Page 31 of The Beach Shack Summer (Laguna Beach #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

T he ocean at dawn was Tyler’s church. The way the light hit the water, constantly shifting between silver and gold, the morning glass before the wind picked up—this was where everything made sense.

What made less sense was his daughter’s wetsuit routine.

“Do you always put it on like you’re wrestling an octopus?” he asked, watching Stella hop on one foot while somehow managing to get both arms stuck.

“It’s a system,” she grunted. “Very complex. Very Australian.”

“Looks very painful.”

“Beauty is pain. Or in this case, warmth is pain.” She finally got her arms through and started the elaborate yanking process. “In Bondi, we call this the wetsuit dance of shame. ”

“You seem good,” Tyler said carefully. “After... everything.”

“I am good,” she said simply. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Luke arrived with boards under each arm, grinning at the spectacle. “Still fighting the neoprene?”

“It’s fighting me,” Stella noted. “I think this one’s possessed.”

Meg emerged from Tyler’s house carrying coffee and looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. “Remind me why I agreed to this?”

“Because you said, and I quote, ‘I should probably get back on a board before I forget how entirely,’” Luke said.

“That doesn’t sound like me. That sounds like someone rational.” Meg took a long sip of coffee. “I blame the wine from dinner.”

“You had one glass,” Tyler pointed out.

“Exactly. Not enough to make good decisions, just enough to make bad ones.”

They made their way down to the beach, Tyler carrying both his camera bag and his board, having decided to get some water shots after capturing from shore.

The break was perfect—clean, consistent sets rolling in with that early morning perfection that would disappear by eight when the wind picked up.

“Okay, so the reef here shapes everything differently than Bondi,” Stella said, studying the waves with professional interest. “Less aggressive, more sectiony. I can work with this.”

“You’ve got the outside break, then that inside section perfect for cutbacks,” Tyler added. “Nothing like fighting off two hundred people for a closeout.”

“Luxury,” Stella agreed. “Might actually get to complete a wave without someone dropping in.”

Meg stood at the water’s edge, wetsuit on but looking deeply skeptical. “It looks bigger from here.”

“That’s what you said when you were in high school,” Luke said, moving beside her with her board.

“And I was right then too.” She glanced at him. “You were very patient. Even when I spent more time underwater than on.”

“You were determined,” Luke said softly. “Also, you looked cute when you were frustrated.”

“I looked like a drowned rat.”

“A cute drowned rat.”

“Oh my god, get a room,” Stella called out, already ankle-deep in the water. “Or in this case, get an ocean. The romance is killing me.”

“We’re being romantic?” Meg asked innocently.

“So romantic I might barf,” Stella confirmed cheerfully. “Tyler, are you getting photos of this tragic display?”

“I’m documenting everything,” Tyler said, raising his camera. “For posterity.”

“For blackmail,” Meg corrected.

“That too.”

They paddled out, Stella immediately heading for the outside while Luke stayed in the smaller inside section with Meg. Tyler positioned himself perfectly with his waterproof housing, able to shoot both breaks.

Through his lens, he watched his daughter read the waves with the patience of someone who’d grown up in seriously crowded lineups. She let two pass, analyzing, then smoothly caught the third with fluid precision.

He switched to burst mode as she worked the face. She wasn’t showing off, just feeling out the new break, but her style was undeniable. Same stance he had, same way of reading the water.

“Looking good, Meg!” Luke called out as Meg managed to catch a small wave, riding it for about three seconds before executing what could generously be called a dismount.

“I meant to do that!” she called back, sputtering.

“Of course you did.” Luke paddled over to help her back on her board. “Just like before.”

“In high school you didn’t tease me this much.”

“I was trying to be professional.” He steadied her board as she climbed back on. “Now I can tell you that your wipeouts are adorable.”

“Adorable. Great. That’s what every woman wants to hear.”

“Also,” Luke said, moving closer on his board, “I can finally do this.”

He leaned over and kissed her gently, both of them balanced precariously on their boards .

“Gross!” Stella yelled from the lineup. “Disgusting display of affection! There are children present!”

“You’re sixteen,” Tyler called back.

“Exactly! An impressionable child! Scarred for life by witnessing old people kissing!”

