Chapter 27
WILLOW
“He was awfully chipper this morning, Willow,” Liv chimes. “That spring in his step?” She whistles. “I bet he’s going to perform well today.”
“Whatever morning routine you’ve got him on, it’s doing wonders.” Lou winks.
My face heats, and I dip my head to hide it. “He’s just excited to compete again.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what it is,” Zander adds. “I bet there is absolutely no chance he had his dick played with this morning.”
“I’m in earshot,” my mother snaps from across the tent.
“Who raised these feral people?” Dahlia asks, sidling up beside her at the breakfast table my dad catered.
“They’ve got you written all over them, Wildflower.” Everett laughs, wrapping his arms around her waist as she pours a cup of coffee.
“You look awfully post-orgasm glowy this morning,” Allie whispers in my ear, leaning into me from her seat. “And I don’t mean the kind you give yourself. Which is strange, considering you’ve told me nothing is happening between you and the hot surfer next door.”
I snort. “You’ve been gone.”
“For a week!” she exclaims, drawing the attention of those around us. “Don’t tell me you went zero to a hundred in just seven days.”
I tug her arm, pulling our heads together as I hiss, “We haven’t gone to a hundred. We only kissed for the first time earlier this week.”
“And . . .” She tilts her face toward me, slowly raising a brow. “What happened this morning?”
“We had . . . meals,” I say, blushing at my own innuendo.
“Oh?” she drawls. “And how was your meal?”
At least she’s going along with it. Honestly, Allie has the filthiest mouth I’ve ever encountered, with zero qualms about who’s listening.
“Best I've ever had,” I rasp, biting back a squeal of excitement.
I’m still mind-blown, hours later, at the way Weston devoured me.
The way he praised me—fucking cherished me.
I know it’s all instinctual to him. He’s not practiced, he hasn't learned the right things to say or do when he’s with a woman.
He moved entirely off his desires and my response, and it led to the best orgasm of my life.
Allie looks at me unconvinced, with quirked lips and a raised brow. “Really?”
I nod rapidly, knowing the grin on my flushed cheeks is all the confirmation needed.
“Wow.” She hums. “Good for him.” Allie is quiet for a moment before she adds, “And does he know . . . everything?”
A pinch of guilt bites my gut. “He knows why I came home—the gist of it, anyway.” I sigh. “He doesn’t know what happened once I was back.”
She must hear the contrition in my voice, because Allie rests her head against my shoulder and pats my thigh. “That’s okay. You’ve only known him a couple months, everything that happened to you is so fresh. It’ll take time to get there. If he’s really the person you think he is, he’ll understand.”
“He will,” I murmur. “I just don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m having such a hard time opening up about it. He’s been so honest about his life.”
I have few doubts that Weston would be unwilling to accept the choice I made a few months ago, especially considering the circumstances that led me to it.
Though, there is a pesky prick of fear that has its teeth sunk into the back of my neck—stopping the words from leaving my mouth each time I think I’m ready to open up about it with him.
“It takes time,” Allie whispers, kissing my temple before snuggling back into my shoulder.
It’s still pretty early, and Weston’s session doesn’t start for another forty-five minutes. Despite it being late-July, the sun hasn’t yet crested over the mountains in the east, and with our tent facing the Pacific to the west, we’re completely shadowed.
My dad is still with Weston warming up—or whatever it is they do before a competition—and Carter is with them, taking photos.
I’ve never been to one for my dad’s other athletes.
I attended a few junior contests with Camden in high school, but none of them were this extensive.
And outside a handful of charity exhibitions my dad participated in when I was a child, he’s been retired all my life.
Liv competed in the last Olympics three years ago, but we weren’t able to fly the entire family out with mine and the twins’ sports schedules. Lou and her parents attended the games in Portugal, while the twins stayed back with my parents and me, and we watched her compete on television.
Despite living a life that practically revolves around surfing, this is the first competition I’ve ever attended like this. There are far more people than I had anticipated, and nerves nip at my stomach as I impatiently wait to watch Weston on the waves.
I wonder what he thinks of it—if it’s thrilling to him, or an added pressure.
I know he doesn't like crowds or too much noise, but I imagine the roar of the waves drowns it all out. When he’s beyond the break, I wonder if the audience makes a difference, or if he’s able to tap into the tides and connect with them the same way he does when he’s alone.
