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He picks out the longest, thickest, widest board I’ve seen.

It’s at least a foot taller than I am and is—wait for it—a fun board.

Apparently, it floats better and is easier to manage than an actual longboard.

It’s slightly yellowed and a whole lot dinged up, but Ozzy carries it down to the water for me.

I don’t think he wants to hand me a weapon.

“Last chance to back out,” he warns. “Oh right. You don’t back down.”

He smiles at me, though, and I grin back at him. It’s us against them now.

“Am I going to die out there? Is this your last-ditch strategy to land the TripFriendz job?” I hold on to his shoulders while he slips the tether around my ankle.

For a sport that’s all about flying free over the water, this feels remarkably like a ball and chain.

I’m forced to shuffle-walk to the water’s edge.

He nods. You got me! “My evil plan is working.”

“Chief Play Officer Wylder, reporting for duty?”

“Maybe we can be co-chiefs,” he offers, looking out over the ocean. He hands me a sweet sentiment, a platitude. Here are the wildflowers I picked for you! It’s a nice thought, but it’s never going to happen.

I distract myself with other thoughts. Thought number one: neoprene makes him look like a million bucks.

Outlines his big, hard form. Frames his muscles.

I’d peel him out of it, but that may be beyond my abilities.

It’s glued to him, and I blatantly ogle the bulge in his crotch.

It’s my last chance. We fly home tomorrow.

“Are you naked under there?”

“Inappropriate, Pandora Fyffe.”

I’m not naked. I’m wearing my stars-and-moons swimsuit. Nudity was suggested, but given the group effort it took to get me suited up, I’m risking the swimsuit chafe. I’m keeping my dignity as long as possible.

“Do you think this counts as our job interview?”

It’s going to happen. One of us will win, while the other loses.

“Fuck the interview,” he growls. Growls! “Fuck the whole thing. TripFriendz can pick whoever they want, and we’ll get on with our lives.”

“I can’t just walk away.”

He nods. Waits for me to explain it to him. I love his patience.

“I’ve lost other jobs. I need to prove I can hang on to one. That I’m not expendable or replaceable.”

He mutters a curse. “You are one of a kind.”

“Look, maybe we should revisit the night we met at Miles to Go. After we kissed, my boss texted and terminated me. He got my name wrong. My superpower is invisibility. If only I wanted a career in bank robbing or secret shopping, I’d be all set.”

He cups the side of my face with his hand. On the beach behind us, our audience is getting restless.

“You’re never invisible to me.” He hesitates, then he does the most Ozzy thing of all and throws himself into the fray. He doesn’t hold back at all. “Maybe surfing won’t be so bad if you’re there. Maybe it will be okay. Will you do this with me?”

My spine melts and runs down my legs. I probably have stars in my eyes. Pitter-pats in my rib cage. Ozzy Wylder needs me, so I get in the ocean and prepare to surf.

Before my close encounter with neoprene, I’d told Roz to choose five lucky people. They’ll be the ones to get a private surfing lesson with the one and only Ozzy Wylder. It’s a compromise, and it’ll make for good media.

Six seems like enough to be inclusive without dooming us to failure. Roz has picked out two kids, a middle-aged couple, and a twentysomething who looks halfway to being in love with Ozzy. That makes two of us.

Ozzy checks their gear, making recommendations, and then we all head out like a brood of ducklings following the very sexy mama duck.

The ocean is cold even though it’s June.

The baby waves that slap at my knees, then my thighs, and finally my poor vag in her neoprene castle, are cold.

I have no idea how Mexico in the summer can be cold, but there you have it.

With each step we take, the surf slaps at us, at our boards.

It slaps me in the face, and I shake like a dog.

I can’t believe Ozzy chose this as a career path.

I lie belly down on my board and listen intently as he goes over paddling—fortunately for me, it’s doggy style—and then he promises that we’re going to ride the baby waves in to shore on our bellies.

The middle-aged couple looks skeptical, but the others are totally on board with this plan.

I turn my head—getting a mouthful of ocean water in the process, which is probably full of fish poop and marine semen—to look at Ozzy.

He moves between the boards, offering advice and rearranging limbs.

It’s not quite as easy as it sounds. Even these small waves roll and crest. It takes three attempts to get my chest and head up.

He runs through how to pop up on the board (which is fancy surfer-speak for jump up on top of it with my nonexistent ab muscles and then glide to shore without falling over). The kids get the hang of it in no time.

A surfer rides up beside me. He’s straddling his board, legs hugging it kind of like a seahorse. “Nothing better, right?”

Apparently random strangers will make idle chitchat with you when you’re both stuck at sea.

“It’s not bad.” I have a death grip on my foamie. There are living things lurking in the water below me and Jaws will be along any moment to bite a chunk out of my board.

“It’s even better out at the break. The view of the beach is incredible.” He points off into the distance. “I can tow you?”

“Not today.” Ozzy materializes by my side. He slaps a proprietary hand on my board. I think he’s considering tattooing PROPERTY OF on my boobs.

The other surfer paddles off with a laugh. He’s headed back out to the break, and I’m forgotten.

“Ready to surf?” He swings onto my board behind me. I have no idea how we don’t capsize. Or sink. This board can’t be meant to handle so much weight.

“I tried to get out of it, but my boss-to-be is a tyrant.” I lean back against him. My fellow students are paddling like rabid dogs, trying to put some distance between themselves and the shore.

“Don’t give up yet.” Ozzy laughs and sends us shooting after them.

We don’t go far, and we certainly don’t go anywhere near the break where the waves crest and curl.

But he’s behind me on the board all the way, and then he pulls me up, bracing me against his body.

The first time, I knock us both off. I slip through Ozzy’s hands and underwater.

The world goes green and blue. My eyes sting from the salt, and then there’s sand against my face, the bottom.

I fight the gentle pressure that rolls me, shoving me down. Ozzy pulls me up.

“You okay?”

I am. I really, really am. “Let’s try it again.”

The second time, it sticks. We’re stuck together, arms out, skimming over the surface, the beach coming closer and closer.

It’s magical.