8. Matt
EIGHT
Matt
I can’t stop thinking about her. About what she said, about how she said it, about the way she looked at me like she actually meant it.
My plan is working. Exactly how I wanted it to.
With every bait not taken, all the obvious flirting, every layer of myself I’m showing her…
it’s doing exactly what it’s supposed to do.
She’s starting to see me behind the mask.
I can see it in her eyes. The way the puzzle pieces weren’t matching up in her head, and how they are slowly being replaced with completely different shapes.
And that’s the problem.
Because I didn’t plan for this part. For the restless pull sitting in my chest over seeing her again.
Like I’m not going to function properly ever again once I don’t get to see her every day.
I wasn’t prepared for how much I’m looking forward to her reactions, or her questions.
The way she wants to fight me like it actually matters.
And now it’s her turn to plan the next outing, and I’m left waiting, impatient.
It’s Saturday, which means Emma didn’t have to come into set today. My morning is dragging. I tried to call her, wanting to hear her voice more than I should but shocker, she sent me to voicemail and texted me instead.
Mills
Ready for my outing?
Not even close. She has no idea what she does to me.
I probably have one more hour on set, and then I’m all yours for the rest of the day. Anything I should know?
Mills
Yes.
You need swim shorts, flip-flops, and preferably a T-shirt you don’t mind getting wet.
So much for hoping for a quiet day with her.
Did you sign us up for some charitable car wash?
Mills
Nope.
Please tell me this isn’t some weird water yoga.
Mills
You’ll find out soon enough. Come to mine when you’re ready.
I finish up in record time. I rush home, stepping on the gas like never before. Every light turns green as I approach, as if the universe knows how much I need my daily dose of Emma before I crash out.
I do as she says, sort of, and I change into a pair of navy blue swimming trunks that look ridiculously good with my white linen shirt. Technically not something I should get wet, but I’d rather look to impress. No one can resist the first three buttons undone.
When I get to her place, she’s outside in the street loading surf gear onto the roof of her Jeep. The board is almost double her size, and she’s standing on top of the driver’s seat strapping it down tight.
I have to swallow a groan and close my eyes for a second to not lose my composure, because she’s wearing a pair of black boy-shorts and a white swimming top so tight I can see her bikini underneath.
Her hair falls wavy around her face, glistening in the sunlight like she belongs out here more than anywhere else.
“Need some help there?” I ask when I’m close enough that she can hear me.
I take her by surprise, because her hand flies up to her chest like I almost gave her a heart attack.
The board moves with the sudden shift in weight and starts sliding down toward her face.
With two steps I’m in front of her, one hand on her waist keeping her steady and the other holding the board in place.
“I would’ve had it,” she mumbles.
I roll my eyes, take the strap from her hands, and tighten it as far as it goes.
“Don’t I get a board?” I ask when she slides back into the driver’s seat.
“I don’t have an extra one, but my friend is going to let us borrow her boyfriend’s,” she says. “It’s on the way.”
“Alright. Move over,” I tell her. “I’ll drive.”
Her face scrunches up. “You’re not driving my car.”
“Yes. I am.”
“It’s my car.”
“It’s a death trap without doors.”
To her frowny face, she adds her hands on her hips, and I almost melt right there. I don’t want to argue, but I won’t risk her safety. It’s already bad enough she’s driving this every day.
“You won’t let me drive my own car because I’m a girl.”
“I won’t let you drive your own car because I want you safe. And if you want to get going, you’ll…” I give her a little nudge, “…scooch.”
She mumbles something under her breath I don’t quite catch but hops over to the passenger seat.
Thirty minutes later, we’re on the shore. Emma’s bent down, adding some wax to the top of the boards, and I’m stood there watching like I’ve accidentally walked into the set of Baywatch.
Once she’s done, she tugs at my leg and straps the board to my ankle.
“I told you to wear a shirt you could get wet,” she comments, looking up at me. Her long lashes short-circuit my brain for a second.
“That’s okay. I’ll go in bare,” I answer, pulling off the linen and dropping it in the sand. “It’s the best kind.”
I’m surprised when she doesn’t shy away from my joke. Instead, she smirks.
“You’re about to regret that confidence.”
It might be shocking, since I’ve lived in L.A. for years, but I haven’t gone surfing before. I follow behind Emma and try to do exactly what she does.