“Old?” Meg pulled back from Luke, laughing. “We’re old now?”

“Anyone over twenty-five is ancient,” Stella informed them, paddling past. “It’s science.”

Luke grinned at Meg. “I wanted to do that during your surf lessons. Every lesson. Especially that time you got so frustrated you threw your board at me.”

“I didn’t throw it. I... aggressively released it.”

“Into my face.”

“Details.” Meg was blushing now. “Why didn’t you?”

“You were eighteen. I was twenty-two and trying to be professional.” He brushed wet hair from her face. “Plus your mom was usually watching from the beach with a book and terrifying sunglasses.”

“Smart man.”

“STILL GROSS!” Stella called out, now riding another wave. “STILL TRAUMATIZED!”

Tyler captured it all—Stella’s perfect form on the waves, Meg’s determined attempts, Luke’s patient instruction, and yes, even the kiss that had Stella fake-gagging from the lineup.

Other surfers began filtering in as the sun climbed higher. The usual dawn patrol crew.

“Hey, Tyler!” David from the surf shop paddled over. “This your daughter? ”

“Yeah.” Tyler watched David’s eyes track Stella on a wave.

“She rips! Bondi style, right? You can always tell.” Andrew seemed to lose his train of thought as Stella executed a particularly nice cutback. “Very... very cool.”

Tyler made a mental note to have a conversation with Andrew about... something. He wasn’t sure what. Appropriate viewing distances? The concept seemed both necessary and impossible.

Another set rolled through. Tyler got back to shooting, capturing the whole sequence—Stella’s takeoff, her bottom turn, the way she read the section perfectly.

His lens also caught Tom from the café in the background, paddling for the same wave but pulling back when he saw Stella already on it.

Except Tom kept watching instead of setting up for the next one, nearly getting cleaned up by the whitewater.

“Did that guy just pearldive watching you?” Stella asked, paddling back out past Tyler.

“Seemed like it,” Tyler said carefully.

“Kook,” she said dismissively, but Tyler caught her small smile.

By eight, they were all properly surfed out. Meg had progressed from three-second rides to five-second rides, which Luke declared a “two-hundred percent improvement.”

“Math genius,” Meg said, wringing out her hair. “This is why you teach biology.”

“This is why I teach biology with visual aids,” Luke agreed .

“The light’s completely different here,” Stella said as they walked back up the beach. “Softer than Sydney. Less harsh.”

“Golden hour lasts longer,” Tyler agreed. “Something about the marine layer.”

“Could you show me the technical stuff? Like with your camera?” She gestured at his gear. “I’ve been reading about the exposure triangle but actual practice would help.”

Tyler’s chest tightened. His daughter wanted to learn photography. From him. “Yeah, absolutely. We could start with basics—aperture, shutter speed, ISO.”

“Tomorrow?” she asked. “Same time but for photography?”

“Perfect.”

“I’m sleeping in,” Meg announced. “One dawn activity per week is my limit.”

“Quitter,” Stella said.

“Proudly. Some of us like our beds.”

“Some of us like our boards,” Luke countered.

“Some of us are choosing beds,” Meg said firmly. “And coffee. And not having sand in places sand shouldn’t be.”

They rinsed off at the beach showers, Stella chattering about the differences in breaks, asking Tyler technical questions about water photography that he was thrilled to answer.

Back at the house, Tyler cooked a proper post-surf breakfast while Luke went home to get ready for work. Stella scrolled through her phone, showing Meg videos from Bondi.

“See, that’s what I deal with usually,” she said, showing a clip of absolute chaos—hundreds of surfers fighting for waves. “This morning was like a meditation compared to that.”

“No wonder you’re so good,” Meg said. “That looks like aquatic Hunger Games.”

“May the odds be ever in your favor,” Stella intoned seriously, then cracked up.

After breakfast, Stella headed to the shower and Meg left for her shift at the Shack. Tyler settled at his laptop to download the morning’s photos while Stella sprawled on the couch with a book, occasionally asking questions about lens choices.

