Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. Reaching blindly for my phone alarm from under mountains of plush duvet, I turn it off, stretching luxuriously. Wow, this bed is comfortable. Note to self: as soon as you can afford to, invest in good bedding. From my pile of goose feather pillows, I grab the day’s agenda and scan through the schedule I chose. 7:30: Tropical Buffet 8:30: The Magic of Compounding Interest 10:00: Index Funds and Why You Need Them 11:30: Diversify Like a Pro 1:00: Tropical Buffet 2:00: Keynote Speaker Ty Dyson: Managing Stockholder Expectations [Please note that Mr. Dyson will be taking a few questions at 3:40 but will be unavailable after 4 pm] 4:30: Cocktail Hour Meet & Greet The perfect day. Rung by bullet-pointed rung, I’m climbing my ladder. All the way to the freaking top. I take a shower and put on the outfit I laid out. I’m excited to see the keynote speaker, Ty Dyson. He’s the CFO of a Seattle investment fund that was recently bought by one of my top three dream companies to work for in New York City. Invested Enterprises is run by three or four brothers who are investment geniuses. My plan was to stick it out at my new job for at least a year before applying to New York companies, but now that I’m ready for my day, standing here on my little balcony with my view of the tropical blue sky and the ocean waves, I change my mind. Today, anything seems possible. Why not apply now? If I could land a job in New York in six months instead of a year, I’ll streamline my goals. I decide to start applying as soon as I get back to Austin. Checking my look in the mirror before I head downstairs, I pause for a few seconds. My two hours on the beach yesterday afternoon have already given me a sun-kissed glow. Damn, girl, you look different in Hawaii than you do in Austin. You actually look like a confident professional. A CEO on the rise. A ball- breaker. Which is good, exc ept maybe for that last one. It’s true that I have to be more than just self-assured in the industry I’ve chosen. A lot of my peers still see finance as a man’s game, which in this day and age seems sort of ridiculous, but it’s true. Today I’m going to need every ounce of confidence I can get. I’m wearing an off-white skirt and a white silk top. It’s professional- looking but also feminine. My curves aren’t exactly being advertised but they’re also not disguised. I can pretend I’m one of the guys or I can be exactly who I am: female, in a very man-heavy scene. I’m determined to make that a strength, not a weakness—which I’ve already learned plenty of men seem to think it is. But I’ll prove them wrong. I know I have enough grit to make it to the top or die trying. By the time I get down to the restaurant, it’s busy. A buffet and allocated tables have been set up for the conference attendees. I help myself to some fruit and coffee at the buffet and find a small table at the far end of the terrace. The area is overrun by men in suits, laughing loudly. There’s barely a woman among them. I missed the meet-and-greet drinks in one of the hotel’s conference rooms last night, deciding to stay on the beach instead. After a life- transforming swim in the clear blue water, I laid on my beach towel for a
while, just appreciating the sand on my skin, two slushy guava cocktails from the bar (to die for) and my book. I was so blissed-out I couldn’t tear myself away. But now, I realize it might have been a mistake to not spend at least some of my evening with the rest of the delegates. I’m not easily intimidated, but the testosterone level on this patio is as thick as my Kona double espresso. Being a recent graduate in a new job is never easy, but one of the hardest things has been being treated like a naïve, mindless girl who knows nothing about the complicated, old-school mechanics of finance, or—worst of all—like a clueless piece of ass. A couple of guys get up from the table next to mine, glancing over at me, checking me out. “I heard the Victoria’s Secret conference is being held at the hotel down the street,” one jokes. I smile sweetly. “Which is why I’m wearing my edible thong and diamond-studded wonder bra under my power suit.” Jerk. The other men roar with laughter and the pack of them wander away. Whatever. I eat my (amazingly delicious) papaya in silence, giving myself a silent p ep talk. Not everyone is that rude. I’m used to being underestimated, which I can handle. I’m young. And I know what I look like. Give me a couple of years and I’ll be paying that guy’s wages and deciding which one of his friends deserves a bonus or not. To my relief, the day’s workshops go better, only because everyone takes them seriously. Each room I go into is full of people who are in fully-focused business mode. Ties have been straightened and new friendships put to one side as the sea of young and hungry attendees hang on every word of the speakers. It feels good to be in a place where everyone has the same goals. I don’t have to pretend to be unambitious or change my personality like I sometimes had to do in college. I can be the cool, corporate version of Dusty Rose, without worrying about being “likable” or “smiling more.” I can focus on absorbing the kind of knowledge that will take me all the way to New York. By