“Miguel,” she began, turning to him. “I have to admit something to you.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” He turned away from the water to look at her. His wet suit clung to his sculpted chest and she forced herself to meet his eyes and focus on the mortifying truth she could no longer hide from him.

“I . . . don’t actually know how to surf. Not very well, anyway.”

She hated how confused he looked—and for a terrible moment, imagined the expression on his face if she decided to tell him everything: that not only did she not know how to surf, but she also wasn’t Charlie Goodwin.

“Really? But you look so professional with your fancy board and wet suit,” he said, the smile returning to his handsome face.

“The truth is, it’s my sister who likes to surf.” This felt like it really was true, so she kept going. “I got this stuff when I moved here because I was hopeful I’d have time to learn. The problem is, I’m always working. When my sister visits, she’s the one who takes this stuff out. I keep it for her. And when you texted I was out with Priya and I may have had one too many cocktails.”

“Oh boy, so that’s why you agreed to a surf date with me?”

“No! Of course not! It’s just—”

“It’s okay, Charlie. No harm done at all. I had a feeling about the surfing. You seemed to be struggling with your board.”

She felt her cheeks grow warm. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” he said, stepping closer. He smelled like coconut sunscreen and saltwater. “To be honest, I was feeling a little concerned about you surfing so soon after your injury—but couldn’t resist the idea of spending time with you.” His dark eyes were intense, caring. “We’ll just take it slow, that’s all.” Momentarily confused if he was talking about their relationship or surfing, she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Okay, let’s do this,” she said. But he put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently.

“Here’s a secret about surfing, and it’s the reason surf bums have the rep they do.”

“What rep is that?”

“You know, the whole ‘relax dude’ mentality?” He grinned and held up his right hand in a “hang loose” sign. “It’s actually a thing. Surfing doesn’t work if you don’t relax.” For a moment he rubbed his thumb in circles around the knot at the base of her neck. Then he lowered his hand and said, “Okay, now breathe.”

“I am breathing,” she said, but realized that she had been holding her breath. She exhaled, then breathed in again. The air was tangy with the scent of the seawater.

“Excellent,” he said. “You’re a pro already. Now, come on, grab your board. Do it like this. It’s less awkward that way.” He demonstrated, and she followed suit with her own. It did feel easier. She followed him into the water.

“I know we’re supposed to spend time on the sand, learning the basics—but with your recent injury, I’d like to be even more gentle. I hope you’re okay with that. Into the water, come on.” Soon, the surf swirled around her ankles, then her knees. “Alright, put your board down and get on,” he said. “Attach your ankle strap, lie down, and keep on breathing.”