hardly counts.
To my horror, he walks toward us.
“Three o’clock,” Fee announces at foghorn volume.
“I know,” I hiss, willing her to stop drawing attention to us.
How the hell did he even know I was here? Has he come to babysit me? Did Jake send him? Maybe there’s something urgent at work and they couldn’t reach me?
I don’t want him to see me stuffed into rubber.
Still, that treacherous flutter starts in my chest. That stupid, hopeful part that whispers: he’s here, he came, maybe—
He walks straight past me.
Not a glance. Not a flicker of recognition.
His eyes are locked on Maren.
A strange, static buzz floods my ears. There’s something in his expression that makes my skin prickle with uncomfortable recognition.
Wait.
No.
The pieces snap together in one nauseating second.
That blonde hair. The way she moves. That familiar confidence.
Oh my fucking God.
I know exactly where I’ve seen Maren before.
She’s not just our bubbly surfing instructor. She’s her. The goddess from his cottage. The one he spanked before they disappeared inside to do things that have tortured my imagination ever since.
I stare at my surfboard, studying the teeth marks.
It was awful when I thought he was here for me.
This is so much worse.
“Maren,” Patrick says.
I want to dig a hole in the black sand and crawl in. Maybe if I turn my head away, he won’t see me.
“How was your morning session?” he asks, like they’re old friends. Or current lovers.
“Brutal.” Maren laughs, rolling her shoulders. “Still feeling it. Oh—” She reaches behind her back, muscles flexing. “Can you help? This zipper’s been sticking.”
“Sure,” he says easily. Like he’s unzipped her a hundred times before.
I make the mistake of watching as his hands settle on her back. He tugs the zipper down, murmuring something too low for me to catch.
I drop my eyes, forcing myself to turn away, and focus intently on brushing nonexistent sand off my board.
I can’t watch this. I can’t.
Before today, the blonde from the ice bath was a mythical sex goddess I could hate from a safe emotional distance.
Now she’s here, real and warm and patient, teaching me to surf while probably thinking about all the athletic things she’s going to do with Patrick later. All the positions I’ll never be flexible enough for.
The jealousy wedges itself beneath my ribs and stays there, throbbing.
Fee was right. I’m too soft for someone like him. Too easily bruised.
Every morning, I’ve been at my window with those stupid binoculars. Half of me praying he’d appear. The other half terrified he would.
Deep down, I knew if I saw him with her again, it would break me.
Now it’s happening right here in real time. With wetsuits.
“Georgie?”
His voice cuts through the humming fog in my head.
Shit.
I spin around like I’ve only just noticed him. “Oh! Hi, Patrick.”
He frowns, eyes flicking over the board, the wetsuit, me. “You’re taking a surf lesson?”
No. I’m just wearing rubber for the fashion statement.
“Sure am,” I say through gritted teeth. “What brings you here?”
Like I don’t already know.
He pauses, looking at me warily. “Had to return a board I borrowed from the shop.”
Of course he did.
“You two know each other?” Maren asks, glancing between us.
Patrick’s shoulders stiffen. “Georgie and Fee work for the hotels.” He turns, acknowledging Fee. “Hi, Fee.”
“Hi, Mr. McLaren!” Fee chirps.
“What do you do at the hotels?” Maren asks, smiling easily as she glances between us. She lifts her long golden hair, twists it into a loose knot, and starts rubbing sunblock across her shoulders.
It’s such an innocent movement but somehow the movement is so sensual that it feels like we’re all watching her.
I’m a frumpy, damp sausage next to her—a sausage who has wandered onto the set of Baywatch by mistake.
“I’m the IT person,” I say flatly, a brittle edge in my voice. “They keep me locked in the server room and occasionally slide pizza under the door.”
Patrick’s brow tightens. I don’t usually default to snarkiness in front of him, but this isn’t usual. This is horrible.
Fee chimes in, saving me from further self-destruction, “I’m a yoga instructor.”