the time I’ve sat through three back-to-back seminars and a keynote speech, my head is bursting with new information. With the workshops done for the day, everyone heads to the beach bar. I’m about to join them when I see Brad and his friends. They’re talking to the three guys who were sitting next to me at breakfast. Wonderful. And so I decide to pass on social hour. I’ve already done my research. The only New York companies with delegates here at the conference have sent their lower-level employees. Like me. This conference is for people on the rise, not the ones who have already made it. I want to be social. But I can’t quite face the brigade of loud-mouthed macho men dominating the bar right now who are already well on their way to getting inebriated on the company credit card. So, instead of joining them, I head back up to my room and put on the bikini I splurged on when I found out I was coming to Hawaii. I bought a plain black one-piece that I thought would be more professional if I hit the beach with any new acquaintances, but I couldn’t help myself when I saw the tiny leopard print. It may as well be Victoria’s Secret, for all the coverage it gives me. It shows off every curve I own and then some. But I’m in Hawaii. I want to make the most of it. My olive skin tans easily and I’m looking forward to a few more hours of baking myself happily in the late afternoon sun. I throw a pink cotton sundress over the top for the elevator ride, grab a hat, slip on my flip-flops and head down to the beach.
My bikini is definitely too risqué for the hotel’s pool, where I might run into Brad and Co. So I wander a little further down the beach to find a place to swim. I park my towel and pull out my book. I can still hear the hum of conversation from the beach bar, laughter and the sound of glasses clinking. A guy with dirty-blond dreadlocks is giving a surfing lesson to two kids nearby while their parents watch. I take off my dress and wander into the water, which is the exact same temperature as the tropical air. I float there for a while, feeling like the luckiest person in the world. Maybe one day, after I’ve conquered New York City, I’ll come back here. Maybe I’ll buy a little condo near the beach. Maybe I’ll come back with my lover to celebrate at the beach bar where we first met. Sure. Earl has lot to answer for, planting romantic ideas in my head when I’m the least romantic person on the planet. After my father left, I watched my mother not-quite-date a series of losers throughout my childhood. She was always wary of bringing men into our lives and I was grateful for that. Not one of them seemed like someone I hoped would stick around. And they never did. They left my mother just a little more disappointed, jaded and broken-hearted each time, and I watched her motivation to conquer life slowly leak away. They killed her dreams and, little by little, she allowed it. So it was up to me to figure out my own dreams. I always knew that only one thing would get me where I needed to go: my own hard work. And there’s only one person I can rely on to get me there: myself. So there’s not much point daydreaming about things that will never happen. If Brad is the caliber of guys on offer at the beach bar, I’ll pass. I wander back onto dry land and lay on my towel, letting the sun dry my skin. A shadow darkens the page I’m reading. “Hey.” Shading my eyes, I look up to see the surf instructor grinning at me. His eyes are green and his skin is de eply tanned. He looks like the ocean is his one and only source of bathwater—not that he looks especially dirty. Just... salty. Earthy. He’s probably around my age. “Hey.” “You want a free surf lesson?” “Um. No thanks.” I try to go back to my book, but he sits, reclining next to me like we’re old friends, not caring that he’s getting covered in sand. “You ever surfed before?” I don’t r eply right away, half hoping he’ll take the hint. The one in which I’m not interested in being ogled by an admittedly cute surfer—if you happen to be into the kind of guy who lives out of his van and chases waves for a living. If I’d lived a different life, maybe. But, as it is, I’m a million miles from this guy’s wavelength. He’s still grinning, waiting for me to answer his question. I finally relent. “No. Never.” “Where are you from?” “Texas.” “I tried surfing in Galveston once. Wouldn’t recommend it.” “Yeah, it’s not really known for its surf.” “I’m Lucas.” He holds out his sandy hand. I take it lightly. It would feel rude not to at this point. “Dusty.” “You here on vacation?” “Conference.” I give a little nod toward the hotel, where the party at the bar is gaining momentum. “You look too young to be at a work conference,” he comments. “Is this your first time in Hawaii?” “Yes.” “How come you’re not hanging out with the stiffs?” His question is ironic, like he already knows the answer to that question. “I wasn’t really feeling the whole getting-hit-on-by-Brad vibe.” He laughs. “Fair enough. Just to be clear, I’m not hitting on you. I’m only offering to give you a free surfing lesson.” “Thank you, but no. I’m just enjoying the beach.” “You’d enjoy it a lot more if you were out there catching your first wave. It’s absolutely required as part of the full Hawaii experience.”
