Lengths by Liz Reinhardt, Steph Campbell

bulge of his tanned leg muscles. “Shouldn’t you be teaching me how to paddle-up or whatever?” It’s hot, and I’d love to get into that cool water.
              “Paddle-out, doll.” He shakes his head and laughs. “Look, that wave right there?” He points out into the endless sea. “It may look small to you, but I bet it’s double-your-head high. You need to get a feel for the current. You need to watch the sets break and see where you can swim if you get into trouble.” He really knows his stuff. It’s more than impressive. Every time I’ve been to the beach with Deo, he surprises me with his passion and it’s quickly crossing the line from educational and interesting to irresistibly sexy.
    I chew my lower lip hard and stomp those thoughts out. Friends. That’s what we are. That’s what makes sense. And I’m the one who recommended it, because I know how dangerously intoxicating he can be. But I can do this. We’re just friends out surfing. Totally friendly. Not at all awkward or completely sexually charged.
    “Stand up,” he says, jerking me out of my embarrassingly guilty thoughts. He reaches his hand out and helps me up. I’m adjusting the ties on my stupid bikini that I'd sworn I’d never wear again when Deo pushes me. I stumble forward a few steps, kicking sand up behind me.
“Thought so, goofy-footed.” He looks triumphant.
I glare, fuming over the fact that he almost made me expose one boob while I was trying to catch myself. “What the hell, Deo?”
              As expected, his eye is right on that nearly naked tata, which I cover with a frantic snap of stretchy red fabric. His eyes are quietly appreciative, and it sends a warm, hot hum through me.               “Sorry, I had to figure out which foot you put forward. I couldn’t warn you. In surfing, if you think about, you’ll fall.”
              “This is a ton of stuff. Are you sure this is safe?” Now that I’m as modestly covered as my teeny tiny bikini allows, my outrage shifts gears and turns into stomach-churning worry.
              All the peeping-tom, mischievous, laid-back surfer elements of Deo’s little show slide away, and his eyes become as calm and serious as his voice.
    “Whit, I can’t promise you much of anything, but I promise I’ll never let you get hurt.”
              My heart leaps and thuds in my chest. That’s an awfully big promise, especially from someone who currently holds more power than anyone else to do exactly that.
              “Yeah, but you’ll do anything,” I say shakily, trying to lighten the mood.
              He furrows his brow, then nods as if some piece to this whole million-piece puzzle we’re putting together finally snapped into place. “Is that what’s scaring you so damn bad?”
    I suck in my bottom lip, just like I always do when I’m nervous, or totally brain dead and don’t know what the hell to say. And he’s staring at me, at my mouth, with a hungry, needy look, and I really think he’s about to kiss me. And I may lean forward, just an inch, towards those lips that I know so damn well.
    Even though that’s not in the friend zone, at all.
    He blinks several times and shakes his head, like someone said the magic word and he’s no longer hypnotized. Or maybe I just stopped biting my lip.
              “Let’s get in the water and cool off,” he says, his voice slightly strangled.
              I just nod, since I don’t trust my voice at the moment.
              We wade into the salty water, and even its tingling crispness isn’t doing enough to counteract the searing temperature from Deo’s hand, burning a hole in me as it rests protectively on the small of my back.
              I’m about waist deep when Deo looks at me and rubs a warm hand on my shoulder, as if he can sense my nerves.