Knox:
It started with a bet.
Viv stood on the boardwalk, her bare feet brushing the weathered planks, one eyebrow arched as she surveyed the little surf shop with garish flamingo signs and neon-colored everything spilling out the door.
“If you don’t try on the ugliest Hawaiian shirt they’ve got,” she said, “I’m picking your outfit for the next week.”
I squinted at her. “And if I do?”
Her smile curved slow, wicked. “Then I’ll wear whatever bikini you pick out. No complaints.”
I glanced at the rack near the front—something neon and strappy hanging off a plastic mannequin with surfboard-shaped sunglasses propped on its plastic face.
Done deal.
We stepped into the little shop, a bell chiming overhead as salt air mixed with the scent of sunscreen and faded fabric. The place was packed w
