Of Poseidon

Chapter Three

I splash enough water in Chloe’s face to put out a small house fire. I don’t want to drown her, just exfoliate her eyeballs with sea salt. When she thinks I’m done, she opens her eyes—and her mouth. Big mistake. The next wave rinses off the hangy ball in the back of her throat and makes it to her lungs before she can swallow. She chokes and coughs and rubs her eyes as if she’s been maced.

“Great, Emma! You got my new hair wet!” she sputters. “Happy now?”

“Nope.”

“I said I was sorry.” She blows her nose in her hand, then sets the snot to sea.

“Gross. And sorry’s not good enough.”

“Fine. I’ll make it up to you. What do you want?”

“Let me hold your head underwater until I feel better,” I say.

I cross my arms, which is tricky when straddling a surf board being pitched around in the wake of a passing speedboat. Chloe knows I’m nervous being this far out, but holding on would be a sign of weakness.

“I’ll let you do that because I love you. But it won’t make you feel better.”

“I won’t know for sure until I try it.” I keep eye contact, sit a little straighter.

“Fine. But you’ll still look albino when you let me back up.” She rocks the board and makes me grab it for balance.

“Get your snotty hands off the surfboard. And I’m not albino. Just white.” I want to cross my arms again, but we almost tipped over that time. Swallowing my pride is a lot easier than swallowing the Gulf of Mexico.

“Whiter than most,” she grins. “People would think you’re naked if you wore my swimsuit.” I glance down at the white string bikini, off set beautifully against her chocolate-milk skin. She catches me and laughs.

“Well, maybe I could get a tan while we’re here,” I say, blushing. I feel myself cracking and I hate it. Just this once, I want to stay mad at Chloe.

“Maybe you could get a burn while we’re here, you mean. Matterfact, did you put sunblock on?”

I shake my head.

She shakes her head too, and makes a tsking sound identical to her mother’s. “Didn’t think so. If you did, you would’ve slipped right off that guy’s chest instead of sticking to it like that.”

“I know,” I groan. “Got to be the hottest guy I’ve ever seen,” she says, fanning herself for emphasis.

“Yeah, I know. Smacked into him, remember? Without my helmet, remember?”

She laughs. “Hate to break it to you, but he’s still staring at you. Him and his mean-ass sister.”

“Shut. Up.”

She snickers. “But seriously, which one of them do you think would win a staring contest? I was gonna tell him to meet us at Baytowne to night, but he might be one of those clingy stalker types. That’s too bad, too. There’s a million dark little corners in Baytowne for you two to snuggle—”

“Ohmysweetgoodness, Chloe, stop!” I giggle and shiver at the same time and accidentally imagine walking around The Village in Baytowne Wharf with Galen. The Village is exactly that—a sleepy little village of tourist shops in the middle of a golfcourse resort. During the daytime anyway. At night though . . . that’s when the dance club wakes up and opens its doors to all the sunburned partiers roaming the cobblestoned walkways with their daiquiris. Galen would look great under the twinkling lights, even with a shirt on. . . .