Page 1 of Crashing Into You

ChapterOne

Claire

“Ow!”

I suck my finger, wincing. When I take it out of my mouth a bright bead of blood pops onto the fleshy pad at the tip. “Dammit!”

I climb carefully out of the window display, trying not to disturb the gold and silver baubles I’ve already put in place. I scowl at the offending box of pins, sitting where I left it on the scrubbed wooden floor, then make my way between the racks of clothing, holding my throbbing finger.

Luckily the shop is deserted at the moment. I rummage behind the till for a band-aid, finally finding one at the back of a drawer. I’m just wrapping it around my finger when there’s the sound of the bell on the shop door. I straighten up.

A tall, broad-shouldered guy dressed in shorts and a T-shirt comes in, followed by two giggling girls, both slender and gorgeous with long shiny hair and exposed midriffs.

“Oh my god,” one of them squeals, running over to a rack of silk tops. “I completely love this label! Can’t believe they’d have it in a shitty little shop like this.”

I raise my eyebrows, trying not to sigh. November is early for an influx of Christmas assholes, but I guess people can be annoying all year round.

Bright sunlight streams through the front window, sparking off the gold and silver baubles, glinting from the box of pins on the floor. Shit. I need to grab those before someone kicks them over. The girls rummage through the racks, both still giggling and tossing their hair. The guy, hissandy blond hair tousled, is leaning against a pillar, his muscular arms folded.

I come out from behind the counter. “Hi,” I say in a friendly tone, as I pass the girls on my way to get the pins. “Let me know if you need any sizes at all.”

They both ignore me. Well, one curls her lip, while the other lets a $300 top slide from the hanger, leaving it in a crumpled heap on the floor. I suppress another sigh. Definitely Christmas assholes. I am not looking forward to a season of this.

Lorne, on the Great Ocean Road, is a popular holiday destination all year round, but it really hits its stride over the long Australian summer break. People from nearby Melbourne descend on the place in droves, flocking to their outrageously expensive holiday houses on the hillside and along the winding coast road. Parking is a nightmare, and the extra crowds of wealthy people usually means we encounter more than our fair share of entitled jerks. But it’s also the time of year when businesses, like this shop, make their money, tiding them over through the leaner months of July and August. So we grin and bear it. We know it’ll be over at some point.

The girls have moved on to a rack of dresses, pulling them from their hangers to hold up against themselves, then leaving them draped over the rail.

I go to pick up the top first, then to the dress rack, re-hanging the dresses. The guy leaning against the pillar is watching me. His eyes are deep green, and one corner of his mouth is slightly curled. I glance at him, and the curl deepens. One of the girls laughs.

“Sorry,” she says, in a voice that is in no way sorry at all. “Like, is this your shop or something?”

“No.” I smile with the same level of sincerity that she’s giving me, trying not to grit my teeth as yet another expensive dress slides to the floor. “It’s not. Can I help you find something?”

“Do you offer discounts?”

This is the other girl.

“It depends,” I say, “on how nice people are.” It doesn’t, and no one gets discounts. But something about the girl’s high-pitched giggles and the way the guy is staring at me is rubbing me the wrong way.

He’s smiling now, revealing straight white teeth. Then he straightens up, coming over to the girls. “You find anything you want?” His voice is deep, and something about it thrills through me.

“Yes, I want this.” One of the girls thrusts a top at him.

He turns to me. “If I’m nice to you, will you give me a discount?” I swear he winks at me.

“Look,” I say, flustered, heat coming to my cheeks. “That’s not really how it works. This isn’t my shop and?—”

“God,” one of the girls says, “do you even know anything about surfing?”

“Surfing?”

“Yeah,” the guy says. “Surfing. You know, ride a board, big waves?” He smirks at me.

“I know what surfing is,” I snap. I know enough about it to know that I don’t like it, anyway. But I’m not telling him that.

“If you do, then maybe I should get a discount. I am one of the reasons you’re selling so much of this stuff, after all.” He jerks his head, glancing behind me. I turn.

“What?” God. I wish they would all fuck off. My finger is still sore, and I don’t need this shit.