I can only hope for the latter, because I know how determined he is to perform well today. Not only to place, but to exceed everyone’s expectations—most of all his own.
“How are things with Declan?” I ask Allie.
I assume they haven’t broken up—she would’ve told me if they had, but she hasn’t mentioned him since the fiasco on her birthday two weeks ago. I’m curious as to why she’d continue giving him the time of day after that.
Archer perks up from Allie’s other side.
She straightens, tossing him an incredulous eye roll before turning to me.
“He tried to ultimatum me. Said I had to choose him or Archer.” She snorts.
“I ignored him for a week. Then, before I left to see my parents, I explained to him that I get Archer for one month before he goes back to Texas, and Declan can have me the rest of the year.” She shrugs.
“I gave him a hall pass. He has the remainder of July to do what—and who—ever he wants, and I won’t ask any questions.
But,” she continues, “he can’t ever again question my friendship with Archer or ask me to stay away from him when he’s home. ”
Archer rears back so far in his chair he nearly falls out. “Are you fucking kidding me, Allie?”
He’s loud enough that it pulls the attention of our parents. I turn my head in time to watch Dom’s snap sideways, dark eyes narrowing, gaze set on my cousin. “You wanna rephrase that?”
“Not really,” he scoffs, crossing his arms. “Did she tell you about her little arrangement with Declan?” The name drips off Archer’s tongue with disgust.
“Yeah.” Dom sighs, wiping a hand down his face. “Don’t fucking cuss, but . . .” He nods. “Talk some sense into her if you can.”
“Sorry,” Archer murmurs, turning back to face the horizon with a grimace.
“I don’t need any sense!” Allie throws her hands up, shooting daggers between Archer and her dad. “I’m dropping this conversation now.” She tosses me a withering look. “Don’t bring him up around the two of them—or my mother, for that matter—they’re all insane.”
“You’re insane,” I shoot back.
She rolls her eyes, settling back into her seat. “Anyway . . . how big is Weston’s dick?”
There she is.
Dropping the conversation regarding her shitty boyfriend, I lean closer, ensuring we’re out of anyone’s ear shot. “You have no fucking idea.”
“How many inches?” she whispers.
“I didn’t measure it.” I laugh, smacking her arm as the announcer’s voice booms over the intercom, informing us the next heat—Weston’s session—will start in thirty minutes.
“Well . . . take an educated guess,” Allie calls over the sound of the speaker.
I extend my arm out in front of me, asking, “How long do you think my forearm is?” just as the announcement ends, and stark silence blankets us.
Every head inside our tent turns in my direction, and my skin sears under their horrified expressions. I’m frozen, still holding my arm in front of me, attempting to stretch my thumb and middle finger from the crease of my elbow to my wrist.
Zander bursts with laughter, and Lou hides a snicker of her own.
“Damn.” Allie wheezes. “Good for you, babe.”
I glance at Liv, whose mouth is gaping, eyes wide as she studies me before she cranes her head behind us, in the direction of where our parents stand. “You all raised some feral little weirdos.”
When my dad finds us fifteen minutes later, he asks why we’re all so quiet. I’m grateful nobody has the gall to explain.
Just before the start of Wes’s heat, he finally comes into my line of sight as he walks onto the beach with his white and blue board in hand. He’s wearing a red dry-fit shirt over his wetsuit with the number twenty-eight on the back, and his last name, Ashford, over the shoulders.
There are two other surfers in his heat, but Weston is the only thing I focus on.
Like I’m staring through a camera lens, and everything around him is blurred.
Watching him wade into the water is reminiscent of slowly climbing the peak of a roller coaster.
Every movement he makes tugs at my chest in an ascending tempo.
“Did he seem ready to go?” I ask Dad. “Was he nervous?”
“Oh, no. He was confident as ever.” He chuckles. “It’s windy today, though. Choppier than anticipated, that’s the only thing I worry about.”
I swallow, unease swirling inside my bones.
Dad turns to me, his features softening into a reassuring smile as he grabs my hand. “He knows when to avoid a rogue wave, Sugar. He’ll be all right.”
I nod, squeezing his palm as we turn back to the beach. Dad has the timer for this session on his phone—the objective is to drop in as many times as he can during the heat, completing as many tricks with as much precision as possible. He’ll be judged not only on performance, but on his form too.