“Honestly, I’m not... dressed for it.” This bikini really is sort of skimpy. “You’re in Waikiki now, Dusty. Skin is good. Trust me, you won’t regret your first feel of the power of the ocean underneath you. It’s a religious experience. Seriously.” I bite my lip. “Come on, Dust. You know you want to. It’ll change your life.” Am I considering doing this? “I’d fall off.” “Luckily, if you do, you’ll land in warm tropical water that’s only around four feet de ep until way, way out. Can you swim?” “Yes.” “Good. Let’s go.” “You must have other customers.” “Nope.” Lucas jumps up and goes over to his surfboard, placing it on the sand in front of me. “Your life is never the same again after you catch a wave. It changes everything: your Karma, the way you manifest the rest of your future, your entire path.” Damn it, he really is sort of convincing. I have always wondered what surfing would feel like. And when he puts it like that, how can I not? “Are you sure you don’t mind? You don’t have other appointments?” “I’m done for the day.” He’s still smiling. Maybe surfing makes a person blindly happy. I have the sudden urge to find out. “Okay,” I finally say. I climb to my feet, following him to his surfboard. “I’ll pay you. You don’t have to do it for free.” “The hotel employs me. I could sit on my ass all day and not take a single lesson and still get paid. This will be purely for my own enjoyment.” He seems harmless, and he’s persuasive. “I love helping people get their first surfing rush. Watching people’s lives changing right in front of your eyes is about as real as it gets.” I can see why the hotel pays him without worrying about a schedule. I can’t imagine he’s ever short of customers. “And I promise not to hit on you like Brad,” he adds. “I could do without that, thanks.” “This is a spiritual lesson and nothing more.” “Thank you.” “You’re welcome. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, come over here and stand on this board.” “I’ve never even been near a surfboard before, so you might need to lower your expectations.” “I don’t have any expectations, but if I did, you’ve already exceeded them. You’re by far the most beautiful girl on this beach.” More grinning. “Oh, shit, did I just break our rule?” “I think you might have, yeah.” He shakes his head and his long dreadlocks swing. There are little beads on the end of a few of them. “Okay. Sorry. Forget I said that. Now, watch me. Stand like this, in the middle, arms out but not too far. Feet like this. Get your balance. Everyone has the urge to lean back but I want you to do the opposite. Lean into it.” I spend the next hour learning how to get my balance. And then I follow Lucas out, paddling like he does. And then I proceed to spectacularly fail to stand on a live, moving surfboard as it jettisons me at what feels like a hundred miles an hour over open water. I try a dozen times but it’s much harder than it looks. “One more,” Lucas hollers from where he’s sitting on his own surfboard. “You almost had it that time. Do it again.” “Maybe I’m not cut out for this!” I holler back at him. “You are! You almost had it. Get your footing. Lean into it. Here comes a good one. Go!” I paddle as the wave approaches me and, just as it starts to crest underneath me, I stand up. I lean into it, getting my balance. And just like that, I’m surfing. I’m standing on top of the wave as it carries me along its rolling surge and Lucas was right. It’s the best feeling I’ve ever had in my goddamn life. In this moment, I feel like the most powerful person in the world.
