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“Still mad?” I ask, continuing to tickle her, knowing she hates it.
She fights it for as long as she can, not surrendering. Until, eventually, she gives in.
“Fine!” she squawks, flailing around. “I’m not mad!”
“I didn’t quite hear you. What was that?” I smirk.
“I’m not mad, asshole! Stop tickling me, damn it!” she squeals, and I finally stop.
When I release her, she pats my abdomen. “You’re up, big guy.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Let’s see if the big, bad, tatted Brody O’Brien can rip the waves.”
Doing my best to look worried, I frown. “Don’t laugh at me. We aren’t all pros.”
As I get set up and get into the water, I know she’s probably shocked that I can not only surf, but I’m also pretty good at it.
It sure doesn’t feel like the crashing waves of the ocean, unpredictable and wild. These are much more controlled and recurrent. But still, it feels good to rip again.
Looking over at her, I grin when I see her stunned expression resting on her pretty face. I might be decent at surfing, and I enjoy it and all, but it isn’t my favorite thing to do. In fact, I get bored of it pretty fast. But watching her surf? Hell, I could do that shit all day.
I give her a smirk, cutting into another wave before, eventually, I wipe out and paddle in.
Walking toward her, I run my hand down over my soaked face. “Guess I never mentioned that I actually grew up near the beach myself.”
I’m not sure why I never told her. Probably because I’m not nearly as good as she is. Hell, when I wanted to surf, I had to use boards others had left behind. I never had my own.
“I feel hustled!” She scowls. “You made me feel like I was some surfing rock star, and the whole time, you were also a freaking surfer too!”
“Well, I might be able to surf, but compared to you, I look like an amateur.”
“Hey, I won’t argue with that,” she teases me while handing me a towel. “Kidding. You’re really good. Now, I need to know…is there anything youcan’tdo? Because the whole multitalented thing, well, it’s sort of annoying.”
“Not as far as any lady I’ve been with is concerned,” I say haughtily. “What about you, little Wildflower? You surf like a pro. Sling drinks like you’re inCoyote Ugly. Take photographs like you’re an expert. And you probably earn a spot in everyone’s spank bank when you model because you’re so damn hot.” Towel-drying myself, I sit down on the bench against the wall. “So, tell me, what can’t you do?”
She looks thoughtful before taking a seat next to me and craning her neck to look in my direction. “I can’t cook to save my life. I am a terrible singer,whichyou already know because of our little road trip the other day. I am awful at math—my brother got all the genes for that. Mini-golf? Forget it. I’m far from Shooter McGavin, and I genuinely don’t enjoy it—at all. And I hate any kind of self-maintenance. Like nail polish, hair, makeup. You name it; I can’t do it.”
“Does that mean you have a giant bush?” I widen my eyes. “How’d you hide that thing during our photo shoot or under that bikini of yours?” Lifting her arm up, I put my hand on my forehead. “Thank fuck, no pit hair. I’d have to take you home right now and shave that shit off.”
She gives me a pointed look, then looks at the ceiling and groans. “No, dickhead, I don’t have a bush. That’s theonlymaintenance I can keep up with—shaving and waxing.”
“Oh, thank God. I know you’re my Wildflower, but you don’t need to bethatwild.” I pat her knee. “If you ever need help with math, let me know. I’m decent at it. Just don’t ask me to help you read anything.”
“I’m okay at reading and writing. I don’t enjoy it much. But I can do it.”
“Not me,” I say, cringing. “My brain likes to turn things backward on me and shit.”
“You’re dyslexic?” she says, her eyes softening. “That must be so hard sometimes.”
I shrug. “I’m used to it. Texting is easy. Mine is mostly when I read books where the font is small, and I occasionally write shit the wrong way.” I feel embarrassed as hell, but I try to hide it. “Luckily, my dumbass can play hockey. Don’t need much brains for that.”
“You’re not dumb,” she whispers. “There are so many famous people who have dyslexia. It’s actually been said that dyslexic people often have a higher IQ.”
“Well, I don’t know about all that. As long as I can play hockey, I don’t really care about the rest.” Turning toward her, I nudge her side. “What else are you bad at, Wildflower?”
She’s quiet for a second. “There is one thing I’m not good at. Something that…might surprise you.”
“What’s that?” I ask, completely intrigued.
Her cheeks turn bright red, and she whispers something in my ear. My mouth hangs open, and I stare in disbelief.
