Page 89 of Ride the Wave

Sliding into my seat, I shove my phone on the table and wake up my dozing laptop. The blank word document flashes up at me. Resting my fingers on the keyboard, I take a deep breath in, push back my shoulders, and I begin to type.

Leo Silva is afraid of the ocean.

If that doesn’t strike you as strange, then it should, because Leo Silva is a former world champion surfer. After twelve years of retirement, he’s now training to compete in a leg of the World Surf League Championship Tour once more: the iconic Rip Curl Pro Bells Beach contest that takes place in Victoria, Australia in just a few weeks. A young surf prodigy, a lifetime of experience, dozens of trophies – this man practically grew up on the water and has rarely been out of it, even since his early retirement. That he should be afraid of it simply doesn’t make any sense. And anyone who has the privilege to witness him surfing couldn’t possibly think it.

Out there, gliding on the waves, Leo Silva looks fearless.

But I’m slowly learning that this contradiction is what makes him one of the best surfers in the world. It’s not just his breathtaking skill, his dazzling talent, his expert mastery of the water. It’s that he also accepts that things can go wrong, that mistakes can be made and learnt from, and that sometimes to end up winning, you have to lose first. A lifetime on the water hasn’t only inspired him, it’s humbled him.

Like Leo proposes to be, I am scared of the ocean. So afraid, I haven’t gone near it for years. And I’ve never surfed before. But on a warm day in March, standing on Burgau beach in Portugal with him, I believe him when he says that by the end of the day, I’ll be riding the waves on a surfboard.

That’s the kind of athlete he is. The kind that makes you feel like you can do anything.

Lifting my hands off the keyboard, I read through what I’ve written.

It needs polishing, but it’s not a bad start.

24

I’m reading my book in the bath on Saturday evening when I hear a knock on the door. I freeze, wondering if I’ve misheard or if it’s a knock for a different flat, but after a while it comes again.

Quickly marking my page, I call out, ‘Just a minute!’, climbing out the bath and grabbing my towel. As I tuck it round me and pad over to the door, I wonder who it might be – Leo is at his dinner party tonight and when I saw Marina earlier, she said she was going to the same event as him. I think it’s a dinner hosted by Diogo, my sea-fishing friend.

Oh shit. I stop in my tracks on the way to the door as I realise who it is.

José.

There’s no one else it could be. I did leave him very abruptly on Thursday night after our date without the most extensive of explanations, so maybe he wants to talk about it. He would also know that I didn’t get on that plane today since Naomi extended my stay here.

At first, I consider throwing on some clothes, but then I re-evaluate and realise that if it looks like he has disturbed my evening, it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. That way, I can get rid of him quicker – which sounds mean, but I’d rather have the evening of pampering and reading I’d planned than force myself through awkward small talk. And after writing all of yesterday, and into the night, to get those paragraphs to Toni, before another full day of writing today, I deserve a bit of relaxation.

Running myself a hot bath was also a bit of a celebration – Toni replied to my email this morning with the following:

LOVE this. You’re back on form. Can’t wait to read the rest. Keep drinking that “better-than-London” Burgau coffee you bored me about if that’s what gets me these results. Best wishes, T

Her approval meant I was on the right path and I barely looked up from my laptop today. Once I started writing about Leo, I couldn’t stop. I forced myself to go on a walk to the beach at lunch time just to make sure I didn’t stay cooped up in the flat all day, but it was pointless – my brain was whirring with ideas for the feature and I only ended up making it as far as Marina’s Bar to say hi before I scurried back to my hovel. But this evening, I admitted defeat. I needed a break and since everyone I know here is busy tonight, a bath and a book seemed like the perfect evening.

Until I swing open my front door.

It’s not José. It’s Leo.

He’s standing outside my door in a dark shirt and shorts, with what looks like quite a heavy bag of food in one hand and a bouquet of pink flowers in the other. When the door opens and he sees me, his whole face lights up.

Gripping my towel, beads of water from the bath still dripping down my legs, I stare at him, my breath caught in my throat. He looks achingly handsome, his hair thick and messy, the top buttons of his shirt undone low enough to allow a teasing glimpse of the smooth, tanned skin of his chest.

‘Hey,’ he says, his eyes warm and soft, his smile creeping wider and wider.

This is not how I would have opened the door if I’d known it was him on the other side. I don’t exactly look my best right now. No make-up, my hair tied up in a loose, messy bun, and my cheeks flushed from the heat of the bath, growing hotter under his gaze.

‘Leo!’ I stare at him, wide-eyed. ‘What are you—’

I don’t get the chance to finish my sentence because he’s already stepped forwards and dropped the bag on the floor by the door with a loud thud before wrapping his arms around my waist and dipping his head to kiss me.

And when he does, everything else around us disappears.

His mouth crushes against mine, his hand carrying the flowers staying at the small of my back while his other moves to my neck, his fingers sinking into my hair. As he walks me back a step until I bump against the open door, I exhale a soft moan of relief, joy, pleasure – all of the above – to have his lips to myself again, a sound that causes him to deepen the kiss, his tongue gliding against mine. God, he smellsso good, his musky sandalwood cologne filling my nostrils and igniting a fire low in my belly. My hands are pressed flat against his chest and I can feel his strong heartbeat thudding against my palm. It was only yesterday that I left his flat but it somehow feels like a lifetime ago, my body melting into his, craving the feeling of his weight pressed against me. My head spins, my stomach twists, my heart races.

This is onehellof a kiss.

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