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Something has shifted between me and Leo.

I’ve had to interview people before who intimidate me or make me work hard to get what I need from them, but there’s something about this guy that means whenever I’m around him, I feel…

…nervous.

Ever since the party, things have been different. It may just be coming from me – maybe he doesn’t feel different at all – but I’ve noticed that in the two interviews I’ve conducted with him since then, I’ve been more fidgety and distracted.

Like a fucking meerkat.

Suddenly it’s harder to focus on what I’m supposed to be asking him next and instead, I’m thinking about how best to get those crinkles round his mouth to form again, the ones that appear when he laughs, or how it might feel to run my fingers through his hair, or how my stomach seems to tie itself in knots when he holds my eye contact too long.

I think about how nice it was to talk to him at the party, how he listened and seemed to really care.

Christ . He’s making me lose my head a bit. And I never lose my head.

There’s no reason why this should be happening.

Sure, he’s unbelievably hot with those deep-brown eyes, his chiselled jaw and billowy bottom lip…

but I’ve been in the presence of good-looking men before – my job is to pretty much constantly be in the presence of athletes , for goodness sake – and, I admit it, I’ve been attracted to one or two of them before.

With that much muscle on display, it’s hard not to be.

I may be a professional, but I’m also human.

But none of them have made me feel so… self-aware.

I think it’s his eyes. I blame the long, dark eyelashes. They make his eyes too intense. Too prying . It feels like he’s trying to work me out. And that’s not fair, because this is about me trying to work him out. You know, for the feature.

Not that I’m having that much success there. If I was under any impression that our white-flag-waving conversation at the party might mean he would open up to me more during the interviews, I was very much mistaken. If anything he’s tenser. Warier.

Even more closed off than when we first met.

When he agreed to see me for the next interview the day after the party, I was almost excited .

A barrier had been broken between us; mutual respect had formed.

I’d let him have a glimpse of what was going on with me so surely he was going to be completely at ease in my company and tell me all his secrets.

That did not happen.

He was quiet and cautious, lost in thought. His answers were nice, but shallow. I felt like I was getting nowhere. I cut it short and asked if we could meet again, maybe on the beach. I was trying to recreate the chilled beach vibe he seemed to like, but he was on to me.

What is truly infuriating is that I can’t be annoyed at him because technically, he’s doing what’s required of him. He’s cooperating, he’s meeting me for interviews, he’s answering questions. Ultimately, the problem is me. I’m not getting out of him what I need.

Before the party, I was able to keep calm and level-headed around him, but I find the way he looks at me extremely distracting.

Sometimes, I think I’m searching for something that isn’t there in his expression; do I want him to be interested in me?

Maybe that’s why I can’t sit still around him anymore, why I keep crossing and uncrossing my legs, sweeping my hair round one shoulder then back behind my neck again, pretending to check my phone just to have something to do with my hands.

The whole thing is exhausting and I have no idea if it’s solely in my head.

Worst of all, it’s affecting my work.

If I need confirmation of that, I get it from Toni on Tuesday morning after sending her a draft of what I have so far.

‘Iris, hi,’ she says down the phone when I pick up, having just made myself a second cup of coffee. She’s only said two words, but I can already tell she’s desperate to make this quick. ‘I’ve read the draft paragraphs you sent through.’

I pause, my coffee midway to my lips. ‘What did you think?’

This is an unnecessary question. We both know it.

Toni doesn’t bother to make phone calls unless absolutely essential, especially not to journalists on a job.

She doesn’t need, or want, to hear about any hiccups one of her writers might come across whilst on a project – you go away and get the job done.

That’s it. She doesn’t have time to reassure newbies or massage the fragile egos of writers desperate for praise.

If she has something to say, her assistant will say it.

If it’s something you really need to hear, she’ll call herself, and there will be no mistaking that it’s a damn inconvenience for her to do so.

Which is why I lower my mug and sit down on the sofa, bracing for impact.

