Chapter 6
ADELAIDE
Three weeks of van life and I’ve become unbearably smug about how good I am at it.
Not in a rugged survivalist way. I’m not out here whittling spoons or communing with nature.
I just know things now, like where to get the best acaí bowl on the island, which is this little place here on the North Shore with no sign, just a man called Paul.
The best beach shower is the third one down at Waimea, hot water until seven fifteen and then absolutely not a second longer, so you either commit or suffer.
A great parking spot on a Tuesday is on this exact stretch of road, because the officers skip it, and I’ve tested that theory.
The van doors are open, and the view in front of me is so incredibly beautiful that it must be a dream.
The water is a ridiculous shade of turquoise, clear enough that I can watch the sand shifting under it from here.
White sand, that is, and palm trees are everywhere, the blue sky showing off.
The whole island is honestly a bit full of itself, but I respect it.
I’m sitting cross-legged in the back of the van with an acaí bowl balanced on one knee as I take a photo of the scene and send it to Chris.
His reply comes while I’m halfway through a spoonful of granola and pineapple. Stunning! Love and miss you. How long are you staying?
How goes Whispering Grove? I reply, ignoring part of his question.
Planning a surprise for Hannah.
I pause with the spoon halfway to my mouth and smile, as I adore that he’s found his fated mate. She’s going to love it. Whatever it is. Give everyone my love. Talk later.
He sends back a thumbs-up emoji, which is the most Chris response possible. Then I go back to my bowl. Good honey, fresh fruit, granola with actual crunch instead of that stale, cardboard nonsense cafés try to pass off as texture, on delicious acaí. It makes me disproportionately happy.
I finish the bowl and try not to think about what kind of surprise Chris has planned, whether I should be there for it or not. After about thirty seconds of that, I’m done because it’s mid-morning in Hawaii and the Pacific is right there and it’s calling me.
I grab my board, lock everything up, and head down to the water, wearing just my pink bikini.
I learned to surf in LA through an all-Omega group because most standard surf schools either didn’t take Omegas or the environments got uncomfortable fast. I know what the world thinks about us.
Special, they say, which sounds lovely until you understand what they mean, which is vulnerable and target.
There are men whose rut strips away every reasonable thought and leaves something that will do anything to get to an Omega.
The cases on TV. The ones who vanish and turn up months later.
Every Omega is aware of those stories. We grow up knowing them the way you know to look both ways when crossing the road.
I don’t walk anywhere after dark without knowing where the exits are.
But I shake all of that off because I’m on a beach in Hawaii, and I refuse to hand Daniel my peace of mind on top of everything else he’s already taken after two months of dating him. Worst mistake of my life.
We met at work, which should have been my first warning, but he was charming, attentive, and knew exactly how to make me feel seen.
He remembered little things, like my favorite flowers and meals.
Whispered to me promises for the future.
Sure, he wasn’t my scent match, but he was an Alpha who wanted me, and at the time, that felt like more than enough.
I let myself believe him and that maybe it could become something solid and real.
Now I feel stupid for missing all the signs, for not seeing how much he kept tucked away, how often I walked straight past the truth because I liked the version of him he handed me.
The worst part is that it still aches. I did fall for him, and having that ripped away left a sore spot in me.
I hate him for making me miss the fantasy he offered.
I stroll along the beach, which is mostly empty, shoving those thoughts aside.
A few surfers are already in the water, little dots of color against all that blue.
I’m heading for the waterline, board under my arm, thinking about nothing but the wave pattern, when the hair on the back of my neck rises.
I twist my head to glance back and spot two men coming down the same path I just walked from the van. Black clothes, and shoes that have absolutely no business being on a beach.
And they’re staring my way.
My chest turns cold. Are they Daniel’s men or just opportunists clocking a single Omega on a quiet beach? Either way, the answer is the same: It’s not fucking great.
I don’t look directly at them or run away. I refuse to give them anything they can read as panic.
I carry my board into the water, the shallows cool against my legs, sand slipping under my feet while tiny silver fish flick away from my ankles. Usually, this is my favorite part. The first touch of the ocean and the quiet before everything else.
