“No rush, dude. And I don’t want half. Thirty percent of the current value. Tops.”
I open my mouth to object, but Si holds up a hand.
“No arguments. We both know you built this business. Beach Road Boards wouldn’t exist without you.”
He’s a stubborn bastard. There’s no point arguing.
“Can I still call on you as a guest shaper?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” He grins and holds up his glass for a toast. “To Ant Stevens and Beach Road Boards. I’d never ride anything else.”
It’s a bittersweet moment. But I want Simon to be happy. And I want Beach Road Boards to grow.
Now all I have to do is find the right investor and I’m set. Simple.
Chapter Four
Lilavati
What a rude, obnoxious, arrogant toad, I think for the hundredth time since I stormed out of the café on Sunday. I lean against the kitchen counter, illuminated only by the rangehood light, and stab a spoon into the tub of Murray River Salted Caramel ice cream that’s serving as my dinner on Monday night.
My mood is not improved by having to watch the news before I start the first of five nightshifts at the hospital.
I almost never watch the news. It’s too depressing, and I get enough sadness at work. But I’m under instructions from my mother, who left three messages for me today, to be sure to watch. I wouldn’t want to miss my stepfather grandstanding over some massive merger deal he orchestrated that will change the face of the media industry in Australia, would I? Change the face of his own bank account, most likely, since that’s all he really cares about. God forbid any of us aren’t awed by Warren’s greatness.
No sooner has the story finished, and the presenter moved on to something about a sports star, than my phone buzzes. Sheesh. I fire off a quick message to say I did indeed see it, and yes, he did look very statesman-like, and yes, it was an impressive feat, and yes, we should all be very proud. But now I have to go to work. A good excuse not to answer any more messages.
Unfortunately, it’s a freakishly slow night, and I have plenty of time to stew over my recent bad decisions. I wish I had a time machine so I could go back and kick my own arse when I came up with the brilliant idea of asking Ant Stevens to be my fake date. I should’ve known better. Why would a drop-your-panties gorgeous man want to fake date me? And not just for one event, but for an entire week? What the hell was I thinking?
I haven’t felt this level of humiliation since high school when I was always picked last for any team in PE. Which is ridiculous. I don’t even like the man.
And what the hell kind of name is Ant for a grown man, anyway? It had better not be a nickname or my insurance claim—which I really need to get onto—will be rejected.
I’m climbing into my car on Tuesday morning, having spent the better part of a twelve-hour shift trying to come up with a reason my mystery boyfriend can’t come to the wedding, when a message pops up on my phone. Ignoring it seems like a good idea, since it’s probably Mum again, but if I deal with it now, there’s a chance she’ll leave me alone to get some sleep today.
It’s not my mother. It’s Ant.
Ant:Yes
That’s all it says. Just yes. I’m a bit slow since I haven’t slept in nearly twenty hours, so I don’t immediately work out what he’s referring to.
I stare at the screen, assuming he’ll follow up with an explanation, but there are no dots dancing around. Finally, I cave.
Me:Yes, what?
Ant:Yes, I’ll be your fake date. You ran out of here on Sunday too fast for me to say I’d do it
Argh! The man is infuriating. I’d just come to terms with the fact I was going to have to spin an unexpected breakup tale for my mother, and he goes and pulls this stunt.
Don’t botherflies off my fingers, but I hesitate before hitting send and delete it.
As if the universe is pinching my ear, a Facebook notification flashes. Emily is posting manufactured drama related to her wedding. Apparently, it’s an international incident that you can’t get the flowers she wants in Hawaii. But her fiancé has told her not to be sad. He’ll have them shipped in from wherever in the world they grow. It doesn’t matter how much they cost. What matters is that she gets the wedding of her dreams. Hashtag couple goals, dozens of heart emojis. Which serves to remind me of both his brother and the potential fate that awaits me. It’s also a warning about the perils of marrying the wrong person. Because you don’t have to be a relationship counsellor to understand the level of tantrum Emily must have thrown to prompt his offer.
Me:Are you sure? I know it’s a big ask
Uncharacteristically polite of me, but even I recognise I’m asking a lot.
Ant:Sure I’m sure. We should meet to sort out the details
