Soaked (The Water's Edge #2) by Stacy Kestwick

future skin cancer victims. “Not much really going on yet this morning.”
    “I disagree.” He winked. “I think there’s plenty going on here.”
    He reached out and snagged a wayward curl from my face and tucked it behind my ear, letting his fingers graze the length of my neck.
    Biting my lip, I twisted away and fashioned a loose, messy bun at the nape of my neck, securing it with the hair tie from my wrist. Pink this time. He was oblivious of my attempt at creating distance between us and stayed firmly planted by my side.
    He pointed past me to the water, his arm grazing me. “That surfer there? See him? The one with the tattoo of birds on his back? That’s our subject.”
    I studied the man he indicated. The guy was hot. Both his sculpted body and the way he handled his board—slicing smoothly through the water with an intuitiveness that spoke of years of experience and a fluidity the other surfers couldn’t match.
    Nice choice.
    “Check in with each other in twenty minutes?”
    He shrugged. “If you need that long to get some good images, sure. Twenty minutes works.”
    I narrowed my eyes.
    Game on.
    Adjusting the setting on my camera, I edged closer to the shoreline. Nick followed, but then continued walking right into the ocean until he was waist deep. I hadn’t realized until just then his yellow trimmed navy shorts were board shorts. He seemed unconcerned about his shirt, not bothering to remove it.
    “What are you doing?” I yelled to be heard over the wind.
    “Taking pictures.” He winked. “What are you doing?”
    Shaking my head at him, I lifted my camera to my face, moving farther across the sand so Nick didn’t ruin my shot. I kept my angle wide. The way I framed the shot, the surfer acted as the exclamation point at the end of the sentence the wave was writing, its foamy curl chasing him.
    I zoomed out more, letting the focus on the bare-chested man grow blurry, featuring instead his smallness contrasted to the vast expanse of turquoise water behind him, his red board a bright slash of color near the bottom edge of the frame.
    The wave dissipated and the surfer paddled back out to catch another one. A wall of water hid him from view, playing hide and seek with me. I took pictures through three more sets that he expertly rode, oblivious to the two photographers capturing the action.
    When time was up, Nick wordlessly handed me his camera and accepted mine.
    We flipped through each other’s work.
    Mine was good. I knew it.
    His was stunning. Absolutely breathtaking.
    He’d gone for more detailed photos. The surfer’s hand as it caressed the top of a swell. His victorious grin and upraised arm at the end of a good ride. The slope of his shoulder as he sat on the board, watching for the perfect wave to ride in. The beads of water running down his back.
    I sucked in a breath. It was fucking hot.
    “Today’s lesson.” Nick’s voice was serious this time, no hint of playfulness. “Sometimes the parts are better than the whole. There’s beauty in everybody, and choosing to focus on those details can be much more intriguing than looking at the entire subject. It’s more intimate. It lets the viewer fill in the blanks with their own imagination, substitute the missing pieces with their own fantasies. And that’s where the magic happens.”
    Handing my camera back, he tipped his chin at it. “Your technique is good. Nothing to be ashamed of. But step outside the box some and try it my way this time.”
    Nodding, I studied the surfer again, with new eyes. Not him versus the water. Or even him and the board. But the fragments.
    The bunching of his back muscles, obscuring the script of his tattoo. The way the waistband of his shorts was higher on the left hip than the right. The angle of his throat as he raised his head up to the sun.
    As I headed closer to the water, I realized Nick was walking the opposite direction, back toward the resort. “Where are you going?” I called after him.
    “I