The Summer I First Saw You

“For someone who negotiates for a living,” she says, shimmying the wetsuit around her hips, “you’re spectacularly bad at it.”

“I’m not negotiating with you. I can’t spend an hour surfing at the crack of dawn and then go put in a full day.”

She bends down to peel the wetsuit off her legs. The bikini bottoms are wedged in the crack of her ass.

“Jesus Christ, Daisy,” I say hoarsely, turning toward my car, “buy a one-piece. I just got a view of your cleavage and your ass that no one but your husband should ever get. Maybe not even him.”

“Maybe you should stop looking, then.”

“That’s why I need you out of my house,” I reply under my breath.

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