The images loaded onto his screen in a cascade of morning light and ocean spray. Stella carving across a wave, frontlit by the rising sun making the spray glow. Meg’s determined face as she paddled. Luke and Meg’s kiss, perfectly framed by spray. The usual dawn patrol crew in the background?—

Tyler stopped. Clicked back. Enlarged.

In the background of Stella’s best wave, Andrew was watching her instead of the incoming set.

Next photo. Miguel had stopped paddling mid-stroke, head turned to track her ride.

Next. Tom from the café, supposedly positioning for a wave but clearly distracted.

Tyler scrolled faster now, his stomach sinking. In every shot where Stella was riding, at least one— usually more—surfers in the background were watching her instead of the waves.

“These are sick!” Stella appeared at his shoulder suddenly. “Look at that spray! Can you teach me how to capture motion like that?”

“Sure,” Tyler managed, quickly clicking away from a particularly obvious shot of three guys completely ignoring a perfect set to watch her paddle past. “Motion’s all about shutter speed.”

“Is that one of Meg kissing Luke? Gross. But also kind of cute. Don’t tell them I said that.”

“Secret’s safe.”

After she wandered off, Tyler returned to the photos.

It was worse than he’d thought. One kid had actually missed his wave entirely, too busy watching Stella paddle back out.

Another had nearly collided with his friend, distracted mid-ride.

Tom from the café had actually pearldived—nose-first into the water—because he was looking backwards at Stella instead of forward at the wave.

His daughter. His sixteen-year-old daughter. Being watched by what appeared to be every male surfer between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five in Laguna Beach.

He grabbed his phone and texted Luke.

We have a problem.

Patricia finally wore you down? Already heard about the festival booth location drama.

Worse. Every surfer in town has noticed Stella.

Just noticed now?

I have photographic evidence. Kid literally pearldived watching her.

Welcome to having a daughter.

I need better advice than that.

Okay. Welcome to having a beautiful, confident daughter who surfs better than most of them?

Not helping.

She can handle herself. You saw her shut down those guys at the Shack. She’s got this.

Tyler looked at the photos again. His daughter, strong and capable on the waves, completely unbothered by the chaos she was causing in the lineup.

Luke was right. She could handle herself. Had been handling herself.

But that didn’t mean Tyler had to like it.

“Hey Tyler?” Stella called from the living room. “Tomorrow for the photo lesson—can we shoot sunrise at Crystal Cove? I researched, and the light angles should be perfect for what you were talking about.”

“Yeah,” he called back. “Sounds good.”

Father-daughter sunrise photography sessions. No surfer boys. No distractions. Just him teaching her about f-stops and composition while definitely not mentioning that half the dawn patrol had forgotten how to surf in her presence.

“Oh,” Stella added, appearing in the doorway again. “Andrew from the surf shop texted. Wants to know if I need any gear. Said he’d give me the ‘local’s discount.’”

“He what now?”

“The local’s discount. Nice, right?” She wandered off again, leaving Tyler staring at his phone.

He pulled up a new text to Meg.

Code red. Andrew’s offering her DISCOUNTS.

That’s... bad?

He’s TWENTY-TWO.

She’s sixteen. She knows she’s sixteen. Andrew knows she’s sixteen. Breathe.

How are you so calm about this?

Because I remember being sixteen. And having an overprotective dad. And guess what? I survived.

This is different.

Because she’s YOUR daughter?

Yes.

Tyler. She told a guy yesterday his pickup line needed work. IN FRONT OF HIS FRIENDS. She’s fine.

Tyler looked at the photos one more time. Tom’s spectacular wipeout sequence—board vertical, arms flailing, all because he’d been rubbernecking.

Maybe he could convince her to take up photography exclusively. From a nice, safe studio. With no windows. And definitely no surfer boys pretending they needed to borrow wax or check the conditions or offer helpful tips about board selection.

“Tyler!” Stella called. “Want to watch Patricia’s pottery class livestream? She just went live and Bernie’s commenting. He’s savage!”

“Coming,” he called back, closing the laptop on the evidence of his daughter’s effect on the local surf population.

At least Patricia was a problem he understood. Surfer boys with crushes? That was entirely new territory.

And Meg was at the shack now, probably laughing at his texts from her peaceful, surfer-boy-free prep station.

The universe had a twisted sense of timing.