Page 82 of The Billionaire's Paradise

“I don’t want a hug from anything under that surface,” Mrs. Mulroney said. “Just tell me what I’m supposed to do and be done with it.”

“Come on, everyone,” Kimo grinned, utterly dauntless. “Follow my lead.”

We waded in, boards tethered to ankles, paddles in hand, and expressions ranging from excitement and cautious optimism to full-blown dread. Tilly stared wide-eyed into the water with fascination, as tropical fish darted curiously between her feet. Anguswas already muttering prayers under his breath. Rashida had brought lip gloss, waterproof mascara, and exactly zero patience.

“Okay,” Kimo said, standing tall and bronzed on his board like a sea god who did Instagram reels. “Just breathe. Find your balance. The board becomes part of you.”

Cal, naturally, rose to his feet like some kind of barefoot Adonis who’d just emerged from a sunscreen commercial. The board didn’t wobble.Hedidn’t wobble. His paddle cut through the water with calm, effortless grace.

“Oh, come on,” I muttered. “Are you serious right now?”

He shrugged. “It’s not hard. It’s just physics and core control. Come on, babe, you’ll love it.”

“Oh, stop talking.”

Out of nowhere, Mr. Banks stood upright on his board. Perfectly balanced. Perfectly calm. “I say, this is fun,” he declared. “It reminds me of the time I rafted across the Yangtze River on a door after a miscommunication with a spice trader. Lovely chap… once he stopped throwing jars to try and sink me.”

In the blink of an eye, Tilly was suddenly up on her board. “The water’s so clear I can see all the way to the bottom.”

“Any sunken treasure?” asked Angus, shuffling himself onto his board and getting unsteadily to his feet.

“The only treasure on this ocean is you, bro,” Kimo called to Angus with a flirty wink.

Angus giggled, then did his damnedest to impress his bronzed sun god.

Rashida let out a long sigh, adjusted her ponytail, and muttered, “Fine. If I can walk from Times Square to Columbus Circle in six-inch heels during a blizzard on New Year’s Eve, I can do this.”

She pushed herself up onto her knees, then—slowly, carefully—rose to her feet. For a second, it looked like she might fall. Then she planted her paddle in the water like a scepter and struck a pose.

“Hell yes,” she said. “Balance, grace, and thighs of steel. Someone take a photo.”

And then there was just me and Mrs. Mulroney.

Floundering.

Flapping.

Flopping.

I’d managed to get to my knees but was stuck there, panting like someone in desperate need of a paper bag. My board wobbled. Mydignitywobbled. My legs were having some kind of existential crisis.

Beside me, Mrs. Mulroney was teetering on her knees and muttering something that sounded like a prayer except for all the swear words.

“On three?” I offered.

She grunted. “I’m more of a four-and-a-half kind of woman.”

“We can do this. We may not be able to assemble IKEA furniture. We may not be able to program the TV remote. And we wouldn’t survive a single episode ofSurvivor. But I know we can do this.”

Mrs. Mulroney gave me her Braveheart look—the one she normally reserved for Black Friday sales at Macy’s. “You’re dead right, Matthew. We’ll not let this beat us.”

“One… two… three!”

Somehow, we moved in sync. A push here. A wobble there. My feet found their place. Her feet found hers. And then—miraculously—we were both upright.

Arms flailing slightly. Knees trembling. Thighs already warning us that this would hurt for days. But goddammit, we were upright.

“Sweet Jesus on a pogo stick,” she gasped. “We did it.”