Page 86 of Britta & the Beach Boy
Hearing Dex saymy wifefeels like going home.
And I’m terrified.
That’s not what this relationship is supposed to be.
“What are you asking, Dex?” I whisper the question, both afraid and excited for the answer.
Dex puts a few inches between us, then lifts my chin to meet his eyes. “That we quit acting like what we feel—what we’ve both felt since the day we met—is a short-term business deal and see if it could be the real thing; a long-term deal.”
There’s an intensity in his gaze that I’ve only seen on the day of the Championship when he was determined to beat the odds and win. It’s a look that dares me to rush in without thinking, without measuring the costs of getting in over my head and being pummeled by waves I’m not ready for.
When Dex lets go of my hand to tuck a wet strand of hair behind my ear, I catch his hand and clutch it by my side. In another day he’ll be gone, and I don’t want to let him go until then. “How long are you in Portugal?”
“A week. Maybe two. Depends on the waves.”
I nod. Everything always depends on the waves.
And then, because waves are unpredictable, and I don’t know when I’ll have the chance again, I step into Dex’s arms, slide my hands over his shoulders to the nape of his neck and kiss him hard enough to silence the ocean lapping the sand, the people squealing with delight in the water, and my own doubts.
Chapter thirty-two
Dex
Icarry Britta’s kiss with me halfway across the world, all the way to Portugal. I’m not sure if her kiss meantyesto making this a proper relationship, ormaybe. I don’t think it meant no. Not when I can still smell the sea in her hair, taste the salt on her lips, feel the warmth of her skin where I slid my hand under her jumper—myjumper—to her bare back. I remember every second. It’s all I can think about.
Literally, I forget everything else, including Archie sitting next to me on our sixteen-hour flight. That’s a little on purpose. I’m still irritated with him for implying all Britta means to me is a ticket to the Olympics. Britta didn’t act offended, but Archiecan’t go around saying stuff like that, especially now that Britta and I have opened up about how we really feel.
When we finally land, our plan is to island-hop around Sao Miguel, Terceira, and Sao Jorge, following the wind and the swells. I haven’t been to the Azores in years. They’re remote and less crowded than Nazare and other sites in Portugal. Santa Catarina off Terceira rivals Hawaii’s Pipe with a freakishly quick drop into an instant barrel that skims across shallow reef. It’ll be good practice before the first Championship Tour event at Pipe in January and the perfect place to refocus on what should be my one and only priority: surfing.
At least, that was my intention. I should be stoked about the swell when we get to Santa Catarina. The wave coming off the reef is perfect, and I get a rush of adrenaline watching it. But after paddling out and dropping in, I wipe out.
I do the same thing again and again and again. Even when the swell dies down, I still get raked over.
Finally, the last time I get tumbled over the reef, Archie waves me in. I climb over the rocks to get back to shore, breathing hard and hurting everywhere, probably bleeding somewhere. I hand off my board to Archie before I’m close enough and he has to lean farther to yank it from me.
“Let’s go, mate, before you get hurt. Your head’s not where it’s supposed to be.” He tucks my board under his arm and leaves me to scramble over the last few rocks.
“Yeah? You got something to say about where it is?” I catch up to him, then shake my head hard enough the water from my hair sprays him.
Archie turns. “Somewhere south of your shoulders, shoved up pretty far.”
We glare at each other for a few seconds before walking to our rental car and heading back to the resort where we’re staying. I’m a whacker, fighting with my manager and best mate. Buteverything is off being so far from Britta, worrying she might be lonely or that she might need help withAnnie’s. I’m not even able to contact her because the Wi-Fi here sucks and the time difference makes it hard to connect for more than a few minutes.
Things don’t get better over the next few days. We extend our time in Santa Catarina based on the wind and swell reports from the other waves we plan to surf. Sets are still ripper here, and I hate walking away from a wave before I’ve conquered it.
Problem is, I can’t quit thinking about Britta. On or off the wave, she’s front and center in my brain. Every morning before Archie and I head for the beach, I check my phone to see if I’ve got enough bars to call or text her. On our fourth morning there, as we’re walking out of our room, I finally do.
I stop in the middle of the hallway; afraid I’ll lose reception if I move.
“This wind changes, and you’re going to miss your wave.” Archie’s voice is as tight as his clenched jaw as he watches me typing into my phone.
The wind is predicted to change this afternoon, so we’re checking out and moving on today deeper into the bush. Who knows what the reception will be like there?
“Just checking in with Britt while I’ve got service.” I’m not keen on taking orders from him at the moment, so I type slower than I usually would.
“She’s seven hours behind. It’s the middle of the night there.”
A growl works its way up the back of my throat, and I pull my lips in to keep it from escaping. I hate it when Archie thinks about things I don’t. It’s why he makes a good manager, but right now he’s a pain in my butt. “Then she’ll get it when she wakes up and know that I’m thinking about her.”