I can hear Lucas cheering as he surfs in behind me. I lose my balance and fall off. But as I climb onto my surfboard and let the waves take me back to shore, that taste of magic has transformed me. My limits have been obliterated. I’m as invincible as the forces of nature. Whoa. Would you listen to yourself? Lucas follows me back onto the beach and sets his surfboard on the sand next to mine. “That was awesome, Dusty. You’re a natural.” I’m still buzzing and breathless. “You were right.” “Surfing’s the source,” he says simply, and I can’t help sort of agreeing with him. “And now you can watch your life explode with good energy. I’d offer you another lesson tomorrow but I’m headed up to the North Shore tonight to see some friends. Want to come?” I laugh. “No. Thanks. I’ve got the conference tomorrow.” “Ditch the conference.” I wrap my towel around myself. Lucas watches me do this. For a split second, still riding my high, the thought flickers through my mind: I could cash in my way overdue V-card with a random surfer while on a work trip in Hawaii. I could attend my last day of the conference as a newly- experienced, take-life-by-the-(literal)-balls sex goddess, with adrenaline still spiking through my veins from both joyrides. And never see him again. Objectively, he’s a good-looking guy—all dimples and bright eyes. But there’s no part of me that wants to jump the conference ship and sail away with Mr. Waikiki. If anything, catching that wave only ramped up my ambition. I can surf. Which means I can do anything. I decide I won’t ask Lucas to do me the honors. As nice as he is, I’m not feeling any real chemistry. Besides, I don’t do casual relationships—which is part of the reason I’m still a virgin at the advanced age of twenty-three. I had plenty of attention from guys in college. But most of them were only interested in partying non-stop and talking endlessly about beer and football. My roommate Emma told me the first time is always terrible anyway. Emma’s advice was to rip off the band-aid with any random stranger and then find someone you’re crazy about to help you get good at it. But to me that sounded like terrible advice. I could never quite bring myself to follow it. I always felt like there should be something more to that first time than mechanics and just getting it “out of the way.” Or maybe I’m an idiot for making it into a big deal when it isn’t. It’s just sex, according to Emma. The fact that it’s been so hard to find any kind of genuine connection with a guy has made me wonder if something’s wrong with me. Maybe I’m just too picky. There doesn’t need to be fireworks and instant electricity, does there? I guess that’s what Emma meant. A spark could turn into a bonfire, given long enough. But I’ve never felt more than a flicker for anyone. Not even once. Even now. “I can’t ditch the conference, Lucas. But thanks for the lesson. Really.” “You’ll remember me for the rest of your life. This is the day everything started to change for you. You’ll see.” “I hope you’re right,” I laugh. “Have fun on the North Shore.” “You sure you don’t want to come?” “I’m sure. Enjoy those waves.” He makes a sort of sad face and I smile at him, turning to make my way back to the hotel. “Bye, Lucas.” “See you around, Dust.” He wanders up the beach to where his van is parked. You should have gone with it. He was cute. No. I want to feel it. All of it. I want to get totally freaking sw ept away. Maybe it doesn’t happen that way. Maybe you never will. I guess I need to come to terms with the fact that it’ll probably never happen like that for me. Maybe I’m just too focused on my career for any kind of relationship at all.
