Page 34 of The Golden Scoop

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.”