Built: an Australian small town second chance romance (Rosella Bay Brothers Book 1)

PROLOGUE

Mia

“Oh my goodness!” My mother leans over the table at the restaurant to show me her phone. “Look at this. Look how adorable you look.”

Onscreen is a picture of a little girl—me, at about four or five—wearing a plastic tiara and a Pumpkin Patch dress with the words ‘Daddy’s Princess’ printed on the front. I have my hands under my chin and my best cute face on.

I look a little closer. “Is that Rosella Bay?”

My mother tilts the screen back so she can look. “You know, I think it is. Look, there”s the jetty. That must have been your fourth birthday.”

I squint, trying to make out if the structure in the background is the pirate ship playground I remember from when I was a kid, but my mother is already pulling the phone away and typing something.

I remember hours spent playing pirates with the local kids. The sort of preschool friendships formed in an afternoon and forgotten just as quickly. I wanted to be one of them so badly.

Guess nothing much has changed.

I sigh and sink my head into my hand, gazing out the large window overlooking the beach. If I could run away right now, this is the place I would choose. Well, not the golf club. That’s full of middle-aged Sydneysiders and I get enough of them at home. That’s who I’m running from.

No, I want to run away to Rosella Bay.

Outside the window, the waves roll in and crash on picture perfect white sand. The cliffs curl in like arms hugging the little town, and the locals walk backwards and forward, stopping to chat or let their dogs sniff each other, or just nod to each other on their way.

No one in Sydney nods to each other. In Sydney, you avoid eye contact and try not to notice all the people dressed better than you, with a better haircut, or the right shade of lipstick, or whatever is that week’s must have.

My mother starts telling everyone at the table what a promising child I was. How I learned to write early and could already spell my name by the age of three. She leaves out the part where she sat me down every day and forced me to practise. Lucky for her I always loved any excuse to have a pencil or crayon in my hand. Any chance I got, I’d scribble drawings and bring them to her until the fridge was full and she told me to stop.

I’m only half listening. Through the window, a surfer comes up the steps leading to the beach below, his wetsuit peeled down his body to sit at his hips revealing a chiselled torso and broad shoulders.

I’m in the perfect position to watch as he sets aside his board and steps under the outdoor shower to rinse off. Defined muscles in his back jump when he raises a hand to brush over his short blond curls. I can almost feel the cold flick of the water droplets on my face as I stare at him. His athletic body tapers to narrow hips and a cute butt.

Oh my God, who am I? Cute butt? Since when do I even notice men’s butts?

When he turns, I get another look at his face and realise he’s younger than I thought. Maybe twenty. Not much older than me.

He tips up his chin and lets the water run over his face. The look of ease and happiness there makes me so incredibly jealous I ache to run down and ask him his secret.

“Mia, honey, are you listening? Your father asked what you want for lunch.”

“Oh.” I drag my eyes away from the handsome surfer and back to my mother’s cool gaze. “Um...” I really want the burger, but I also don’t want the look of judgement I’ll get if I say that. Instead I say, “Just the barramundi. Thanks, Dad.”

A ping from my phone and I glance down to see a notification.

Sandra Sinclair has tagged you in a post.

There’s the picture of four-year-old me, with the caption ‘Happy Birthday, princess. I can’t believe you’re eighteen years old today.’

I force a smile onto my face and look over at my mother. “Aw, thanks, Mum. I might have outgrown the princess thing now, but it’s a lovely picture.”

Her lips thin into a smile that carries a sniff of disappointment. “Mia, you’ll always be our little princess.”

How much does that have to do with her own reluctance to admit she is old enough to have an adult daughter? I keep my wonder to myself.

“Is there anything special you’d like to do today?” Dad asks me when he returns to the table.

I shrug. “Not really. It’s no big deal. I might just take a walk and do some sketching or something.”

“Well, just make sure you’re not late for dinner,” my mother says. “We’re meeting the Wainwrights down at The Inlet and I don’t want to keep them waiting.”

I sigh. There’s no point arguing with her. I hate that this trip somehow turned into me hanging out with them and all their friends again. I’m pretty sure the Wainwrights have a son about my age, and that this is one of those setups they pretend are not setups. I wish she’d give it a rest. I have zero interest in the snobby dux of whatever private boys’ school he went to, or whoever they think is a suitable match for me.

Besides, Oliver and I are just on a break. He wanted some time to make sure we don’t rush into commitment straight out of school. Tegan reckons he just wants to sleep around, but at least he was up front about wanting a break, right?

