Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

in at his side, matching him step for step. He must be pulling his
stride because his legs are like twice as long as mine.
Neither of us speaks or looks at the other while he leads us
down a steep path behind the far stadium wall. It looks like just
another wooded cross-country course until we break through the
trees. We’re on the beach.
“I figured that with all your extra training,” he says, “you haven’t
had time for many beach runs. Which I think you love as much as
I do.”
I shrug, secretly loving the way the sand squishes beneath my
feet. With every stride I have to work harder to push myself forward.
This is my personal heaven.
Now, I love the L.A. beaches—especially when I get permission to
drive up to Malibu and watch the surfers while I run—but nothing
compares to the beach on Serfopoula. The sand is pristine. Gleaming
white.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see the footprints we made disappearing
as the sand pours back in on itself.
The sand in California is so full of gunk it keeps your footprint
until the tides wash in.
“Was I right?” Griffin asks.
I scowl at him for interrupting my daydream. I’m still mad at
him, after all. “About what?”
“The beach.”
“It’s okay,” I lie.
He grins with that cocky smile. “Considering how pissed you are
at me, I’ll take that as a hell yes.”
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