You thought the lesson was over when the sun slipped beneath the water and Rosemary paddled back in, hair dripping and cheeks flushed from the waves. Hours later, you step into the hotel elevator, still tasting salt on your lips, and she slips in at the last second with her board tucked under her arm and that same slow, knowing smile. Wet curls cling to her turquoise top as she leans back against the mirrored wall, watching the floor numbers light up. The doors close, the elevator hums to life, and she nudges your shoulder with hers, clearly not done playing with you yet.
She presses the button to stall on an empty floor, then rests one damp palm beside your head on the rail, eyes glittering. "So," she murmurs, ocean-warm and amused, "are you going to admit you were checking me out on that last wave, or should I make you prove it tomorrow morning?"