When lunch finally ends, I’m able to make my escape. I exchange my dress and sandals for denim shorts and thongs, grab my sketchbook, and head down to the jetty. I must have sketched this view a hundred times before. I never feel done with it. There’s always a different angle or new lighting that makes me notice some minor detail I didn’t see before. Or someone interesting is fishing off the end or walking by. Besides, I love looking back over my sketches and seeing how my skill has improved.

I’m still not as good as I’d like and what I really want is to paint it, but since I don’t have my easel and a canvas, a sketch will have to do.

The jetty is on the inlet, further inland from the cliffs and the golf club. The water here is still and the Inlet Hotel’s intricate wooden railings and large verandah make a beautiful contrast to the natural beauty of the hills and the water.

I position myself on a bench overlooking my favourite view in Rosella Bay and open my sketchpad. I don’t know what it is today. Some days are just better than others. Today, my pencil slides easily across the paper and the shapes just come together. I’m so absorbed in my drawing I don’t notice anyone approaching until a low whistle behind me makes me turn. “Wow, you’re good.”

It’s the cute guy from this morning. Dressed in ripped jeans and a t-shirt now, thank goodness, or I’d be blushing.

Then I realise what he’s talking about and slam the sketchpad closed with a grimace. “Ah, not really.”

My laugh is awkward. I wonder how long he was standing there watching me, looking at my drawing. My cheeks are hot and I don’t know what to do with my hands.

“Aw, what’d you do that for?”

I look away from his green eyes. “Oh, you know.”

I expect him to leave, but he’s still standing there, arms folded across his chest. “Nope. I don’t. Enlighten me.”

Oh, God. He’s going to make me say out loud I’m flustered because a cute guy is openly admiring my work. “Um... well I don’t think I’m very good. And—”

“What? Don’t be silly. I was watching you. It looks amazing.”

I cover my hot face with my hands for a moment, not sure what else to do. No one ever looks at my art anymore. I used to show my parents, but it would always be met with, “Hmmm. Don’t you have homework to do?”

It’s been years since I let anyone see.

I look up again when he sits down beside me on the bench. “I’m Luke. Are you new in town? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

Grateful he’s dropped the subject of my drawing for now, I slide the sketchpad off my lap and tuck it under my leg. “I’m Mia. I”m just here for the summer.”

“You’ve been here all summer and we’re only just meeting now?” He shakes his head. “That’s just about criminal. Wait. How old are you? I’m not making this weird by chatting up a fifteen-year-old, am I?” He laughs.

My mouth drops open. Both at the suggestion he’s actually flirting with me and in outrage he can’t somehow magically tell I’m eighteen. “No! Actually, it’s my birthday today. I’m eighteen, thank you.”

His eyes widen. “Today? Happy birthday! But what are you doing down here all by yourself? You should be celebrating.”

I shrug. “You haven’t met my parents. Getting away from them is like a form of celebration.”

Luke laughs again. I can’t help staring at the way it exposes neat white teeth and makes the hazel flecks in his green eyes sparkle. He slings an arm behind me over the back of the seat. It’s a casual gesture, and yet my heart flips around in my chest like a joey in its mother’s pouch. I’m probably about as elegant as well.

“Listen, a bunch of us are heading down the beach tonight. Why don’t you come along? It’s not much, but it’s gotta be better than hanging around with your parents, right?”

I smile. “Yeah.”

Chewing my lip, my gaze skirts around his face and back to his eyes. The intensity in his expression makes it hard to keep eye contact. I want to go, but my mother will only say it’s a bad idea. I don’t know anyone, and it will be dark, and so on.

“I’d really like to...” I begin.

“Great.” Luke beams. “Then I’ll see you down at Bailey’s Beach at eight?”

He gets up and gives my leg a nudge with his. “I’ll leave you to your drawing, but promise me something, OK?”

I look up at him. The joey has left the pouch and is jumping all around like crazy on wobbly little legs. “What?”

“Will you show me when it’s done? If you’re happy with it?”

I gape at him. “I don’t—”

He waits there with such an open, hopeful expression on his face I shut down what I was about to say: no one looks at my art. He’s already seen it, after all. Eventually, I just smile. “Sure. See you tonight.”

I can’t watch him leave, but a few moments later, I look around and he’s grinning back at me from halfway along the path. He lifts his hand and gives an enthusiastic wave which I sheepishly return. Did that hot guy I was perving on this morning really just ask me to come to a beach party with him?

And am I really going to go?