Chapter One
Ant
Aset of small but perfectly shaped waves wraps around the point and rolls towards the sand, the peaks turning from glittering blue to sea glass green before curling into frothy white.
I lay down on my board and coast to shore on the tail end of the last wave of the set, pushed in by the dropping swell and the rising sun. Despite two hours of paddling, my shoulders are loose and relaxed, and there’s no need to think as muscle memory takes me through the well-worn routine of returning to life on land. I slip into the knee-deep water and stand to peel down the upper body of my wetsuit, then pick up my board from the froth of waves at the edge of the water and tuck it under my arm. For a moment, I stand gazing at the surf while the sun warms my chest, before uncuffing the leg rope from my ankle and draping it over the board.
A couple of surfers I know tip their chins as they pass on their way into the water while I start to head up the beach. When yousurf the same beach regularly, you get used to seeing the same guys on the sand and on the waves.
What you don’t often see, especially when the water is unseasonably cold, is the same gorgeous woman you struck out with I don’t know how many months ago. Sitting in the same spot.
But the redhead is back. Along with her blonde friend. I alter my course to take me closer to them and smile. Maybe this time she’ll be open to flirting.
“Hello again,” I call.
She smiles. Clearly, she remembers me. And just like last time we met, she shuts me down. This time with a wave of her left hand, which is now weighted with a glittering rock. At least that explains why I struck out so spectacularly the first time.
I trudge up the almost-deserted beach, ignoring the arms of my wetsuit as they flap wetly against my legs, my feet starting to go numb on sand still cold from the remains of the nighttime chill.
The only people around at this hour are a few surfers and some walkers, so I don’t have to wait in a queue for the taps beside the car park. I rinse off my feet and board, slide the board into its cover and lay it carefully in the bed of my battered old ute.
I brace a foot on the side panel and give the slightly warped passenger door a good yank, eliciting a squeal of protest, which is what it takes to get it open these days. I really should get that looked at. Grabbing my towel from the seat, I wrap it around my waist, then peel down my wetsuit and Speedos. There’s a wet plop as I throw them in the back of the ute with the board and sling the duffel with my clothes over my shoulder. No point in getting dressed until I’ve washed off the saltiness, and I’d rather use the nice, clean shower at the café than the beach shower with its sandy puddle floors. I’m just about to close the car door, lockup and head across the road, when the screech of tyres grabs my attention.
Three things happen in quick succession when an open-top vintage sports car pulls into the spot beside me, going way too fast for the manoeuvre. It clips my open door. I leap out of the way. My towel drops to the asphalt of the car park. Leaving me stark bollock naked.
“What the hell are you doing with your door open? And why are you …?” The driver waves a hand in the general direction of my exposed junk.
The words are aggressive; the tone is aggressive, but the mouth they’re coming out of looks like something from an ad for ice cream. Or lipstick. It’s full and lush and glistening ruby red. She’s gorgeous and distracting. So distracting I completely forget to do the polite thing and pick up my towel to cover myself.
There’s nobody else in the car park. The now-buckled door of my ute almost hides me from the street. And if the spitfire who hit my door wants to give me grief, she can cop an eyeful at the same time.
“Pretty sure what you meant to say isI’m so sorry for hitting your car, sir. Here are my insurance details,” I respond with what has been referred to, by more than one woman, as my winning smile. I think it’s got something to do with the dimple.
“Excuse me?” The driver gives the handbrake a vicious yank, climbs out of the car and stalks past me to inspect the dent on her front bumper. “Are you suggesting this was my fault?”
“Not so much suggesting as stating. My car was stationary. Yours was moving. Ergo, your fault.” I still haven’t reached for the towel, and when she spins to face me, hands on her hips, she gasps and turns her face away, holding her hand up to her eyes.
“How about you put some clothes on you … you … exhibitionist. Before I call the police on you for indecent exposure.”
But I don’t miss the way her eyes swivel back for a quick look, running me up and down. Good. Because I’m certainly looking at her.
She’s willowy, with a long sheet of the straightest, shiniest, almost-black hair I’ve ever seen slung over one bare shoulder, exposed by the halter top she’s wearing. How it isn’t a bird’s nest after driving a convertible, I have no idea. Her face is heart shaped, her brow wide and smooth, her chin pointed below that full, pouty mouth. And those eyes. Wide and as dark as bitter chocolate under eyebrows that arch at the outer edges.
It’s a shame her gorgeous face is marred by the scowl that’s put two lines between those eyebrows.
“Your wish is my command.” I bow low and pick up my towel. Straightening, I wrap it around me, making sure it sits low enough on my hips that I’m the bare minimum of decent.
My angry little princess stamps her foot, lets out a very unladylike growl and flips that incredible hair over her shoulder to hang in a perfect mass down her back. It’s tough not to grin at how much I’m getting under her skin, but I manage.
“Look, I don’t have time for this. I’m already late. Just give me your contact details and I’ll be in touch.” She pulls a phone from the handbag in the parcel shelf of her two-seater car and looks at me expectantly.
I rattle off my number and she sends a text. We hear a ping from the pocket of the duffel bag that I dropped, along with the towel, when she nearly collected me. I fish out my phone and send my name back to her.
“Right, Ant,” she snaps, looking at the screen. “I’ll send you my insurance details tomorrow.” And she stalks away across the car park.
I watch as her hips sway in the pants that cling to the curve of her arse. The whole outfit is a beautiful shade of turquoise that makes her pale gold skin glow. Her shoes are sky-high and sparkle in the morning light. Everything about her is delicate and beautiful. Except for that sharp tongue and ferocious scowl.
I’m officially enchanted.
