Sting by Jennifer Ryder Page A

surf,” I say, and step onto the pier.
    “I’ll see you Tuesday morning, then.”
    “Enjoy the day off tomorrow. Re-charge, hotshot.”
    “Will do.”
    Little does he know, I have a shitload on my plate in the morning.
    ****
    For a good half hour I run through the streets close to home, and then drive down to South Beach.
    When I dive under the first wave with my board, the saltwater envelopes me into a calm world, blocking my ears from the squawking seagulls above.
    As I paddle out further, the breeze on my wet skin revives me. After the last few days, the serenity is just what I need.
    Good session completed, I make my way back up the beach towards my car.
    When I see her it stops me in my tracks. Holy fucking hell . My heart tries to escape from my chest by clawing up my throat. It’s beating like crazy.
    White bikini, golden-brown skin, spread out on a large black-and-white striped beach towel. Every muscle is toned to perfection. A straw cowgirl hat is tilted on her head, just enough to cover the dusting of freckles over her button nose. A gold chain clings to her perfect dainty ankle.
    My greedy eyes devour every inch of her. Of course, I linger on those perfect perky tits and admire them in all their beauty. Blood rushes down south. I want in.
    I dig my surfboard into the sand, positioning it to block the sun from kissing her honey skin.
    “Willow?” I growl, my voice deep.
    She sits up on her elbows and taps her hat back on her head with her finger. Her eyes focus on my feet, and then travel slowly up my body. The corner of her mouth tugs into a cheeky smirk as those blue eyes, deep as the bluest sea, meet mine.
    “Ryan,” she says, pronouncing each syllable.
    “Going solo today, I see.” Not a princess in sight.
    “That I am,” she says, and grins. “I’m taking a break from sandcastles this afternoon.”
    “Mind if I join you?”
    She looks over each of her shoulders, inspecting the towel. “I don’t think this towel is big enough for the both of us,” she says.
    I cross my arms under my chest. “I think that’s a matter of opinion,” I say, daring to be told differently.
    “I guess it’d be cruel of me to leave you to sit in the hot sand,” she says, and laughs softly. Willow shuffles to the far edge of the towel, stretches her legs out in front of her and sits up.
    “Totally cruel.” I position myself next to her, stretch out, and lean back on my elbows.
    “We keep bumping into each other,” she says, teasing at a loose thread beside her knee.
    “I noticed.”
    She shakes her head, and lets out a long breath. “Can I ask you something?”
    “Course.”
    “What brought you here, you know, to Freo?”
    Work.
    I shrug. “It’s laid-back here, you know?”
    “So you work with Mick, yeah?”
    Where is this going?
    “Yep.”
    “Is working on a boat something you’ve always done? I mean, I’m just trying to understand the attraction. I’m allergic to boats. The slightest swell and I’m hurling over the edge.”
    You and me both, Blondie.
    “I was a mechanic before, and having grown up around boats I decided to do some extra study. I’m partway through my marine mechanic apprenticeship, and when I heard through a friend that Mick was looking for someone I jumped at the chance. Sometimes life gets a bit much and you’ve gotta make a change. And Freo, well, this place is just magic.”
    The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach reminds me why I’m here. I’ve just lied to her. It’s part and parcel of the job. It is the job. So why am I now struggling with it?
    Willow is opening up. She’s starting to talk, and I can’t give her anything real in return. Just vague shit, which will hopefully satisfy her curiosity. The problem I’m facing is that I’d happily talk about stuff. Personal stuff . But I can’t do it. I know better. I’m also bound by law not to.
    “Yeah, it is pretty special,” she says and diverts her gaze to the waves crashing to shore. “So how long