Without him, she was adrift. He’d been her safe place since she was a baby, and most of her path was shaped by his vision. To be the best surfer on the competitive circuit. To be a leader to the girls coming up. To give to anyone who asked for help. Rowan built her image on what her father expected, but losing everything in one big sweep had made her question everything.
If she wasn’t able to surf, who was she?
If she didn’t have her father, where was her home?
Rowan batted the questions away and refocused.
Tino continued. “We’re not sure what path Kelsey’s father walked.”
“One covered with gold coins,” she joked, grabbing a piece of bread.
“That can be the loneliest path of all.”
Rowan tried not to roll her eyes at Tino’s stubborn ideals. He never talked shit about anyone. She’d wished many times for that type of detachment, but her temper usually won out.
She greeted people who passed but didn’t stop to chat. Kelsey was playing with some of the younger children, but her gaze was hungrily pinned to Brie and her crew. They stood in a tight circle, drinking punch, their boards on the sand by their feet.
Rowan dropped into a seat and focused on her plate. A shadow fell over her.
“The food’s good.”
She didn’t look up—no need, the leather wing tips gave him away. “I’m surprised you can appreciate something other than oysters and caviar.”
A grunt. “I hate both of those things.”
He sat, earning an arched brow as she studied him. “What are you doing?”
“Sitting.”
“I just called you an asshole. There’s plenty of other seats.”
“I want to know why my daughter seems to like you.”
She blinked. “Because I listen. She’s lonely.”
Was it wrong to feel satisfaction at the flash of irritation on his face? There was something about poking this man that gave her an adrenaline rush. Tino would truly disapprove.
“I listen,” Everett said. “Things are still new for her here. We came in only two weeks ago and I’ve been swamped setting up a new hotel. She’ll find friends soon.”
Rowan didn’t answer. She wasn’t getting into an argument with him when it was none of her business. She kept eating and figured he’d go away.
“How’d you get her into those clothes? And get her to help with work?”
“I don’t think she cares about the designer clothes or makeup. Around here, that stuff isn’t important. We believe in freedom more than conformity.”
“Hmm. Who’s ‘we’? The surf shop crew?”
Now she was the one to narrow her eyes in irritation. “Yeah. We take our T-shirts seriously here.”
He gave a snort, but damned if it didn’t sound elegant coming from him. The scent of expensive cologne drifted to her nostrils. Clove and smoke—reminding her of the deliciousness of a crackling campfire. He wore a chunky silver watch around his sinewy wrist. Some type of designer, no doubt. He hadn’t loosened his tie, even in the heat. Why didn’t he look red, sweaty, and wrinkled?
“How old are you?” he asked.
“How old are you?” she shot back.
He grinned and forked up a piece of steak. “Thirty-six.”
“I’m twenty-nine.”
