Page 36 of Fa-La La-La Land
“I’m not actually ready for the tattoo,” I say slowly.
“How about surfing? You’ve got your suit on. You’re already wet. Waves won’t be too big this time of day.” The corner of his lip twitches with a suppressed smile.
I should say no. We really have work to do. But…maybe I can combine the two—I’ll learn to surf and then get some pics of Rhys having a good time.
So, I agree. For work purposes only,obviously.
Half an hour later, Rhys has two surfboards strapped to his electric bike and another bike ready for me. He’s tried to disguise himself with a bucket hat and sunglasses thatmightwork, but I doubt it. With the picnic Rita packed for us, we’re on our way to the beach with Rhys’s bodyguard, Derek, following behind in an SUV until Rhys and I turn off on a dirt path that leads to the beach.
I’ve never been on an e-bike before—or gone anywhere with a bodyguard, for that matter. Both take a little getting used to, but the e-bike is a little trickier. I either put too much pressure on the throttle or ride the brake too hard. But once I get used to it, it’s an amazing feeling, riding down the winding road to the bumpy dirt path that leads to a relatively secluded beach.
Derek’s already parked at the beach when we arrive, the binoculars he used to watch us on our bikes hanging around his neck. He plants himself near us, but not so close people might think he’s with us—or that he’s protecting Rhys.
Rhys sets up our chairs and the umbrella, then helps me into a wetsuit. I didn’t know October could be this hot, but I’ve been in the Pacific. I know it’ll be cold. The wetsuit will keep me warm and help me float.
I’ve tried surfing before, when I was here last summer with Britta, but while she fell a little more in love with her fake husband, I spent most of the day lying on the beach after toppling from my borrowed surfboard one too many times.
Once I’m in the wetsuit, Rhys lays my board on the sand and teaches me how to pop-up on it, moving from my chest to my knees to my feet in three intentional moves. I practice the moves over and over while he counts,one, two, three.
I’ve worked up a sweat by the time he says, “Righto. You’re ready.”
He grabs my hand and, carrying my board under his arm, leads me into waist-deep water.
“Climb on,” he orders, then holds the board steady while I shimmy on from the back. He guides me into chest-deep water, turns me to face the shore, and with a gentle push, propels me forward and yells, “Up!”
The pop-up’s a lot harder on the water than it is on the sand, but the water’s shallow enough that when I fall, I barely go underwater before I’m able to stand. We go out a few more times. On my third try, I make it up—only for a second. But I’m up. And it’s awesome. After that, every time we go out, I get to my feet and I stay up a little longer each time until I finally ride a wave all the way in.
That ride turns out to be my best one of the day. I try a few more times, but I’m too exhausted to stay up again. Rhys carries the board back to our spot on the beach and helps me out of the wetsuit, saying at least half a dozen times, “Good on ya, La-La.”
I guess Millie’s nickname for me has stuck. It’s better than Sparky, but I’m worried how I come undone every time Rhys says it.La-Lamelts on his tongue like butter on a hot roll. My limbs are all jelly, which makes getting out of the stupid wetsuit even harder.
Rhys laughs at my struggling to get out of it and holds one sleeve while I yank one arm out of it, then the other. Nothing sexy about that, until he goes the extra mile and peels the wetsuit down over my hips, down my thighs, all the way to my ankles. Sure, Rhys moves fast, but not faster than my pulse does when his fingers graze my skin.
Rhys helps me sit on my towel, then motions for me to hold up one leg, then the other, so he can tug the suit over my feet. “Couple more lessons, you’ll be paddling out on your own. You’ll be ready to compete against Dex.”
I laugh and lie back on my towel, too exhausted to think about going in the ocean again. Rhys drops next to me, right on my towel. He’s not wearing a wetsuit. His bare, inked skin is right there for the touching.
I close my eyes, my heart pounding with his nearness. A drop of water hits my cheek, and I open my eyes. Rhys’s deep blue eyes, perfectly straight nose, devastating cheekbones, square jaw, and very kissable lips hover above me. He flashes a smile, pecks my lips, and then jumps up.
“Waves are picking up. Going out while you rest.”
As if that kiss hadn’t rattled my brain enough, Rhys puts on a wetsuit, which, I have to say, has to be a million times sexier than my attempt to claw my way out of one.
Obviously, Icouldclose my eyes, but that would require the neurons in my brain to behave nicely and send recognizable signals to the muscles in my body. Instead, they’re going crazier than a five-year-old hopped up on candy canes Christmas morning.
Rhys scoops up his board and jogs toward the ocean, leaving me doing anything but resting. Not because I just watched him squeeze his body into a suit that hugs his form better than any superhero costume has ever hugged any actor ever—including Chadwick Boseman’s (RIP)Black Pantherthirst trap.
Nope. That’s definitely not what’s got my neurons misfiring. Okay, maybe it is a little, but it’s like a 70/30 split. The seventy going to Rhys and the kiss that was barely a kiss. Nothing like the way he kissed me in the pool. This kiss was so fast I would have missed it if I hadn’t been paying attention.
The biggest difference, though, is I have no idea what this kiss—thispeck—means.
I run through each number on my 30 Before 30 List. Yes, I have the whole thing memorized. I wrote it when I was fourteen, so I’ve had a lot of time to learn every word. Who cares that it took Rhys roughly ten seconds to commit it to memory?
I’ve made a few revisions in the last nine years, but trust me, I know what’s on my list. And I can’t think of one entry that matches that last kiss.
I brush the sand from my legs, then wrap my arms around my knees. I’m still covered in sand. I suspect I will be as long as I live in LA. It’s as inescapable, apparently, as my teenage crush on Rhys.
I watch him paddle out to the lineup, past where we surfed together. Even from this distance, I can feel his ease in the water. He takes a wave, moving gracefully over it, up and down. He’s relaxed. Enjoying himself. Comfortable in the ocean, but in a different way than he is on stage.