Right now, I’m too wound up to enjoy any of it.
I throw myself onto my board, paddle out hard, and try to look like a woman completely in control of her life choices.
Then I glance back. They’re still there on the beach, waiting.
My stomach drops. Shit!
Okay. Think.
Are they actually here for me?
Every panicked nerve ending in my body screams yes, which means Daniel somehow found me. I remember back when we’d been curled up in his huge bed in his house, rain pounding the windows while we embraced. We’d talked about dream places, and I’d said Oahu because Clio lived here.
And now here I am, half a world away, in the ocean, with two men on the shore watching me. Great.
I lift my head and scan the water. Two surfers are farther out, each doing their own thing, already drifting with the swell. Then, off to my right, three men are sitting on their boards beyond the break, loose and steady in the water.
Three is better than one.
I swing my board around and start paddling.
The waves are beginning to muscle up now, not huge, but sharper than before.
One lifts under me and I ride the rise, then another comes at me head-on and I duck under, cold salt sliding over my shoulders and scalp.
For one clean second, everything goes green and muffled.
Then I come back up, shove wet hair out of my face, and keep going.
By the time I’m closer, one of the guys glances toward a wave, says something to the others, then turns and starts paddling for a set rolling in behind us. He catches the first wave, riding it like a king.
Fine. Two is still better than one.
I paddle the last few strokes like a woman with a plan and not someone fleeing a possible stalker situation.
Then I get close enough to actually see them.
Oh.
Well, that’s unhelpful.
The blond one is broad through the shoulders, all sun-browned skin and strong lines, with his sandy hair shoved back off his face.
Deep-set gray eyes, sharp jaw, and two-day stubble that somehow seems intentional instead of lazy.
He’s pure temptation, and that’s before I add half a naked chest full of muscles and water sliding down it. Damn, he’s hot.
His friend is just as sinful. Auburn hair down to his shoulders, dark eyes that nearly read black under the morning light. Freckles scattered across his nose and shoulders. He’s watching me intensely as I approach.
Both of them are built as though the ocean assembled them for a joke at my expense. Wow. I was not emotionally prepared for hot men this early in a crisis.
I pull up beside them, floating, and sit up on my board, trying for casual, which immediately becomes harder because a wave lifts my board at the last second and I wobble hard enough to nearly slide right off.
The auburn-haired one reaches out, catches the nose of my board, and steadies me before I can fully embarrass myself.
“Smooth entrance,” he says. His voice is dry, not mean but amused.
I recover with as much dignity as possible, which is to say not much. “I like to keep expectations low.”
The blond one’s mouth twitches.
Okay, good. They’re human after all and possibly mockable.
“Morning,” I say, pushing wet hair off my face. “Don’t mind me. Just arriving with all the grace of a sedated seal.”
That gets a short laugh out of the auburn-haired one. The blond one studies me properly now, gaze sliding over me. “Haven’t seen you out here before,” he says.
I give them my brightest smile. “That’s because I enjoy mystery.”
“Or because you’re not from here,” the auburn-haired one adds.
“Wow. Strong detective work. Is it the face?”
“It’s the way you introduced yourself after almost falling in.”
I put a hand to my chest. “This feels hostile before breakfast.”
The blond one lets out the faintest breath of a laugh. It changes his whole face for half a second, making him look less carved and more dangerous in a completely different way.
I should leave.
Instead, I hear myself say, “So is this a locals-only situation, or are you two always this welcoming to women enjoying the beach?”
Their eyes flick toward me at the same time.
The blond one studies me for another second. “You surf much?” he asks.
I raise a brow. “Are you asking because you’re interested in me as a person, or because you’re about to get territorial over a wave?”
“Could be both,” the auburn-haired one answers.
Well. “I’ve been surfing for a couple of years,” I explain. “And based on current evidence, I’m doing more of it than you two. You’re mostly just sitting there looking handsome and undercommitted.”
The blond one shifts slightly on his board, not enough to look competitive unless you’re paying attention. I am unfortunately paying a lot of attention.
“You saying you could outsurf us?” he asks.