Chapter Two
She must be a tiny bit mad.
Ruan’s position gave him a bird’s-eye view of the intricate pattern the sand artist had etched on the beach. He was amazed that the elaborate design could be created with something as mundane as a garden rake.
Surely, though, it must be demoralising to spend so much time creating a stunning piece of art only to have it destroyed by the waves? Especially when her artwork was the perfect complement to the rugged Cornish setting: wild and beautiful … like the artist herself.
If there hadn’t been so many people milling around, Ruan would have laughed out loud at having a crush on someone he’d only seen from a distance.
He’d felt a right idiot, sipping his coffee dressed in a suit with sand clinging to the soles of his leather brogues.
He’d have to try and clean them before his meeting – not to mention check the seat of his trousers for seagull poo.
It had been all he could do to find a patch of wall that wasn’t spattered from the winged gangsters hanging around, ready to pounce on unwary tourists.
Ruan had already witnessed one man losing his chips to a vicious-looking character who’d swooped from behind.
Ruan hoped the birds hadn’t yet developed a taste for organic flat whites. When he’d worked in Bristol, it had taken him ages to find the perfect coffee shop, so he’d been amazed to find a sophisticated roastery in a Cornish harbour town.
The sun was now high and hot, so he balanced his empty cup on the wall, took off his tie, put it in the front pocket of his laptop bag, and undid the top button of his shirt.
Still uncomfortably warm, he dispensed with his jacket and rolled up his sleeves before turning his attention back to the artist.
She was packing away her folding rake in a duffle bag which she slung over bare shoulders gilded by the sun. Finally, she turned away from her design and looked upwards at Ruan, pulling the crinkly tendrils of hair out of her eyes as if she wanted to get a better view of him.
Goosebumps popped out on his exposed forearms. She was luminous, tanned and lithe in her vest top and denim shorts.
He half wished he’d kept his phone in his hand so he had an excuse to fix his eyes on its screen.
He’d tucked it away in his bag to protect it from the sand.
He couldn’t be without his phone: his clients, his cases – his whole business life – was contained there.
His job depended on paying attention to detail.
There was no room for distractions – including fanciful ideas about beach artists.