Page 2 of Crashing Into You

“The poster…” one of the girls says, shaking her head as though she thinks I’m deficient in some way. I push down a surge of rage.

There’s a poster in a frame on the wall behind the till. It’s gorgeous, a shot of a curling translucent turquoise wave, a line of deep green palm trees visible just beyond. There’s a small Ocean’s Curl logo in the corner with the words “Bryce Maylands” next to it, and riding the wave, his board kicking up white spray, is a guy with slicked back hair, a rugged profile and impressive abs. Abs that, in fact, I’ve stared at on more than one occasion. But I still don’t know what the fuck they’re on about.

“That’s me,” the guy says. “Like I say, I’m part of the reason you sell stuff in here. Surely that gets me a discount, doesn’t it?” His mouth curves in that crooked grin again, and his tone is definitely flirtatious. Heat rushes through me and I look at his stomach, unable to help it, though his loose T-shirt isn’t giving much away. “You do recognise me, right?”

For one heart-stopping moment I think he’s going to lift his shirt, but he just turns his head. Yeah, the profile is the same, the full lips and strong jaw, the long straight nose. Aaaand I’m staring. Goddammit.

“Maybe I didn’t recognise you because the guy in the photo isn’t being an asshole,” I snap, before I can stop myself. Then I clap my hand over my mouth. What the hell is wrong with me? Not calling the customer an asshole is shop-assistant rule number one, surely. Anyway, it’s the girls who are the problem, not him.

But Bryce throws his head back and laughs, like I’ve just told a really good joke. “Yeah, I’ll give you that.” He heads over to the counter, putting the top down. “I’ll take this. No discount required.”

I’m so mortified I give him one anyway, ten percent off. Anna won’t mind. I just hope she doesn’t fire me if she hears about this.

Anna is the owner of the boutique, which also bears her name. We sell high-end beachwear, gorgeous dresses from India and Bali, where Anna lives, plus a few local designers. We also carry Ocean’s Curl clothing, as well as a couple of other good quality surf labels. There’s a part-timer, Lisa, who works on the days I don’t, but I basically run the shop for Anna, who pops in every month or so with new stock. She recently opened another shop in Melbourne, and I know she’ll be back soon for Christmas with her family.

I realise I’m taking a very long time to wrap the top. Bryce is staring at me. He really is hot, with high cheekbones, intense deep green eyes, and a lush mouth. I try not to think about his abs, or his muscular chest and shoulders. Or anything else. Aaaaaand I’m staring again. I hastily slide the top into a bag, sealing it with a sticker that says “Anna’s” in curling gold letters, and basically shove it at him, my cheeks hot with humiliation.

“Thanks.” His hand brushes mine as he takes the bag. I flinch as though he’s burned me. His lips part, and he seems about to say something. But instead, he just winks at me again and leaves, the girls trailing behind him.

I groan, dropping my head down onto the desk, resting on my forearms. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t speak to customers like that. There’s a buzzing noise from under the desk, and I lift my head, rubbing my hands across my face.

I check my phone, which is still buzzing. A couple of text messages appear from a number I don’t recognise.

I miss you so much

Remember, I love you more than anyone.

I block the number, put my phone down and drop my head again, wondering if it’s too early to shut up shop and go home. My finger hurts, I called a customer an asshole and now I have to deal with this. The day was going so well until I pricked my finger. It’s as though it’s flung me into a twisted fairy tale where everything is slightly off-kilter.

I sigh, picking up the box of pins and heading to the window display once more. Christmas is coming, and I need to make sure the shop looks nice. Annoying texts and frustrating customers will have to wait. I pick up a golden garland, tiny stars hanging from it, and pin it in place. Only three more hours to go.

Bryce

Man, I love the coast.

I spend my life on the water, visit surf breaks around the world. But when I say “the coast” everyone who knows me knows I mean this particular stretch, the curving start of the Great Ocean Road, which winds its way from Torquay around headlands and through coastal towns all the way to Port Fairy.