‘Iris, I know I can be straight with you and you won’t take it personally,’ she begins.

Oh bollocks.

I swallow. ‘Mm?’

‘It’s boring. My God, I didn’t even read the last couple of paragraphs. I gave up.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m not saying it’s unsalvageable. To be honest, I’m confused,’ she says, and I hear her tapping her desk in the background.

‘Usually, I don’t ask you to send me drafts.

I don’t ask anyone for drafts. But with the Michelle Martin link – well, I thought it best to see how things are shaping up.

Maybe all of your drafts are this dry at first, I don’t know. ’

She pauses and I realise that she’s waiting for me to confirm or deny.

‘Uh, sometimes, maybe.’

I’m lying. She knows it. I know it. I can’t be arsed to keep it up.

‘Actually, no, they’re not,’ I admit, tilting my head back against the cushion and looking up at the ceiling. ‘Usually by this point, I’ve got more from my interviews.’

‘All I’ve read about this guy is that he liked surfing when he was little, he has a supportive father and he’s looking forward to the competition.

I mean, come on.’ She sighs with exasperation.

‘My five-year-old niece would be bored to shit by that fairy tale. I could have guessed all that myself. There are sweet moments, for sure. But where’s the meat of the story, Iris?

Where’s the personal struggle and turmoil?

Where’s the journey and the meteoric rise?

You can’t have a hero without any challenges, yes? That’s what makes them heroic.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘I know you know. So what’s going on? Are you nervous to ask the difficult questions because he’s Michelle Martin’s son?’

‘No! I want to ask those questions.’

‘Why aren’t you, then?’

I exhale, closing my eyes. ‘He doesn’t want to talk about that stuff.’

I’m greeted with silence. I knew I would be.

The silence grows. I know she’s waiting for me to respond to my own dilemma.

I envision the sports editorial director job slipping from my grasp.

Swirling in the silence, I hear her thoughts: she can’t even handle an athlete who doesn’t want to talk about his past, so how can she manage this huge responsibility?

I clear my throat. ‘Don’t worry, Toni. I’ll get the story.’

‘Better,’ she states, satisfied. ‘You’re the right person for this, Iris. There’s no one else I wanted to send. Is that the vote of confidence you need to get your arse in gear?’

I smile into the phone. ‘More than enough.’

‘Great. Don’t send me shit like that again. You’re better than this.’

‘I know.’

‘I know you know. Oh bollocks, I have to go. I’m late for a meeting with advertising.’

‘Enjoy.’

‘Funny one,’ she mutters. ‘Bye, Iris.’

I hang up and toss my phone down next to me on the sofa, annoyed at myself. When I cobbled those paragraphs together yesterday morning, I knew they weren’t up to scratch. It’s all surface stuff. I need to get more from him. We have to go deeper.

Forcing myself up on my feet, I wander out onto the balcony of the apartment and lean on the railing, gazing out at the sea.

There are a couple of surfers braving the water this morning, paddling out and turning to face the shore, lying forwards in wait.

Leo isn’t one of them. I know, even from all the way up here, because I’ve watched Leo out in the water and he’s much more fluid than them.

Out there, he seems weightless. It’s like he’s not even trying.

The surfers I’m watching now are putting the work in and you can see it.

You can feel their focus and concentration.

Whereas when Leo surfs, he’s just… being.

Suddenly, I remember what Marina said at the party: the only time he’s truly himself is when he’s on a board in the water.

‘No, no, no,’ I groan, burying my face in my hands.

I think I know what I have to do.

*

The next morning, Leo is at the counter of the shop when I walk in. He glances up at the sound of the bell ringing on my entrance. Confusion flits across his face as I stroll past the line of surfboards towards him.

‘Hi, Leo,’ I say, trying to suppress the nerves threatening to make my voice wobble.

‘London,’ he says with a small nod of acknowledgement.

Whenever he uses this nickname, there’s a gleam of bemusement in his eyes, as though he’s congratulating himself on his humour. It’s both irritating and alluring.

