“Should we get to know each other first?” Callum asked, getting her attention as she was looking at the menu. “Before talking about who’s taking the house in Malibu, or if we share it, or whatever…”
“I know your girlfriend,” Leonor said, looking at him with those grey eyes. Such a stark contrast with her golden skin. “And I like her. So, I suppose I could like you.”
“Alejandra is very likable.”
“She is. I don’t like many people.” She paused. “Where did you grow up?” Leonor asked, thanking the waiter for her Mezcal Negroni, while Callum sipped a pint of beer. She was way classier than him.
“Aberystwyth, Wales. Grew up with my mam and my grandfather. Studied there until I got a scholarship to Harvard for swimming. Shattered my knee, became an accountant, started a firm with my best friends here in London.”
Leonor looked mildly impressed. “So… no surfing?”
“Just when I was a kid. Too tall.”
She cocked an eyebrow like she didn’t buy it, the same gaze Alejandra had when he used that excuse.
“Or just not as good as Daddy was,” he said dryly, studying her. “Alejandra mentioned you surfed big waves?”
“Yes. I’m Portuguese. Grew up in Nazaré. Riding the biggest waves in the world felt like a natural challenge. It was fun, until my eardrum exploded and I had to take time off. That’s when I discovered I loved designing. Creating art. Turns out I didn’t need to nearly die for a rush.” She shrugged. “It was just my mum, some occasional boyfriend of hers, and me growing up.”
It was surreal, getting to know someone who was technically his sister but had been completely absent from his life until now.
“Did your mum tell you who he was?”
“She did. In Nazaré, we live and breathe surf. When I said I wanted to meet him, she had to break the news.”
“Disappointed?”
“Pissed, mostly. He didn’t even acknowledge me when I approached him at a surf event. Pretended he didn’t know who I was. Such an asshole. I’m glad he’s gone.”
“I don’t even know how to feel about it, honestly.”
“If you didn’t know until a week ago, then I guess the most honest feeling is... indifference.”
Maybe she was right. Mick Turner didn’t care about him, he shouldn’t care about him either.
“How old are you?” he asked. It made him feel better to know her, rather than spiral about their biological father.
“Thirty-two,” she smiled. “You?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Damn. He was so young when he fucked up his life.” There was a flicker of pity, brief, but real.
When the burgers arrived—vegetarian for Leonor—she asked, “So. What do you want from what Daddy dear left us?”
He liked how they both saiddaddywith that same sarcastic, unserious tone.
He sighed. “I don’t really want anything. But I guess, unless you want to handle everything yourself, the wisest thing is to split it down the middle.”
Leonor nodded. “Yeah. Better to deal with this together than alone. My mum wants nothing to do with it, but I’m not about to waste a house in Malibu and a surf ranch in Arizona.”
He chuckled. “Exactly. That’d be criminal.”
“I love the idea of the surf pool,” she admitted. “But I want to go check it out first. See if it’s solid or just something that’s going to bleed us money.”
“I completely agree. We should do a full round of the properties. The London one—Notting Hill—it can be yours. I just bought a place in Victoria Park, and honestly, I prefer it to Central London.”
“Let’s split,” she said, smiling. “I feel better that way.”
