CRASHING INTO YOU
CRASHING INTO YOU
CHAPTER ONE
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, his sandy 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.
“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.