“Oh, I love yoga!” Maren beams at Fee, then turns to me with the same megawatt smile. “I’m hopeless with computers, though. You must be incredibly smart, Georgie.”
Her genuine warmth makes everything worse.
“Not really,” I mumble.
Maren glances at Patrick with playful intimacy that makes me want to scream. “Is Patrick a friendly boss?” she asks, technically aimed at me and Fee, but the tilt of her head is all for him. “I imagine he’s very… demanding.”
The way she draws out “demanding”—God, it’s so obvious. Their inside joke about what he demands in bed.
I’m going to throw up.
Patrick’s jaw tightens, his mouth pressing into a grim line, like he doesn’t appreciate the comment landing in front of me.
“I mostly deal with middle management,” I say.
“We should let you get back to your lesson,” Patrick says abruptly.
“Are you joining us?” Maren asks.
His eyes flick to me for half a second. His jaw tightens. “I’ll leave it today.”
Maren’s face scrunches in confusion. “What?” She reaches toward his forehead like she’s checking for fever. “You never miss a chance to surf. Are you feeling okay?”
He can’t bear to be in the same ocean as me. Probably worried I’ll try to touch him again underwater.
“I don’t have time. I’ll drop the board at the shop and head off.”
“Okay,” Maren says, still puzzled. She squeezes his arm and gives him a quick hug. “Catch you later.”
She claps her hands. “Right! Time to get wet!”
Perfect. Maybe the sea will be merciful and take me quickly.
Patrick heads to his Land Rover. I force myself not to watch him go.
We follow Maren into the shallows. The second the North Sea water hits my ankles, I yelp.
From shore, the waves looked gentle, almost playful.
Complete lies.
It’s not exactly tsunami conditions, but enough to make my stomach lurch with fresh panic.
“We’ll stay in the white water,” Maren calls over the wind. “Much easier to catch, and you won’t get pummeled by the big ones.”
I wade waist-deep, death-gripping my board. The water surges and drags at my legs, and I’m already struggling to stay upright without a single wave hitting me.
I attempt to climb on. The board shoots sideways. I splash down hard, salt water flooding my nose.
Coughing and sputtering, I scramble back on. A wave that wouldn’t bother a toddler sends me toppling off backward again.
I glance toward shore, checking Patrick’s leaving. So focused on his Land Rover that I miss the baby wave sneaking up.
It slaps me full in the face. I tumble off, surface gasping, hair plastered to my face.
“That was really close!” Maren yells cheerfully. “You almost had it!”
Almost had a concussion, more like.
Another wave builds. Instead of paddling through like I’m supposed to, I let it crash over me. Salt rips up my nose, down my throat. I’m choking in waist-deep water.
“Georgie!” Maren splashes toward me. “Are you okay?”
“Never better,” I wheeze.
Get out of the water, you idiot. You’re not built for this. Go back to spending Saturdays coding.
Ugh. My inner voice has zero faith in me.
But… this is stupid, I know it is, and yet if I don’t at least manage to catch one wave, it’ll feel like giving up something bigger than surfing.
I drag myself back onto the board, chest heaving, half-drowned.
Wave after wave knocks me down. I choke, sputter, claw back on, and get thrown straight off again. My wetsuit feels like wet cement.
Still, I grit my teeth, force myself to breathe, and wait for the next small swell.
I paddle, clumsy but determined, feeling the board rise under me, and before I can overthink it, I push up to my feet.
Somehow, miraculously, I’m standing!
The board catches and skims forward, the water roaring underneath. Cold spray bites my cheeks.
“I’m flying!” I shout into the wind.
And then I’m not. Smack—straight into the water, limbs flailing everywhere.
But I did it.
I surface, triumphant in the way someone might after winning bronze at the Olympics. Spinning in the water, I do a frantic scan, desperate for Maren or Fee to have seen.
That’s when I spot someone on the walkway, watching.
Heat rushes through me, a different kind of wave. He saw me do it. My tiny, ridiculous triumph.