Page 25 of The Trouble with Flings

She rolls her eyes.

“All right, let’s do this. Surf, I mean. Not you. Unless, of course—”

“No,” she warns, and we both laugh.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve had this much fun with a woman. I explain again how to pop up, where to put her feet, and how to balance. “Ready? Hands flat on the surfboard. Good girl.”

She glares at me.

I hold my hands up in surrender, having no idea where that good girl came from. I don’t ever use that phrase unless I’m trying to turn a moment. This isn’t one of those times, but it doesn’t feel wrong. I know she takes pride in hearing it in the bedroom, and I realize I wanted to give her that.

“I meant nice job.”

“Mm-hm,” she says, like she’s not buying it.

“I did. It was said with appreciation, not provocation.” I don’t give her time to overthink and try to redirect both of our thoughts by saying, “Remember to keep your feet together, toes on the board. When you pop up, your front foot should land between your hands, your back foot behind it. Shoulder distance apart. All in one smooth motion. Don’t overthink it.”

“Don’t overthink it,” she repeats. “That’s your best advice?”

“Pretty much. You’ve got this. Go for it.”

She pushes up with her arms, but when she pops up, her front foot overshoots, and she wobbles but catches her balance with one hand on the board. She glares at the surfboard with absolute outrage, and it’s so adorably beautiful, I have to clear my throat to keep from laughing.

“Want to try again?” I ask.

“I’m definitely doing it again,” she says vehemently. “It’s me against the board.”

“It’s you and the board. Work with it.”

She shoots me a glower and lies back down, determined to nail it. She lies flat, hands planted, and this time when I say go, she pops up cleaner. Not clean, but better, grinning before she’s even fully upright.

“Good girl,” I offer again.

She shoots me a glance, but her grin softens into something private and warm, like she understands exactly what I mean this time, and she’s keeping it. Eyes gleaming with pride, she lies down to try again.

The next few tries are hit or miss. The fourth try is nearly perfect, but when she turns to gloat, she loses her balance and falls to the sand. She stays there on her back, one hand over her eyes, laughing. The sound is so carefree, I drop to my knees beside her, completely bewitched.

Her hand falls away, and a challenge rises in her eyes. “Hey, Silver, where’s my good girl?”

I bark out a laugh and lean closer, our eyes locking, turning that challenge to heated breaths as I say, “I’ll show you just how good of a girl you are later,” and then I kiss her, slow and sweet.

“I’m holding you to that,” she declares, then pushes past me and gets back on the board. When she pops up, she’s impressive.

“Almost perfect,” I say.

She plants a hand on her hip. “What was wrong with it?” It was less of a question and more of a demand for useful information.

“Your front foot was a little wide. It’ll cause the nose to pearl, or dig into the water, and send you over the front of the board. Your weight’s too far forward, which’ll throw off your balance and make it harder to correct while you’re riding a wave.”

She nods, brows knitted, and gets back down on the board. She pops up again. Front foot tighter this time. Weight centered. She wobbles a little, and when she finds her balance, I can see her feel that split second where the body understands what the mind has been working out.

“There you go,” I say.

She beams at me, slightly breathless, and says, “Again.”

A few tries later, she’s nailed it, and when I tell her so, she shines brighter than the sun and proceeds to tell the board, “See? You couldn’t beat me, and neither will the waves.”

She gives it a few more tries to make sure she’s got it and then reaches for her board and says, “Let’s give it a shot.”