It’s good to be back here, to smell the eucalyptus and hear the shriek of cockatoos, the hiss and roar of the ocean. It’s home, or as close to home as I can get, anyway. I grew up in Melbourne, and Mum is still there, but I don’t visit her as often as I should. These days, I spend most of my life chasing waves around the globe.

I’m back, though, because I have responsibilities. I need to go and see Mum, and check in on a few things. I also have an appearance at a surf store in Torquay next week; Ocean’s Curl are one of my biggest sponsors, so I need to give them what they pay for. My face and my time. I don’t mind doing that. I like meeting people, especially kids who love to surf. Going home, however, is a whole different thing. Which is why I’m here, fucking around with girls and booze, instead of being in Melbourne already like I’m supposed to be.

I have my reasons for that. Some people, if they were brave enough, might even tell me I’m running away. Not many of my friends have said that to my face, though. I guess they like keeping their noses the same shape they usually are.

But Matt is one of my closest mates, and has a way of cutting to the heart of things that I can’t fault him for. Plus, he can throw a punch as well as I can. We’ve known each other since we were kids, rode waves together all along the coast road. But he followed his heart and married a local girl, whereas I followed mine into curling blue water. I’d say we’re both pretty happy with how things turned out.

I’m staying at his place while I’m here, in the hills above Lorne. And he doesn’t fail to remind me, every day, that I need to go home. But I’d rather hang around here. The town has changed a lot over the years– there are lots more fancy shops and cafés than there used to be– but I love it just as much as I used to. Plus, the pub still rocks. As I wander the main street with my two latest hook-ups in tow, my head still aching from a night of drinking and messy sex, I breathe in deep. I’m glad to be back here, despite everything. I’ve taken a few weeks off the circuit; it’s a quiet time of year anyway. “A personal issue,” I told my agent. He swore at me and told me I needed to clean up my act. “Sponsors love you, but they’re not going to for much longer if you’re constantly getting fucked up and falling out of bars with a different girl every night,” he’d said. “Maybe taking a break from doingthatfor a few weeks would be a good thing.”

Yeah, right. I’m not taking a break because I need to dry out. I’m taking one because I need to sort out something I should have faced up to a long time ago. Besides, he’s right. Sponsors do love me. I’m a damn good surfer.

“Let’s go in here!” The girls, whose names escape me at the moment, grab my hands, pulling me towards a small shop. It’s one of the newer businesses, sitting in a little white timber-clad hut, which from memory used to be a hardware store. Now the big front window has two mannequins clad in floaty dresses, gold and silver Christmas baubles scattered across the scrubbed timber floor, tiny starry garlands pinned between the mannequins. Gold lettering on a weathered white wooden panel above the window reads “Anna’s”.

I let the girls pull me into the shop. I suppose I could treat them. God knows they were good to me last night. I’m under no illusions that money is one of the main reasons they’re with me, though from all the sighing and moaning last night I think I’m a pretty good fuck as well. I suppose I’ve had plenty of practice.

As we enter the shop a girl straightens up from behind the counter. She looks to be in her early twenties, and has long dark hair parted in the middle and falling in waves around her face. Her skin is tanned, freckles scattered across her pert nose, her mouth a perfect pink pout. And her eyes are blue, like the deepest part of the ocean. She’s fucking gorgeous.

She’s also frowning and holding one of her fingers, which, I notice, has a band aid around it. The girls are already pawing through the racks. I lean against a pillar, trying to ignore the pounding in my skull, and watch the girl behind the counter. She comes out from behind it, and my gaze immediately goes to her small waist and curving ass covered by a pair of high-waisted dark denim shorts. Her legs are slender and tanned and, as she bends to pick something up off the floor, I get an eyeful of lush, rounded tits down the neckline of the loose silk top she’s wearing.

I shift position, my groin stirring. I’ve seen a lot of beautiful women, slept with them too, but this girl… There’s something about her that pulls at me.