I head back up the beach toward the hotel’s patio. As I get closer, I feel the heat of someone’s gaze and I glance up at the raised table with the best view. A man is sitting there. He’s wearing a suit, and sunglasses. His tie is loosened and the top button of his shirt is undone. It’s immediately obvious that his suit is expensive and beautifully cut. A far cry from the polyester Brad and his cronies favor. This guy’s probably wearing Armani and it fits him in a way you can’t help but stare at. There’s something ideal about it. There’s something ideal about him. My stomach does a funny little flip. An i Pad is in front of him on the table but its screen isn’t lit up. His eyes are on me. As I walk past him, he slides his glasses up, as though to get a better look. “Impressive,” he drawls. At first I’m not entirely sure he’s talking to me. I glance behind me and a smile quirks at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry?” I finally say. “The surfing. Not bad for a first try.” “How did you know it was my first try?” “Just a guess.” Was he watching the whole time? “You didn’t click with Surfer Boy?” His voice is de ep and has a smoky husk to it that causes the tiny hairs on my arms to rise. Wow. He’s all swagger. He has thick dark hair and eyes that match the color of the ocean water. His lashes are too long for a man, especially one that’s so... male. They give him an almost romantic appeal. He’s sexy without even trying. He’s got the cool, animal confidence of a lion surveying its territory. Big and cocky and fully comfortable in his own skin. But I’m in too good a mood to be intimidated by him. “Oh, I clicked with Surfer Boy. He gave me the best ride of my life.” His low laugh does things to the low pit of my stomach... fluttery things that send little currents of warmth... lower. I bet he smells good. I bet he’s rough. His handsomeness is rugged and seasoned. He might be in his late twenties or close to thirty. Compared to Lucas, this guy oozes alpha-ness on a level that’s almost absurd. “I could give you better,” he r eplies casually, his blue eyes dancing. This makes me smile. “You think so?” “I’m free tonight if you want me to prove it.” I laugh before I can hold it back. Talk about arrogant. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m busy tonight.” “Doing what?” His mouth is made for the kind of sin I haven’t yet managed to get up close and personal with. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. “I’m afraid that’s none of your business.” Cuddling up with Colleen Hoover in my California-king-sized helping of Egyptian cotton, thank you very much. “Have a drink with me.” I ke ep walking, flustered by the sheer magnetism radiating off the man. Something about the look of him, the slow smile, the Rolex—ugh, he’s obviously loaded—are freaking me out. I know for a fact he’s right. He could give me better. I don’t know much about anything but even I know that. “Maybe another time.” My pulse flutters. A low heat simmers. Some sixth sense whispers: him. He’s the kind of guy you want to cash in your V-card with. Right there. I ke ep walking. Go back! Take him up on his offer, girl! Would you look at that guy? The last thing I need right now is a one-night stand with a smug, bossy ego-maniac who’s probably got a wife and kids back in
Connecticut. I try to silence the voice of my inner sex goddess—who doesn’t get the opportunity to make appearances very often but here she suddenly freaking is—and right now she’s insisting: what you need is to get thoroughly laid by that big, sexy tomcat. Shit. I’m getting... hot. Just from the heated gaze of a total stranger. I feel... tingly and... wet. Before I do something I’ll wildly regret, I head toward the lobby, glancing back at him once more. He’s still watching me and he has a sort of dejected look on his face. Mixed with all that alpha gorgeousness, his disappointment is almost... cute. I hurry inside to the elevator, pressing the fourth floor button. I get to my room and order room service and a glass of champagne because I feel reckless and it’s a better option than jumping into bed with the loaded Casanova downstairs. Is it? Yes. I have a lot to celebrate. I surfed today. I learned things. I saw a real live alpha male in the wild. I congratulate myself on my restraint. Of course I’d regret a one-night stand with a random stranger. Even if it was the first time in my life my body has reacted to a man like that, that doesn’t mean I’m cut out for sex without strings. I’m a girl on a mission. I need to ke ep my eye on the ball. I’ve made the right decision. No, you haven’t! He would have been an absolute BEAST in bed. How often do you come across men who have I WILL GIVE YOU LOTS OF ORGASMS practically tattooed across their forehead? By the time I mentally shoo my inner sex goddess away and sit out on my balcony, glass in hand as I peek down at the table at the far end of the patio, Mr. Swagger is gone.