Emma makes it look easy, gliding over the swell like it’s nothing.
Meanwhile, I can barely keep myself on the board.
I’m half tempted to let it drift behind me and swim my way in.
But then she looks back at me, grinning like she’s enjoying this way too much, almost like she’s happy I’m tagging along, and I decide I’m not getting out of the water unless it’s riding to shore.
A couple of feet ahead of me, where the waves pass without breaking, Emma swiftly pushes up to sit on her board. I do the same, less gracefully, but without tumbling.
“Not each one is worth it,” she explains, dragging her fingers through the current. “You can feel it, the ones that carry more pull with them. Those are the ones we want.”
I nod, but I don’t let go of the board. I already tried, and it almost slipped out from under me.
“I for sure thought you’d done this before when I planned it,” she says, moving closer to me until our feet brush against each other under the water. “But hey, there’s nothing like your first time.”
I’ll take as many first as she’s willing to give me.
“I bet I’m a natural,” I tease.
“Here’s what you need to learn. First, you pick a wave. Then you want to push toward shore as hard as you can. When you feel it take you without you having to paddle, then you’ll want to stand.”
She mimics the motion without moving. I’m so distracted by her, I don’t think a single word is registering.
“Push your chest up.”
She does, and I thank God for the water already dripping around my face because she’s going to make me drool like a puppy chasing a treat.
“When you’re stable, jump up.”
I clear my throat and give her my most convincing smile.
“I got this.”
“Cool,” she says, getting off her board to hold onto mine. “Lie, and I’ll tell you when to go.”
I do as she says, swallowing yet another groan when her hand wraps around my ankle to pull me down. The wax on the board scratches my chest.
“If you have too much weight on the front, you’ll tip over.”
My body has decided to lose all self-control today. I’ve traveled back in time to my teenage years, and I need her to stop touching me, or I’m not going to make it out if this alive.
I look over my shoulder and see a wave coming.
I don’t even give her time to push. I start driving myself forward as hard as I can.
The board is sliding from side to side with every swing of my arms through the water.
By the time the current pushes me, half my body is already off it.
I try to readjust by pulling it back into place, but I overdo it because, just like Emma said, I’m tipping over into the crest.
There’s no slow motion to it. Everything happens extremely fast. The board shoots up from behind me and flies over. I go down face first, salt burning up my nose and throat as I disappear under.
I come back up coughing, dragging in a sharp breath that does nothing to stop the sting. My eyes water, my lungs protest, my chest itches, and for a second, I consider calling it.
Then I hear her.
She’s laughing—not mocking—just… bright. Real. It carries over the sound of the ocean and lands somewhere deep in my heart.
And that’s enough.
I wipe my face and push my hair back, already reaching for the board again. I’m not done.
“I’ll go with you this time,” she says, paddling closer and giving me a small nudge. “You got this. I believe in you.”
I can see the truthfulness in her eyes. That’s all I need. For her to believe.
When she starts moving forward, I do the same. This time, every stroke carries a statement.
I can do this.
For her, I’ll figure anything out.
I watch from the corner of my eyes how Emma jumps up on the board, her head turned in my direction. I push up, my arms shaking trying to keep balance, and once I’m stable, I get on my knees before jumping to stand.
Granted, we’re almost to shore, but the exhilaration still hits the same.
“You did it!” she yells when we’re back on waist-deep water.
I barely have time to take a breath before she’s flung herself at me, arms wrapping around my neck in a tight embrace. I feel myself getting excited in ways that are very much not helpful right now. But I also don’t want to push her away. Her warmth settles around me like nothing I’ve felt before.
It doesn’t last long. As soon as she realizes the position we’re in, she lets go, taking a step back. Her cheeks are flushed a deep red, and I’m certain it’s not because of the sun.
“You laughed at me,” I joke, trying to ease her awkwardness.
“It was funny.” She shrugs.
I close the gap between us. She doesn’t back away this time.
With my height as an advantage, I sneak my leg under hers, throwing off her balance and dunking her.
“Now we’re even,” I tease when she resurfaces.
My stamina is lacking. Here I thought I was in optimal shape, but clearly there’s a reason Emma beat me in that race. Surfing’s no joke. The feeling of riding a wave is well worth it, but with every push back out into the ocean it’s gotten harder to catch my breath.