‘Iris!’ Adriano cries happily, barrelling through from the back room, looking much happier to see me than his son. ‘A pleasant surprise.’

‘How are you, Adriano?’

‘Very well.’ He pats Leo on the shoulder. ‘How is the feature going? Leo tells me nothing. That will not surprise you.’

‘It’s coming along,’ I say vaguely, pretending to be interested in the little surfboard keyrings hanging on a stand on the counter.

‘And you had fun the other night at the party, eh? I heard you were there.’

As Adriano beams at me, I notice Leo shoot him a glare.

‘I was,’ I say, wondering if it’s a good or bad thing that Leo mentioned my presence to his dad. ‘It was fun. Great to meet Anna and Marina’s friends.’

‘A good bunch,’ Adriano nods. ‘Surf obsessed.’

‘There was a lot of surf talk.’

He laughs, waggling his finger at me. ‘Perhaps we can win you over and you’ll fall just as in love with it as us locals – when do you head home?’

‘My flight is booked for Saturday.’

‘Too soon,’ Adriano says, his shoulders slumping. ‘Anyway, I’m glad the party was fun. I hope they were serving good wine at least?’

‘Oh yes,’ I nod, glancing at Leo. ‘Leo made sure of that.’

He suddenly looks very interested in the till, refusing to meet my eye. We never actually addressed the fact that he pretended not to know anything about wine before his lie was rumbled by Marina.

‘He learnt everything he knows from his old man,’ Adriano tells me, nudging him with his elbow. ‘Feel free to put that in the article.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘So how can we help you? Are you here to talk to Leo? I would have thought by now you’d be bored of hearing him talk.’

‘I can’t,’ Leo says, finally speaking up. ‘I have a lesson booked.’

‘Yes. I know,’ I say.

‘I thought we were quiet this week. Who is it with, Leo?’ Adriano asks.

‘It’s a last-minute booking, made yesterday online,’ he explains, typing something into the computer while both of them peer at the screen. ‘Someone called—’

‘Flora O’Sullivan,’ I finish for him.

They both turn to face me.

‘You know her?’ Adriano asks, intrigued.

‘In a manner of speaking.’ I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘I… I am her. I made the booking.’

Leo stares at me, his forehead creased.

‘You are… Flora O’Sullivan?’ Adriano checks, puzzled.

I nod slowly. ‘Yep. Sorry, not the most original fake name. Flora is my best friend and O’Sullivan is the surname of her partner. Kieran O’Sullivan? You know, the tennis player.’

Leo looks baffled, glancing down at the screen and then back at me. ‘But Flora O’Sullivan is signed up for a course of three surf lessons.’

‘That’s right. Today, tomorrow and Friday. I booked it under a fake name so that you wouldn’t be put off by, you know,’ I gesture to myself, ‘teaching me.’

‘I think this is great!’ Adriano exclaims. ‘You are in safe hands, Iris. I’ll leave you to it, I have things to do, but good luck to you both!’

He disappears back through the doors behind the counter, chuckling to himself.

‘I don’t understand,’ Leo says, lines etched into his forehead. ‘You don’t want to surf.’

‘What, because in your head, I’m a duchess wandering around London town with a champagne coupe in my hand?’ I ask defensively, crossing my arms.

He gives me a hint of a smile. ‘I don’t remember giving you a title.’

‘I added that detail.’

‘The fact that you may be a city girl has nothing to do with it, Your Grace,’ he assures me, amused. ‘The reason I’m surprised is because you told me that you hate the beach, so why would you suddenly be interested in surfing?’

‘It looks fun.’

He doesn’t seem convinced.

I sigh, tapping my fingers impatiently on the counter. ‘Look, are you going to teach me to surf or not? Because if you refuse then I would like my money back.’

As his eyes search my face, I stare back at him defiantly.

‘All right, London,’ he says eventually, ‘let’s go shred.’